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lemoniceteee · 2 hours ago

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Sparks

NSFW | bucky barnes x reader

word count: 4.8k

tags: 2nd person pov, afab reader, former-SHIELD agent reader, NSFW, sexual tension, canon-typical violence, sweating, teasing, oral sex (f receiving), couch sex

summary: When Steve and Bucky are on the run, you reluctantly take them in. At first, you and Bucky don’t seem to get off on the right foot. But there’s something undeniable about the pull you feel toward each other.

A/N: So I heard we were doing Avengers fics again now that Thunderbolts* is a thing, and I’ve seen the Bucky thirst resurgence, so here’s one that I wrote years back (I think after I watched TFATWS).

masterlist | read on ao3

It starts with a beat-up old Volkswagen parked on the street across the way. You notice it almost immediately as being out of place. Not because there’s anything particularly conspicuous about it, but because of your acute instinct, finely honed into a sixth sense over the years you spent as an agent. There’s just something about that vehicle that gives you a sense of unease, that churns your stomach.

Then, there’s a knocking at your door, quiet but urgent, that nearly jolts you out of your skin. Makes your muscles tense. You knew there was something off. There’s an alloy baseball bat resting against the wall that you reach for, always at the ready for times like this. But when you finally open the door, you nearly drop your makeshift weapon.

It’s Captain America at your doorstep, or a shadow of him. He’s hunched in a bulky jacket with the hood pulled up, the beginnings of a beard emerging from his darkened face. Even more surprising, he has another man in tow—James Buchanan Barnes Jr. You recognize him from the news.

“Are you fucking serious?” is all you hiss at Steve before hurrying them into the apartment.

The hallway outside your apartment is empty when you shut the door again quietly, and your unexpected guests shuffle awkwardly into the living room. It’s an unspoken rule that clients don’t bring guests, but it’s also an unspoken rule that you don’t ask questions. For Captain America, you’ll consider bending the rules a little. Especially if he pays.

“We’ll be a week, at most,” Steve says.

“Double, upfront,” you say, crossing your arms sternly.

James Barnes scoffs at that, and you send him a withering look.

“I don’t have the money yet, but I’ll get it. All of it,” Steve promises.

That’s how you start sharing a safe house with two fugitives on the run. The space looks almost cramped with their presence—it’s not really meant for so many occupants. You play the part of the gracious host and set them up in the living room with clean linens and towels. Like most people who show up at your place, they could use some first aid. So, the next thing you do is grab the med kit from your bathroom.

At the time, there’s no way of knowing that you’re in the presence of two super soldiers. You know Steve has an enhanced healing factor, so logically you focus your initial attention on the man you assume is normal. Or whatever normal means anymore compared to Captain America. He’s sporting a couple bruises to the temple and cheekbones. A few cuts are beginning to scab over on his face. Clear indication that he’s been hit hard in the head a few times over.

“Is your head okay? Any sensitivity to light?” you ask, tapping a couple pills out into your open palm.

“No,” is his surly response.

You hand him the pills along with a glass of water. He’s reluctant but accepts them one at a time. You’ve had enough clients over the years fail to report the extent of their injuries and bleed out on your run as a result. He seems like the type to downplay his ailments.

“Take off the jacket,” you say firmly, plucking the glass back out of his hand.

“No,” he says again, and this time his tone is somehow even more caustic than before.

Alarm bells sound in your head. He’s hiding something, and it better not be a serious wound. “This is standard procedure. Lose the jacket.”

You take a fistful off his left sleeve and freeze. There’s nothing beneath the cloth. You realize for the first time that James Barnes is missing an arm. The revelation hits you like a train, and instinct drives you to rip the jacket clean off his shoulder.

Your initial reaction is visceral, a punch to the gut and an uncomfortable tightening along your spine that you fight to contain internally. His shoulder is a shiny silver that reflects the muted sunlight coming in through the lace curtains. Below the joint, a mess of wires peeks out from shredded metal.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you manage to choke out.

Neither he nor Steve react brashly, but the incident does sour the atmosphere in the apartment indefinitely. After that, you let them deal with their own wounds themselves. It’s not your job to get along swimmingly with clients, but it’s always nicer when you’re not actively offensive to them. Thankfully, Steve is a good buffer by virtue of just being Steve.

Day one is business as usual. You spend a few hours hunched over your work table, trying to finish a recent project. You keep up appearances by visiting the corner cafe and the supermarket after lunch. You train in the makeshift gym in the spare room in the evening. Steve and his friend mostly stay out of your way, but they finally stick their heads in through the door as you’re wiping the sweat from your brow.

“I’m grateful that you agreed to help us,” Steve says. “I was wondering if you could do one more thing for Bucky tomorrow.”

You bite your lip, narrow your eyes at the both of them. “What is it?”

“His prosthetic. The damage is still making it malfunction,” he explains. “Is there anything you can do to clean it up and take it offline permanently?”

Your eyes catch Barnes’ for a split second, and he looks as uninterested as ever. Steve seems to sense some hesitation on your part.

“I’ll have the cash for you after tomorrow, I promise,” he says.

It’s not a matter of money. It’s just that you haven’t really touched machinery in years. Still, he sounds keen enough for the two of them, and you nod your head with a sigh. “I’ll do what I can.”

Steve leaves early the next morning, alone. His friend protests, but his lack of a limb makes his arguments fall a little flat. So, he sits in front of the TV and scowls as Steve heads out the door in nondescript clothes and a hat pulled low over his brow.

“Can’t believe he’s really leaving me behind with you,” Barnes mutters loudly, staring at the screen.

Don’t antagonize him. Don’t antagonize him, you think.

You try to go about your day like yesterday, starting by putting the coffee on. You offer a cup to Barnes on your way to your work table, hoping that it will function to convince him you’re not trying to neglect him completely. The sounds of a football game on the television provide you with invigorating white noise as you lay out your nearly-completed project from the previous day and set to work.

During your days as a field agent, you used to make cables and wires lay down for you like lovers—your nimble fingers working expertly, your tools as familiar to you as your own hands. No switchboard or electrical panel on a mission was safe from your expertise. Nowadays, you make the needle and thread dance for you instead. Your already-practiced and dexterous fingers adjusted quickly to your new cover profession as a dressmaker. The logic of the patterns and garment construction even sing to you like those old engineering manuals you used to read.

It’s twenty minutes later, in the midst of carefully pinning the last bit of trim to fabric, that you realize you’ve been altogether too consumed by your work to notice that you’re being closely watched. You glance up to see Barnes has migrated over from the couch to stand over you, coffee still in hand. His eyes are trained on your deft hands, but when they go still, he moves his gaze to your face.

“Sorry,” he grumbles. “I like watching you work.”

An unexpected warmth floods your chest. “Oh. I don’t mind,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

Why did you say that? You quickly realize you definitely do mind. He’s trying not to be creepy by remaining out of your periphery, but you can still occasionally feel his ice blue stare on you regardless. You try to concentrate as you thread your needle, but from then on out, your fingers feel just a little bit more clumsy than you’re used to.

It’s useless to try to untangle your feelings on exactly what about Barnes is unnerving to you. It could be the lingering doubt about his innocence, despite the explanation Steve delivered yesterday about recent events. It could be the way what you presume to be his resting face makes him look like he could snap at any moment. Or it could be the way your stomach does a flip every time you remember he could be scrutinizing you as you work, the strange sort of magnetism he possesses over you…

When it starts to get close to mealtime, you finish up your work and head wordlessly to the kitchen. You try to feign indifference as he follows you and leans against the fridge. Ignoring him entirely proves a difficult feat—it’s agonizingly awkward for you to not at least acknowledge his presence as you brown the beef for your meat sauce in a pan. Maybe the decades he’s spent isolated from society have addled his brain some.

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” you say, finally giving in.

He pauses a beat before he replies. “Bit full of yourself.”

You clench the spoon in your hand to stop yourself hurling it into the wall and whirl on him, but he’s breaking out into a quiet chuckle. You freeze, unsure of what in the world could be so funny when he’s just dealt a low blow to your ego.

“I’m joking,” he says. “I don’t mean to stare. It’s just been a while since I’ve witnessed anything so… domestic.”

You press your lips together, still unable to piece together a response right away. The sizzling of your cooking draws your attention back to the pan as you consider his words. “Domestic,” you scoff softly. “I’ll assume you mean that as a compliment.”

After retreating to the bedroom to eat your meal alone, desperate to escape the uncomfortable silence that’s settled between the two of you, you steel yourself again and emerge determined not to let him make you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. He seems to have enjoyed the pastitsio, having helped himself to seconds in the meantime. He looks up from scanning your bookshelf as you reappear in the living room.

“I’m going to drop this off at the post office,” you say, neatly folding up the garment you completed just that morning.

“Can I come with you?” he asks.

“No,” you say a little too quickly. “There’s-there’s going to be surveillance cameras at a post office. Stay here.”

“I’ll steer clear of the post office,” he says.

Well, you’re not his babysitter, so he ends up tagging along anyway. You’re not sure why he’d want to join you on the relatively boring journey other than for the fresh air and the opportunity to stretch his legs. You decide it’s up to him if he thinks that’s worth the risk. He’s wearing a bulky jacket that disguises the fact that one of his sleeves swings limply at his side as he walks. At least he seems to be a natural at blending in with the crowd.

“Your new boyfriend?” the middle-aged lady helping you at the counter at the post office asks cheekily as she hands you your change. She nods knowingly out the windows toward your unlikely companion, keeping his word by waiting safely outside.

“Ahh, no,” you say hastily, waving your hand dismissively.

She just smiles as you take your leave, ears burning slightly. When you reach Barnes across the street, he smoothly takes your arm and loops it around his before taking off with you down the street. Your heart nearly bursts from your chest.

“James!” you hiss as he steers you back toward home.

“Call me Bucky,” he says simply, pushing through the crowds.

He’s grinning slightly, and you’re nonplussed at the fact that you appear to be a source of entertainment for him. There’s no way he could have heard what the lady at the post office said, even if he has some sort of super hearing power.

“I may be able to lip read,” he says as if he knows what you’re thinking. “And I may know a little Greek, too.”

You let him tow you all the way back to your front door. By the time he lets you go, you’re nearly shaking with exasperation and eager to find some way to let it out that doesn’t involve potentially slapping a super soldier across the face. You slam the door of your bedroom behind you so you can quickly change into something to work out in. When you come back out to head to your tiny gym, Barnes eyes you curiously from the couch.

You waste no time in wrapping your hands and throwing a few warm-up punches at the heavy bag. The metal stand creaks under your blows as you pick up speed and intensity. It would likely prove to be counterproductive to picture Barnes’ face in front of you, so you imagine you’re still a field agent kicking the shit out of your asshole kickboxing instructor.

“Hope the aggression isn’t being aimed at me,” Barnes says from behind you.

“Clearly, it’s being aimed at a punching bag,” you snark between combos.

“You’re telegraphing your jabs,” he says. “Don’t wind them up like that.”

The instant his hand is on your left elbow when you’re not expecting it, your body acts on instinct. Your stomach clenches, and you kick your leg back and up high. Without his other hand to block, your heel lands squarely on the side of his head, and he doubles over with a groan.

“Oh shit, sorry!” you gasp, bending to prop him back up. “James? Are you okay?”

“It’s Bucky,” he grunts, brow furrowed. “And Jesus, sweetheart, I was just trying to help.”

“To be fair, I’ve been doing just fine on my own,” you say, helping him over to the couch.

Once he’s seated, cradling his head in his hand, you stride over to the freezer to grab an ice pack. When you return, you crouch to gingerly peel his fingers away and lay the pack against the spot where you landed your kick. This is perhaps the closest you’ve ever been to his face, and you notice for the first time how pink his lips are beneath the dark growth of his facial hair.

“W-while I’m at it, I might as well keep my word to Steve and take a look at your arm,” you say hastily, backing away. “Or what’s left of it.”

He takes the hint and lifts his hand to hold the pack in place so you can fetch your old tool kit from the closet. You set it down on the ground by his feet and settle onto the couch on your knees beside him.

“Do you mind?” you ask, tapping on the empty sleeve hanging limp from his shoulder.

He shakes his head, so you move to hook your fingers under the hem of his shirt. It’s not until he gives you a strange look that you realize maybe he didn’t really need your help at all. Still, it’s a little too late, and he removes the pack from his head long enough for you to finish what you started and pull the shirt off over his head. You almost miss the coffee table as you attempt to place the shirt down, preoccupied with the revelation that today he’s not wearing an undershirt.

“You know, it’s rude to stare,” he says, echoing your words from earlier.

Your face suddenly feels really hot, and you consciously shift your gaze to the remnants of his metal arm. “Get used to it. I’m gonna be staring at this arm for a while.”

You reach down for a small pair of pliers and gently start familiarizing yourself with the circuitry. A couple wires touch as you shift them around and send a few sparks flying. You jump a little in surprise. Another one makes his shoulder twitch violently when you accidentally nudge it into the shredded metal casing.

“This is a very sophisticated prosthetic,” you say, not bothering to tone down how impressed you are. “Physiology isn’t my strong suit, but I think I can disconnect the live wires.”

“Be my guest,” is all he says.

He watches your hands as you work as closely as he did when you were sewing that morning. But, you quickly get lost in the wires and forget all about his piercing blue gaze. Your fingers labor expertly, your back starting to ache from being hunched over.

“You seem as comfortable with wires as you are with thread,” he says offhandedly.

“I used to be an electronics technician for S.H.I.E.L.D.,” you say, pausing to rub the small of your back.

You shift your weight, trying to get at the right angle to refocus. Twisting your leg around to prop yourself up a little higher makes things a bit easier, but you could do better. Without thinking, you maneuver him forward a bit and scoot in a little closer, finally satisfied with your position. Once you think you’ve gotten all the nerve connections severed and there are no more sparks spitting out at you, you cut the wires jutting out and file down the jagged ends of the shredded metal.

“There, all fixed,” you say, wrapping a bandage around the end of the arm to cover the open cavity.

“Oh, good. Do you think you could get off me now?” he groans.

For the first time, you realize the position you ended up in after all that squirming. Your right knee is trapped between him and the back of the couch. Your left is settled in his lap. His torso is wedged between your legs, and his face is inches from yours. But what really catches your attention is something warm and hard pressing against your inner thigh. You hold your breath subconsciously and lower your eyes to the noticeable bulge in his pants without meaning to.

“You gonna fix that too?” he says, voice low in his chest.

Your breath hitches in your throat and a fluttering sensation occurs deep in your stomach. A sudden, overwhelming need for him to put his hand on you threads through your body. His remark is just as glib as you’ve come to expect from him all day. So when did being around him go so quickly from being awkward to infuriating to sensual? And more importantly, how?

He’s looking at you like there’s something he’s searching for in your eyes. Maybe it’s permission he’s seeking, or maybe he’s giving you the chance to flee while you still can. His pink lips part slightly, invitingly. You can’t quite find the nerve to take them up on their enticing offer, so you lean instead down to place a light kiss to the defined corner of his jaw. His body shudders almost imperceptibly against your chest.

The ice pack falls with an audible thud to the floor, and he surges to press his lips to yours before you pull away completely. At the same time, his hand delves into your hair to cradle the back of your head. You gasp into his mouth at the feeling of his fingers, sharply cold from holding the pack all this time. He jumps at the opportunity to thrust his tongue between your lips, sliding it against yours. Your head is spinning, senses overwhelmed with the scent and feeling of him.

It’s not a habit of yours to provide such comforts to your clients. Running a safe house requires staunch professionalism on your part to offer sanctuary to oftentimes less than savory characters on the run. You’ve gotten pretty good at basic gunshot first aid, at stitching up wounds as well as fabric tears, at cooking a comforting meal for shell-shocked survivors. But this—crossing that particular line into morally grey territory—this is a first.

Perhaps that’s why this all feels so thrilling. Your rib cage feels like it’s about to burst as his hand tilts your head, deepening the searing kiss. He’s being slow and methodical, but there’s no lack of passion on his part. He reminds you of a starving man finally led to feast, yet he’s taken the time to savor each bite as if it could be his last. When you’re starting to get a bit dizzy, he releases you and moves his hand to your hip to help you shift into his lap.

There’s no time to fully register the hardened bulge straining against your clothed center as he renews his fervor, lips latching onto the side of your neck. His tongue swirls hot over your pulse point, and you’re convinced you’re losing your mind. Desire splinters down your spine and rushes straight to your core, and your hips move of their own accord, seeking out a source of friction against your throbbing clit.

“Need to taste you,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your skin. “Can I?”

Oof. His words shoot through you like electricity, make you shiver like the sparks that were sprinkling from his broken prosthetic. You let your head fall back to expose more of your skin to him and moan. “Yes.”

He moves his hand from your hip to languidly stroke the length of your neck. He appears to relish the sensation of smooth, warm skin beneath his fingertips. His eyes follow his path intently, as if in awe at his own tenderness. When his hand settles at the hinge of your shoulder, he rests his thumb gently at the hollow of your throat and easily guides your back to the couch cushions.

His hair falls into his face as he leans over you. You fight the urge to sweep it aside. Would that be too intimate a gesture? Feverishly, he pries your shoes off your feet and tosses them away with little regard for where they land. He tugs on the waistband of your shorts and underwear, and you lift your bum briefly as you help him pull them off completely. Once you’re bare to him, he sits back on his heels and lifts your legs one at a time to hook them over his broad shoulders. You can’t help but squirm a little under his intense gaze.

“Try to hold still for me,” he says, reaching his hand down to swipe two fingers through your slick folds. He smears your wetness up over the hood of your clit, but he offers little of the pressure you crave there. Instead, he circles softly twice and lifts his fingers to his mouth, letting out a soft groan as he tastes you.

“Please.” The word tumbles from your lips unintentionally. His mouth twists up at the corners and disappears between your thighs.

Your eyes fly wide open at your plain white ceiling. He hasn’t wasted any time in going straight for your clit, lapping firmly over it in short flicks. It’s almost too much—your hips buck involuntarily, and he lays his strong arm across your abdomen to hold you in place for him. The walls here are thin, something you’ve learned through experience. You squeeze your eyes shut and stifle your moans with one hand clapped over your mouth.

His lips slip around your clit, and you’re sent reeling. He apparently enjoys this just as much; you can hear the couch creaking under his flexing hips as he presses his groin into the cushions, trying to relieve the pressure of his neglected cock. He lets out a groan as he sucks the bundle of nerves. No one knows your body better than yourself, but the tantalizing notion of having a dangerous man eating you out coupled with his obvious delight at doing so does a lot of the work of building pleasure in your center. You can start to feel your orgasm hovering just out of reach.

“Go get a condom,” you breathe, pushing him off you by the shoulder.

He eyes you skeptically for a second, like he’s not sure you really know what you’re asking for, but he reluctantly slips out from under your knees anyway. Your fingers slide down to replace his mouth, teasing your clit just enough to keep you lingering just shy of your release. He fixates on the sight of you playing with yourself and makes quick work of undoing the closures of his pants, even with only one hand. You let your eyes fall to where he’s lightly gripping the base of his thick cock.

“In the cabinet above the bathroom sink.” Your voice betrays how needy you’ve become for him to be inside you. He wastes no time in disappearing to the bathroom and reappearing as he rolls a condom down his length.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks, as if he weren’t the one who asked you to “fix” his hard-on to begin with.

“I’m sure,” you say, sounding a bit more impatient than you intend to.

He’s settling between your legs again, and you hook one ankle over his lower back to urge him closer, faster. He persists, holding steady against your efforts as he leisurely lines himself up at your entrance. When he finally starts to ease in, the sharp pinch of pain from the stretch draws a gasp from your lips. He shudders through an exhale, dipping down to bury his face in the crook of your neck. His stubble and soft puffs of breath tickle your skin, but you only notice it for a brief moment before you’re pulled back to the sensation of his length sinking into your aching cunt.

“Oh, shit,” he groans, shakily pausing once he’s fully seated. It’s the last vestige of his control before he starts moving again.

He snaps his hips into yours, setting a frantic pace. You hiss as his teeth graze harshly against your neck and match the circles you’re drawing on your clit to the rhythm of this thrusts. He’s making you feel so full, you clamp down around him hard, chasing your own end.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he says. “Use me to come.”

It’s not long before your body obeys. Another few swipes of your fingers over your clit, and you’re sent flying over the edge of your orgasm. The edges of your vision blur white, and you raise your hands around him to dig your nails into his sculpted back. He continues to fuck you into the couch through your high, his breath harsh beside your ear. He drags a low whine from your throat as your overly sensitive pussy pulses around his plunging cock.

“Just a little longer, just hold on a little longer,” he whispers, sliding his hand across your collarbone to rest gently around the base of your throat.

It’s the last bit of tenderness he offers before his pace turns ferocious. You reach up to tangle your hands in his hair, tugging softly as overstimulation bites at the edges of your lingering pleasure. You can feel him clenching his jaw, chasing his own end desperately. His fingers apply pressure to the sides of your windpipe, and when the initial panic that shoots through you mixes with the thrill, you gasp his name.

He makes a gravelly sound low in his throat that sounds like a growl and leans back to sit on his heels. His knees spread your legs further, and his hand cups your right calf to raise it up over his hip. Your back arches up off the cushion, quivering at the change of angle as he works in and out of you. You let your gaze shift to his face and immediately flush. He’s focused on the juncture between the two of you, watching as his length disappears over and over again within you. His eyes snap up to meet yours, and your heart nearly jumps out of your mouth.

“Been thinking about this all day—about being inside you like this,” he murmurs, voice ragged.

You choke back a pathetic whimper as his hips begin to stutter. He’s a gorgeous sight to behold, brow glistening with sweat, his head falling back with a breathy moan as he bursts. His eyes slam shut, voice jumping as his release takes him and shuddering through a few more punishing thrusts.

Eventually, he slows to a stop above you. His hand lazily caresses your thigh at his side as his breathing comes back under control. He doesn’t move again for a while, just sits with his hand running gently across your skin, still buried within you.

“So, all day?” you ask quietly with a grin.

He cocks an eyebrow at you and leans in close, a small smirk playing across his face. “Just about,” he admits.

Your stomach flutters as he presses his lips against yours. He tastes faintly of salty sweat and of you. You think about maybe inviting him into your room for the night when he abruptly parts from your mouth.

“Oh, shit,” he whispers. “I hear Steve coming back.”

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lemoniceteee · 2 hours ago

Text

blood-tied | bucky barnes

───── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ -`♡´- ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ─────

Summary: After letting you watch as he tortures and kills, Bucky decides to show you what it's like to be bound to that chair. Only... he changes his methods for you.

Word Count: 1222

Masterlist

A/N: I very much want to write a dark romance, and I have an idea for one. I guess this is a chapter from that-that wouldn't leave my head until I wrote. And I thought I'd give it to you in the form of James Bucky Barnes. ♡ Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. Reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated. ♡

Tags: @starfly-nicole | @its-in-the-woods | @niinesb

His blood was already beginning to dry on my hands. Tacky, flaking. The body of the man he once was twitches one last time, then nothing. He was gone. His eyes glassed, mouth hung open, and his throat… a red ruin.

Good.

But I couldn’t give my attention to him any longer.

Because you’re standing against the wall still, where I demanded you stay. You’re so obedient. Your chest rising and falling fast, like you had held your breath throughout the entire ordeal. Your eyes wide.

It wasn’t fear. You’ve never been scared of me.

No, you are starving.

My gaze dropped to your thighs, pressed together, barely holding yourself together. Your pretty, plump lips wet from where you had your teeth sunk into them.

It’s clear. The way violence unravels you. How watching me take the life out of another man’s eyes shatters you.

My boots squelch through the blood as I walk toward the body, dropping my knife. Slow and steady, I crouch down behind the chair and start untying the ropes.

I didn’t take my eyes off you. Didn’t say a word.

And you… didn’t move.

The rope is slick with warm blood, drenching my hand as I grab it. Then, as I rise, your throat bobs. Your gaze flickering from the rope, my hands, my face, then locking with mine—your eyes.

“Come here,” I say.

Like it's instinct, you obey.

You stride toward me is like you had been waiting your whole life to be called forward. To be called by me.

Without another word, I take your wrist, lifting it gently, and wrap the bloodstained rope around your clean, untouched skin. You didn’t fight me. You never would. You give herself to me willingly, like I’m your goddamn fucking religion. I grab your other wrist, winding the rope tight and looping around both wrists again. Binding them together in front of you.

“I should get rid of this,” I murmur, tying the hemp into a secure knot. “Toss it in the bin, burn it. Let it burn to ashes with him.”

You part your lips. Those fucking lips. “Then why—”

I pull the rope and you closer to me. You stumble forward, your bound hands bump into my chest. I lean down, brushing my lips against the shell of your ear.

“I’m gonna use it to keep you right where I want you, pretty baby. You belong among the aftermath, and I’m going to ruin you while bound by the same rope that’s coated in his blood.”

As you inhale a sharp breath, I notice the faint tint of pink flushing your cheeks. The shade contrasting perfectly with the specks of brown freckling across your nose.

I can see it.

You’re already wet.

“Bucky—” you gasp, desperate.

I pressed my lips under your ear, along your jaw, and down to your neck. I pause there, smiling against your skin. “I want you to remember what I did. What I did for you.”

I guide you toward the same chair the man died on; past the body, through the mess. I lower you down onto it, the blood still dripping, pooling underneath the metal.

The cold hits the bare skin of your thighs, red had already dyed the once-white socks on your feet.

Using the spare rope from the bindings, I drag your wrists up over your head, tying them to the wooden beam behind you.

Tight.

Secure.

Mine.

“Don’t move… Oh, wait—” I scoff a low chuckle. “You can’t.”

I kneel between your legs, my hand gripping under your knees and yanking them open. Rough and greedy. And fuck—

You’re soaked.

I hook a finger around the now mostly transparent cotton gusset, pulling to the side, revealing the most beautiful sight.

You.

Needing me.

“I haven’t even touched you yet,” I murmur against your inner thigh, staring up at you as my teeth graze the trembling rise of your skin. “You’re this wet from just watching—baby, you’re drip—”

“Please, Bucky, pl—”

I spit on you, right on your swollen clit.

You gasp.

Your thighs twitch.

And then, I dive in.

Refusing to take my time as your moans start to echo against the basement’s concrete walls.

My tongue licks stripes up your slit, lapping you up like I’m on death row and you’re my last meal. I push my tongue inside you, fucking while your wrists strain, burning them with rope marks.

I grind my face into you, nose rubbing against your sensitive nub adding to the pressure I know is already building inside you.

I was desperate.

Which was never a word I’d use to describe myself before. Me? James Bucky Barnes, desperate for pussy? Ha.

“Buck—”

“I know, babygirl,” I said, the words muffling, vibrating against you.

I almost groaned at the feeling of you clenched so tightly around me as I slid two fingers inside you. My right middle and ring fingers curl just right, dragging against that soft, sweet spot. A sob breaking from your throat, head falling back, resting against your upper arm.

I suck your clit between my teeth while I finger you deeper.

You break so easily.

You’re already close when I begin to rise, my free hand unbuckling my belt. Your wrists jerk against the restraints, writhing, panting.

“I’m not taking my hand away from you,” I kiss your cheek gently. My fingers still fucking you, the heel of my palm kneading your clit. “Even when I’m inside you.”

There’s a shimmer in your eyes. A moan passing your lips. “Please—”

With one brutal thrust, I push my throbbing cock inside you. I press in deep until there’s nowhere left for me to go. Until you’re full of me.

Your scream punches the air. Etching the sound of you into the four walls around me.

I don’t stop. Don’t wait.

I continue to curl my fingers inside you, while my cock begins thrusting deep, rough. My hips rocking my palm against you.

You’re a perfect mess.

Moans. Blood. Need.

“Fuck—I wish you could see yourself now, baby,” I snarl. “All tied up, being used, and dripping for me—you’re beautiful.”

You nod, barely coherent agreements trying to gasp their way out.

I slam harder. Your smaller frame jolts with every movement. Your wrists pull tight, the friction nipping and ripping your skin. Tears stream down, staining your cheeks as you sob, mouth open.

I was ruining you. Completely.

“Do you want to come on the same chair, in the same ropes as he was bound to when I killed him?” I asked, my voice low and hoarse.

“Y-yes—Bucky—please—I—”

“Then do it. Now.”

And you did.

You obeyed every order I gave you.

Your body locked, shaking as you pulses around me. Your sweet cunt squeezing me so tight I couldn’t pull away even if I wanted to. I’d never want to. I groan, burying my face into your neck as I push deeper.

My teeth sink into your collarbone, hard enough to leave my mark on you as I come. Hard. Spilling inside you, coating your walls while you ride out every aftershock.

And I still.

Leaving my cock in you and fingers pressed against you.

You’re barely conscious, trembling, and fucking glowing.

I swear, I’m almost coming again. Just at the sight of the blood, the rope, you.

Mine.

───── ⋆⋅ ˗ˏˋ -`♡´- ˎˊ˗ ⋅⋆ ─────

Masterlist

Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. Reblogs, likes, and comments are appreciated. ♡

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lemoniceteee · 2 hours ago

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flour ; bucky barnes

fandom: marvel

pairing: bucky x reader

summary: sam kisses you to save your cover on a mission, and bucky punches him… but you still don’t believe he’s in love with you?

notes: dear lord, i’m so sorry about this. i started it over a year ago, so it is probably a little disjointed, and i tried writing in present tense for some reason ??? anyway, i hope it isn’t too stupid! i’m trying really hard to get back into writing :)

word count: 5537 (i’m sorry)

“You astound me,” Natasha says, her words fed through the small radio piece tucked into your ear, “your heart rate is barely above seventy b.p.m.”

Your frown is only slight, your demeanour remaining cool and casual as the escalator descends toward the mall’s food court. Beside you, Sam has his cap pulled low on his brow and his sunglasses pushed high on his nose, one hand is resting on the handrail while the other is wrapped softly around your waist. You turn to him to feign conversation as you ask Natasha, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re in the middle of a covert mission,” she says, “possibly gone wrong and you’re still so calm, but the minute Barnes is within a twenty-foot radius your heart rate goes of the Richter.”

Heat flushes through you, blood concentrating in your cheeks and turning them an embarrassed shade of pink, “Nat, what the-”

Sam chuckles and pulls you closer to his side, “Calm down. He lost our signal between the third and fourth levels below.”

Oh. The thrumming in your chest begins to slow again and you focus on keeping your balance as you step off the escalator. Bucky wouldn’t have heard Nat’s stupid remark because he is currently waiting beneath six levels of solid concrete inside a room made entirely of metal. Assuming he hasn’t been found out and tied up, he would be silently watching the mall’s CCTV footage of you and Sam making your way through the food court.

“Meet him outside, in front of Subway,” Nat instructed, “greet him like an old friend you didn’t expect to see. He knows the drill.”

Keep reading

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lemoniceteee · 2 hours ago

Text

warnings: 18+ mdni, m!receiving oral, slight face-fucking, sub!bob more than anything, switchy if you squint

thinking about giving bob reynolds head. he's already half-hard by the time you're sinking to your knees, body taut with tension. restraint, maybe, because he's always on his best behaviour with you. doesn't want to ruin his chances before you’ve even started. you barely have to brush your fingers over his thigh before his breath his catching in his throat, chest rising too quickly for someone just sitting still in a chair.

you like to draw it out. start slow at first, teasing the waistband of his sweatpants down, nuzzling the skin of his hip with your nose and peppering a few light kisses there. it's nice to take a moment to just breathe in his scent at first. all that musk and arousal. his cock is big. of course it is. more lengthy than girthy, but pretty all the same—flushed and veined, resting heavy against his stomach as it stiffens more with each pass of your lips against his hip, each breath ghosted against his skin, prickling with goosebumps.

then you wrap your mouth around the head of his cock, all slow and deliberate, tongue swirling, lips plush and slick. he just breaks instantly. his head tips back, hands clenching into the arms of the chair in an attempt to pace himself. for you. you take more of him—inch by inch, jaw aching, saliva trailing down your chin. not that you care. you want to feel ruined by him. you want to ruin him back. it’s a mutual thing: you both come out of this wrecked.

"fuck, baby—" he groans. it's full-body, helpless, the sound vibrating right through to his toes as he quivers with each bob of your head and swirl of your skilled tongue.

he's trying his hardest not to move. it shows in the way his muscles are locked, thighs trembling, whole body shivering like it's taking everything he has not to thrust forward. not to fuck your throat the way you both know he could. sometimes, when it's like this, he's tempted to just let it out. sentry. void. whatever. the parts of him that are brave enough to do it. but even now, with your mouth warm around his cock and your fingers digging into his muscles thighs to keep steady, he's trying to be gentle. trying to deserve this. you hum around him and his hips jerk involuntarily. his whole face twists in this exquisite, pained expression. you're already soaked in your own underwear from the sight of him like this.

"c’mon," you pull off him to encourage. and whatever leash he had on him just snaps.

he doesn't say a word—probably isn't capable of uttering anything but breathy pleas right now—and cups the back of your head with a hand so careful it makes your heart ache. you aren't made of glass, he knows that, but boy does he treat you that way sometimes. and with that touch, just the barest pressure, he starts to move. gently at first, then less so. just these slow, shallow thrusts, hips rolling, cock gliding deeper over your tongue to hit the back of your throat. you let him, eyes wet, spit pooling, moaning around him like you’re the one receiving head.

he looks ruined, too. flushed and sweating, gasping and moaning around breaths he can't quite catch. the pleasure is too much to hold, pouring out of him in curses and broken groans he’ll be embarrassed he let slip when he’s recovered.

"i’m sorry," he pants suddenly, voice strangled with the barest edge of panic. "i can’t—oh, fuck, m'gonna cum—"

you don't stop. the squeeze to his thigh is permission enough for him. and when he does let go, it's blinding. he shudders, every muscle in his body seizing in ecstasy. the sound he lets out can only be described as a whimper, your name rolling off his tongue, breathless and stunned. thick ropes of white spill across your tongue endlessly, and you sit there patiently on your knees until he’s finished. his knees are buckling, hands fisting in your hair. he looks like he doesn't know whether to cry or thank you.

you swallow and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. he's there to wipe the dampness collected at the corner of your eyes, still trying to catch his breath.

"good?" you tease, voice hoarse.

he laughs. sort of. it's more like a broken exhale. "i mean, i think i just saw god, but yeah."

as far as the rest of the world is concerned, he is god. not the one you know, though—jaw slack and body lax in a chair, cock still twitching with the aftershocks of a mind-blowing orgasm. your pretty, ruined god of a boyfriend.

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lemoniceteee · 2 hours ago

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More to Love

notes: hii lovelies!! this is for my insecure lovelies, you are gorgeous (and bucky agrees). as always, reqs open & appreciated💘.

pairing: bucky barnes x plus sized!reader

genre: smut, porn w/ plot, idiots in love, comfort

summary: You’re boyfriend doesn’t do enough for you. One night, he stands you up and you come to find out he’s cheating on you. So, naturally, you go to Bucky. He’s make you feel much better about it.

tw’s: cheating, insecure ready, plus sized reader, idiots in love, mutual pining, bucky’s a yearner, pnv, unprotected sex, oral (f rec), face sitting, face riding, regular riding, dirty talk, minor fingering, pet names (doll, baby, sweetheart, gorgeous, sweets), bucky’s got a thick brooklyn accent, jealousy, sexual pictures, nudity, breast worship, pussy worship, nipple play (briefly), and an ‘i love you’.

pt 2

You weren’t insecure. Not typically. You understood you were on the ‘bigger’ side but you were always so confident. A tease. A flirt. Whatever you want to call it.

Bucky was obsessed with you. From your head to your toe. You showed so much hospitality. You didn’t treat him like a failed experiment, or a killer, or a broken object, or a frightened animal, nor did you walk on eggshells around him as if he could strike at any moment.

You treated him like a friend.

He wanted to be more than that, but he’d never say it.

Plus, you had a boyfriend.

And it infuriated him. You were under appreciated. In his mind, anyone who wasn’t him would under appreciate you.

But he also felt like he didn’t deserve you. He was a conflicted man. Constantly second guessing himself. Except when he was with you, he was decisive. He wanted you. That never changed. Never wavered.

Stark’s personal assistant. Therefore, all of the avengers personal assistant. You had grown really close with Bucky, but you appreciated all the avengers just the same.

Stark had complained that Bucky had been ‘non-descriptive’ in his report regarding his latest solo mission. Meaning, you had to go fetch Bucky and make him fix it. Only problem was Bucky was working out in the towers’ gym. And you questioned all loyalty to your boyfriend when you saw Bucky working out.

“James!” You called as you entered the gym. You were the only one allowed to call him that, and it made his cock twitch.

Your eyes canned over the weight room. Sam and Steve sparring, Natasha stretching before her workout, a few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents here and there lifting weights, then, there’s Bucky.

He’s marvelous. Sweat dripping down his body, biceps bulging as he benches, metal arm glistening in the light, face barely contorted as if he’s not struggling. He’s currently benching 3 plates (315 pounds). It’s just his warmup weight. And it does something to you. His warm up weight is more than you. He’s not even struggling. Your boyfriend can’t lift you up. Can’t throw you around like you weight nothing. But Bucky can.

He grins when he sees you, getting in one more rep before he racks the bar. He sits up on the bench, his head motioning you to come over.

He’s just as affected by you as you are by him. And you have no clue.

“Hey, doll. What’s goin’ on?” He drawls, his voice a bit ragged. You blush with a kind smile. Bucky was a charmer. And he was kind to you. Respectful. A gentlemen.

“Mr. Stark says your report was inconclusive. He wants you to add more detail to the battle and the outcome.” You remark professional. His eyes drop and he curses under his breath. Bucky in his gym clothes, working out, looking like a greek god, and all you wanted from him was a damn report?

“C’mon, sweetheart, you could at least add some sugar f’me.” He grinned as he looked back up at you, gently taking the paper into his hands as he read over it.

“Right. Let me rephrase.” You clear your throat, ridding of your ‘professional’ voice that Bucky acted like he hated, but secretly found so sexy. “Tony wants you to add more to your report, Buck. Can you do that f’me?” You repeated in a sweet, less professional tone. You let your words slur sloppily. Like a real person.

Bucky grinned and nodded as he tossed the page beside his water bottle. He stood abruptly, towering over you as he moved to go add more weight to the bar.

He added another plate on both sides (405 pounds), and you swore you were gonna lose it if you watched him. You found your mind slipping. Your boyfriend starting to drift into forgetfulness. You knew you had to get out of there before you were licking the sweat off of his arms.

“Yeah, doll, I’ll handle it.” He winked with a cheeky grin as he slid back onto the bench, getting himself back into position to bench press the weight. You watched for a moment before you realized you really needed to get out of there.

So you did, after one final look of Bucky tossing around twice as much as your weight with no struggle, you left the gym with an undeniably flutter in your heart that you desperately tried to ignore.

It was wrong, you thought. You had a boyfriend. Bucky could have anyone he wanted. This was just a silly, school-girl crush. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

—————————————————————

“You know Bucky likes you, right?” Natasha inquired. She truly didn’t know if you were that clueless or not. Turns out, you were.

“What? No he doesn’t, Nat.” You laughed, as if she was playing some cruel joke on you. People had tried to tell you before that he liked you, but you never listened.

Your mind played sick tricks on you. Bucky could have anyone girl he wanted, why would he want you?

“—Plus, even if it’s true. I have a boyfriend.” You reminded, earning a playful groan from Natasha. It seems no one really liked your boyfriend along the tower.

“I’m serious! I heard him and Steve talkin’ about it. I dunno, ‘doll’, seems like he could have the ‘hots’ for you.” Natasha implied. You rolled your eyes. Truly, she was persistent and relentless. That was nice. You still didn’t believe her, but the effort was there.

“You’re ridiculous.” You’d laugh. Though you didn’t know if you were talking to yourself, or Natasha.

—————————————————————

Weeks gone by since that little encounter with Natasha. You and Bucky remained normal, close friends, professional. Even if he would call you little names, and even if you would giggle and smack his shoulder when he said something too flirty.

Bucky was a charmer. You reminded yourself. Steve constantly teased him about the 40’s, how every woman left satisfied after a night with Bucky Barnes.

You figured, it was nice to let him flirt with you. Even if you didn’t reciprocate too much. It helped build his confidence. You thought. You’re being a good friend. You reminded.

Bucky wanted you so bad it hurt. At every turn, he was reminded he couldn’t have you. That so other asshole could. He would never get to hear you laugh intimately, or take you out, or have you writhing beneath him as he worships every—

“You got it bad, Buck.” Steve sighed as he sat down by his friend. Bucky didn’t deny it. Didn’t grow defensive. Didn’t push away his friend and fire back with his own remark. He just bowed his head into his hands with a groan.

“I know.” Was all he could say. Everyday you stayed on his mind. I bet she would like these flowers. Bucky would think as he passed by a local shop. I bet she would kiss every damn scar. Bucky would think as he looked over his ruined body in the mirror. His brain constantly taunted him with the thoughts of what you might be like.

“What are you gonna do?” Steve murmured. They had just gotten back from a mission, sitting together as they flew back to Stark’s Tower.

“I don’t know.” Bucky sighed, lifting his head to finally meet Steve’s gaze. Nothing but empathy. Steve had been there before. When he was scrawny, and no girl would even look his way.

But Bucky wasn’t scrawny. Girls looked his way all the time. Why couldn’t he just get over you? In all honesty, he didn’t want to. You were one of the best people he had ever met, and he didn’t want to let you go.

“James! You’re back.” You beamed as you saw him enter the tower. Snacks all in your hands. You were restocking the fridge for everyone again. So thoughtful. So kind.

“Hey, gorgeous, you need some help?” He asked, even as he was already grabbing all the grocery bags off your arms without responding. You laughed as he took them, a big lopsided grin as his face as you two walked together.

Steve sent him a look. Bucky ignored him.

“Yeah, thanks, Buck.” You smiled. Christ. Your smile. So bright, and genuine, and beautiful. It was his favorite thing to see on your face. He smiled back. Something soft, genuine, but gentle.

“No problem, sweets. Can’t believe no one came n’ helped ya sooner.” He grinned. Ever the tease. The charm. The flirt. His Brooklyn accent was enough to make your head spin. It was so effortlessly him. Nothing mechanic, or programmed.

“What do you got planned this week?” Bucky indulged in small talk. He hated small talk. Unless it was with you. He set the groceries down, handling it himself as you chatted his ear off.

“Oh! I gotta do the dry cleaning for the tower, arrange a few meetings for Tony, and…” You drawled out the word. You didn’t like telling Bucky about things between you and your boyfriend. You didn’t like to involve him in that.

“—got a big dinner planned on Saturday with my boyfriend.” You finished. Bucky stiffened but he didn’t miss a beat. He didn’t want you to know how much he hated the thought of you with someone else.

So he plastered a fake grin, not the soft one he held earlier. His teeth were gritted. His jaw clenched as he finished unloading the groceries.

“That’s nice, doll. Real nice.” He gritted out, maintaining every inch of composure he could muster. He didn’t wait for a response, he just turned and left. You quirked a brow. Bucky didn’t ever leave a room with you first. Really, never. You always initiated the ‘goodbye’.

“Uh, okay, bye!” You called after him, utterly confused on what his deal was. Steve glanced at him knowingly as he stormed by, beelining straight for his room within the tower.

————————————————————

Saturday was a nightmare.

Firstly, you had no clue what to wear. Everything you put on made you feel horrendous about yourself. Sometimes the fabric would grip your stomach pudge, sometimes your stretch marks were showing, sometimes your thighs looked gigantic and you felt simply terrible.

Finally, you find the perfect dress. It’s black and sparkly. It highlights your curves, not your flaws (what you think are flaws), and pairs perfectly with your matching strap heels and purse. Your body looks fantastic and you feel like you can finally breathe again. You take at least five spins in the mirror (yes, your butt looks good too), and when you finally decided you’ve twirled enough you head to the fancy restaurant.

You take a seat at your reserved table, excitement tumbling out of you. You can only picture your boyfriend’s reaction to how good you look. Maybe he’ll drop to his knees, maybe he’ll kiss you so hard your breath is stolen, maybe he’ll even pay the full bill. What a dream.

You’re a drop-dead, beautiful goddess. And your boyfriend is… late. Not even late. He doesn’t show.

You’ve been stood up. You call him, text him, and you get no response. You check his location. It’s off.

You’re not scared, you don’t think he’s ‘hurt’ or bleeding out in an alley. You think he’s cheating.

You don’t think, you know. It’s a gut-feeling. An instinct. You’re certain you’re right. That’s when you receive the picture.

You don’t recognize the number, it’s unsaved. It’s a photo of some girl sucking your boyfriend off. All she sends along with it is two winking emojis. You’re pissed.

You spent the better half of two hours doing your makeup, finding the perfect dress, choosing the right heals and bag… You’ve been waiting at the restaurant for an hour.

You storm out furiously. No waiters or servers try to stop you, you’re headed straight for Stark Tower with a clenched jaw and gritted teeth. You slam your car door shut and storm into the elevator. You hit the button for Bucky’s floor. Tears start brimming in the corner of your eyes before you’re brushing them back.

You’re angry. Pissed. A little relived. You get an excuse to go sleep with Bucky. You’re not insecure. You don’t fear he might not want you. You just want to teach that asshole a lesson. And you want it to be Bucky. Because your boyfriend hates Bucky.

You knock on the door once. Twice. He answers. “Sam, what the hel—“ He begins to chastise, then he sees you. You’re gorgeous. Your dress clings to every curve. Your ass, your breasts, your thick thighs… He could bust right now. He can even see the highlight of your stomach pudge poking out and it turns him on.

He liked his women bigger. He hated the 40’s. Everyone following the same beauty standards, trying to all be as thin as paper. He loved that you were womanly. With a womanly figure. It takes him a second to realize how mad you are and how you’re pushing past him into his apartment. Your eyes were glassy, he notices.

“Oh, fuck, sweetheart.” He sighs. He shuts the door and is pulling you into one of his—much needed—bear hugs. His large hands cradle the back of your head, pressing you against his hard chest. He’s beefy. You can feel his muscles pressing against you. “What happened, doll?” He murmurs. His voice so soft it could lull a baby to sleep.

You take a few deep breaths to collect yourself. The tears finally stop flooding and you lift your head off his chest.

“I-I got all dressed up, got to the restaurant and just sat there. Alone. For an hour.” You sniffled. Bucky nodded, his gentle blue eyes peering into yours, wordlessly coaxing more information out of you.

“He stood me up! I texted, I called, he didn’t answer. Then I get this!” You exclaim, your voice cracking as you showing Bucky the message the girl sent you. Bucky repulses. He’s… small. He wants to laugh, but he knows better right about now.

“—I even did a full body shave, Buck. Thinkin’ maybe, just maybe, he’d want to finally fuck me when he saw me lookin’ s’good.” You complained. Bucky nodded along, criticizing himself mentally for the way his cock twitched and his eyes darkened at your words.

“Listen to me, sweetheart. Any man that wouldn’t want to fuck you, at all. Is a fool. And an ass.” Bucky grunted. His large hands gripped your waist, pulling your curves flush against him. He tried to ignore how good your hips felt under his hands.

Just comfort her, Bucky. His brain would remind. Don’t be a horny asshole right now. He shamed himself.

“You are the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen. Y’hear me? I’m sorry he did that, baby. Shoulda’ called me. Woulda’ came n’ ate with you. Showered you in compliments.” He murmured so sweetly your chest ached.

“I just want you to make me feel better, Buck.” Your voice dropped, suggesting at something much more than a friend comforting a friend.

Bucky stiffened. His eyes blown with lust. His hands gripping your hips tightly.

“Plus… I need a picture to send back.”

That’s how Bucky got you undressed and was trying to convince you to ride his face.

“C’mon, doll. What a better way to get back at ‘em than to sit on my face?” He teased playfully. He was still dress at the center of the bed, now propped up on two elbows as he saw your hesitation.

“Need help, baby?” He purred as he saw you begin to undo the straps to your heels. You nodded with a little pout. He grinned as patted his thigh, prompting you to put your foot there, in which you did.

He slowly began to undo the strap to your heels, gazing up at you lovingly as he planted little kisses along your ankles.

“Even painted ya’ toes, huh?” He teased playfully, watching as you erupted into a fit of laughter. He loved your laugh. It had to be one of the best sounds heaven could bring to him.

“Oh, shut up.” You giggled as he finally peeled off your heels, leaving you completely bare. He practically scrambled back to his position on the bed as he awaited you charmingly.

“Please, sweetheart? Just wanna live between those pretty thighs of yours.” He pleaded. You whimpered at his words. Slowly, hesitantly, you crawled onto the bed, up his body.

“Jus’ smother me in your pretty cunt, please?” He murmured. That did it. You stubbornly climb your way up his body till your dripping cunt was approaching his mouth and he groaned.

“Jesus Christ, baby.” He breathed at the sight of your soaked pussy. Gorgeous. Undeniably mouth-watering. He was so ready to drown in you.

“You’re gonna tell me if you can’t breathe, right? Don’t wanna crush you.” You murmur, whining as his breath ghosted over your cunt. You’re dripping over his chin, and you’re worried about suffocating him?

“No, i’m not, doll. Just gonna sit there and take it. Like I should.” He rasped. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. You’re sure he’s serious. Because he is. He would gladly die between your legs.

You’re hesitant as you adjust on top of him. You don’t want to hurt Bucky, really.

“C’mon, baby, just sit on my fuckin’ face ‘fore I make you.” He huffs as your thighs shake on either side of his head, desperately trying not to clamp down on his head.

Before you can protest, he’s pushing you down onto his awaiting mouth.

“James, I—ahh!” You moan as his tongue connects with your dripping sex. He cut you off expertly, grinning against you smugly as he begins to suckle on your clit.

You’re a moaning, whimpering, mess.

Your hands fly to his hair, entangling in the brown locks.

When your thighs tighten around his head, he groans and his hips buck upward to meet nothing, only causing another groan to spill from his lips.

“Fuck me.” He gasps as he pulls off your cunt, his lips glistening and chin wet with your slick. He could bust right now, your cunt is that sweet. It’s enough to get him off. “Let’s get me picture-perfect first, sweetheart. Not sure i’m gonna last any longer like this.” He grins charmingly. You chew down on your bottom lip as you grab your phone, fingers trembling.

“Alright, c’mon Bucky, pose.” You tease playfully as Bucky laughs.

His large hands are on your thighs, prying you open for him, his mouth is enveloping your cunt hungrily, his nose bumping against your clit, his hair is a bit messy in all the best ways, and his eyes, that’s what makes the picture. His eyes are piercing, hooded, dark. Eyebrows stern and you shudder at the picture.

The picture is perfect. In every entity of the word. It captures everything about Bucky. His desire is easy to spot. You send it back to the number, then to your boyfriend for good measures.

He eagerly gets back to work when you’re satisfied with the photo. “Go ahead n’ send it to me too, doll.” He grins as he delves back in your cunt. His nose bumps your cunt and you moan whorishly. It’s wanton and It makes him groan against you.

When he redoubles his efforts, you’re practically bucking against his face. He’s grunting and gasping against your cunt, unable to contain himself as his cock is throbbing and thrusting against the confines of his pants.

He groans quietly, each delicious drag of his lips and tongue making you shudder. He holds you down on him, face buried in your pussy. He sucks gently on your clit, then circles it with his tongue, only to trail down and flutter it against your throbbing cunt.

You gasp as your back arches and you roll your hips. Your stomach coils and your thighs tense. Bucky groans softly as you ride his face, grinding and dragging your cunt over his tongue. He grips your hips tightly and guides your motion, controlling your pace.

“S’beautiful, baby, could die happily between these thighs.” He rasps. You’re so close to coming it’s intoxicating. You’re chasing your high with vigorous need. Your hips buck just right and hit his tongue and nose at the perfect spot.

“Fuck, James!” You cry as you squirm and convulse on his tongue. He doesn’t waste a single drop of your sweet cum. He’s lapping it up eagerly and filthy slurping at your cunt. You’re whining as he finally releases you from his iron-grip.

He pulls back and his cunt and mouth are dripping with your essence. He presses sweet little kisses to your thighs that surround his head. He adores how thick they are, lavishing your stretch marks in worshipping attention.

“Thought I was gonna cream my pants, sweetheart. That’s how good your cunt is.” He mumbles against your thighs as his own lips trail down your body. He nips at your skin hungrily. He needs more.

Your hands rest on his chest, holding yourself up with a whine as he teased you.

Bucky adores having your weight on top of him. He would flip you around, give you the fucking you deserve, but he wants you to ride him, first. He wants to feel your weight on top of him before he truly fucks you.

“Gonna give me another, doll? Jus’ want you to ride me, yeah? S’not hard. I’ll help you.” He murmurs pleadingly. You don’t have to time to protest before he’s gripping you by your hips and lifting you up and off his face to his own hips.

The breath is knocked out of your lungs. He’s not struggling. He’s not flaunting his strength or flexing. He just effortlessly lifted you, all arms, and sat you above the tent of his pants.

It makes a whole new wave of arousal wash over you, and it shows on his pants. He glances down at the wet patch with a predatory grin that says everything you need to know.

He’s figured you out.

You don’t give them the time to tease you because your grinding your wet cunt against the crotch of his pants, making him groan and glare at you.

“Doll.” He warns. You shush him playfully as you continue to shamelessly grind yourself against the dent in his pants.

His metal armed grips your hips, the cool metal clashing against your warm skin. It’s pleasant and welcomed. You whine, not sure if you’re teasing him or yourself at this point.

“How ‘bout you have the real thing, sweetheart?” He murmurs and before you know it, he’s lifting you off his crotch and unfastening his belt. He tugs down his pants as you pull off his shirt, revealing him to your eyes.

He’s magnificent, of course. There’s scars and gashes along his torso, only serving to make him more sexy in your opinion.

You lean down, pressing a kiss to one of his larger scars along his stomach. He suppresses a whine from under you. He knew you would kiss his scars.

“You’re so handsome.” You smile as you press another lingering kiss. Bucky could stay like this for hours, but he needs you.

“Stop teasin’.” He huffs, even with his dopey grin on full display. You laugh softly as you crawl down his body.

Your hands dip beneath his waistband, still a tease as you slowly, agonizingly, tug the material down his body. His cock eagerly slaps up against his stomach when it’s freed from his boxers.

Despite how his hands are twitching at his sides, Bucky lets you set the pace. He wants you too feel worshipped. Pretty, admired, adored, everything that asshole ex of yours couldn’t do. Wants to prove why he’s better.

Firstly, his cock is a lot bigger. It’s an undeniable fact. He’s thick and long, a vein running down the base to make you shiver.

Slowly, teasingly, you sink onto his cock. He hisses, head rolling back into the pillow. His hands fly to your hips, guiding you as you take his cock.

The stretch is immense. You whimper as you sink onto him, panting.

“Oh, fuck,” You breathed. Bucky cursed beneath you as you set a slow, torturous, pace. Every roll of your hips was euphoric. Bucky was fighting every single nerve inside of his body to just pick you up and slam you back down on his dick, setting a new pace.

“feels s’good.” You slur as you pick up the pace. It’s not enough for him. He’s filling you up. He can see himself in your tummy as he rests two hands under his head, propping him up slightly.

After a few more rolls of his hips, he really can’t take it anymore.

Honestly, you’re surprised he lasted this long.

“Jus’ sit there and take it, baby. Lemme help.” He murmurs as he picks you up and slams you back down on his dick. He sets a brutal pace, fucking up into you as you bounce on top of him.

You moan and whine as he finally slowly back down. His tempo is maddening. One second he’s manhandling you up and down him, the next he’s gazing up into you lovingly as you rock back and forth.

It’s amazing.

“B-buck, James, fuck.” You babble. One hand slides up you body, thumbing at your nipples and cupping your heavy chest. You moan softly for him. So sweetly, his own personal choir.

“Yeah, I know, doll.” He grins smugly as you roll your eyes. He sets his faster pace back into action, making your eyes roll in a different kind of way.

You whine as his hand leaves your chest to play with your clit. You’re positive you won’t last any longer, Bucky knows. He can feel you. He knows it’s just a matter of time.

His thumbs laps lazily at your clit as he bounces you on top of him. Your weight is so comforting to him. The constant ‘fight or flight’ in his mind subsides. His heart isn’t thumping, per usual. He’s not scared or anticipating the next strike.

“Gonna give me another, sweetheart? Wanna feel it. You’re grippin’ onto me like you don’t want to let go.” He rasps. You whine. You don’t last much longer with his cock dragging along your walls, his thumb teasing your clit, and his words making your whole body vibrate.

You clench around him one last time and with a deafening cry you collapse for him. It’s magical to watch you come undone, and he can feel his balls twitching, urging him to let go as well.

He doesn’t. He wants this night to last for you. Plus, his stamina is insane. He plans on taking you over and over till you physically can’t anymore.

“There ya’ go. Let it all out f’me.” He murmurs as he slowly stops your rocking on top of him. You whine as your cum gushes out of you, trialing down his cock and across his abdomen.

You’re not done.

He knows it.

He’s going to have you cum again on his cock.

Before you can process, he’s capturing your lips in a wind-stealing kiss as he swiftly switches your positions. Your beautiful hair splayed out across his pillow as he grins down at you.

“Just one more, m’promise.” He coo’s sweetly. You’re not sure if he’s mocking you or being sarcastic at this point. Your brain is a haze. The only thing you know is when his thrusts start again, so do your moans.

“I love you, doll.”

—————————————————————

thank you for reading lovelies!! i’ve been posting bucky a lotttt, so i’m gonna take a break for awhile and try to write for someone else. love you all💘.

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lemoniceteee · 2 hours ago

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crush! - bucky barnes

avenger!bucky barnes x receptionist!reader

summary. bucky has a crush on the new receptionist.

cw. smut!!! bucky being an absolute flirt. storage room and very risky sex 🫣 degradation. fingering. p in v. a bit of exhibitionism kink and a teeny tiny bit of controlling!bucky if you look hard enough. minors dni

dt. @jamesb444 the cutest ever

masterlist

yelena had practically shoved bucky out of the training room with a roll of her eyes as she tossed a "go bother your receptionist crush, barnes. you've been staring at her all week."

john had whistled low under his breath, and bob had muttered something about "finally admitting the crush, huh?" just loud enough for him to hear.

he'd just scowled as he walked away—but the second he rounded the corner, his steps quickened.

you're at your desk, fingers flying across the keyboard as you type away at some report.

and when the elevator dings softly, you don't even look up. his shadow falls over your keyboard, darkening the letters beneath your fingers.

"you're blocking my light, barnes," you say, your voice flat, but there's something in the way your lips twitch into a smile that gives you away.

"mm. tragic." he leans down, bracing his hands on the desk. he's close enough that you can smell the cologne and body wash you picked out for him last time you went shopping together. it was something so distinctly him.

"you busy?" he asks, his voice low and rough like he's been yelling commands at trainees all morning.

"always." you finally look up, meeting his gaze. "why? you need something?"

"no," he drawls, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against your desk. "you got a boyfriend, pretty girl?"

you laugh, not looking up from your screen. "why? you applying for the position?"

"just wondering if i should be jealous," he murmurs, leaning closer, close enough that you look up and he can see the loose strands of hair framing your face. "guy'd have to be pretty stupid to let you out of his sight."

"mm. lucky for you, he is pretty stupid." you finally meet his eyes, leaning over just enough that he can see the way your shirt dips at the collar. "shows up at my desk every day making terrible excuses to talk to me."

his lips twitch into that half-smile that drives you insane. "sounds like a real idiot. what's he like?"

"oh you know," you wave a hand, leaning back and crossing your arms. "tall, broody, too much hair. thinks he's charming."

"sounds like a catch," he deadpans, but his fingers are already moving, the cool metal of his prosthetic brushing lightly against the back of your hand, sending a shiver up your spine. "so... this weekend. you busy?"

"why?" you tilt your head. "you asking me out, mr. barnes?"

"just wondering if your imaginary boyfriend's taking you somewhere nice," he counters, his thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. "because if not... i know a place."

"oh yeah?" you turn your hand over, letting your fingers lace together, your skin warm against his. "what kind of place?"

"the kind with..." he pretends to think, his eyes never leaving yours, "food. drinks. maybe some dancing if you play your cards right."

"sounds suspiciously like a date," you murmur, but you're leaning in closer.

"nah," he shakes his head with a shit-eating grin, "just two coworkers who definitely aren't dating... going out to eat together. and maybe kiss a little. totally professional."

"uh huh." you squeeze his hand, your nails digging in just enough to make him groan. "and if someone from work sees us?"

"we'll tell them we're undercover," he says immediately, his free hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw longer than usual. "vital mission. you know.. because international security depends on us holding hands in public."

you laugh, the sound making his stomach flutter with butterflies, and shake your head. "you're stupid."

"but you're still coming to dinner," he says, confident, his thumb brushing over your pulse point.

"says who?"

"me." he leans in, pointing his index finger to his chest, "and before you argue—yes, i am absolutely using the fact that you like me to get my way."

you look up at him. your grip tightens around his fingers, before sighing dramatically. "fine. but only because you asked so prettily."

"knew you'd say yes," he murmurs, straightening up with a smug grin. "so... storage room? five minutes?"

you give him a look and an arched eyebrow, but you're already standing up, your chair rolling back as you round the desk.

the storage room is cramped. you find this out the hard way.

it smells like old paper and antiseptic, the only light a flickering bulb that casts uneven gold across his face as he crowds you against the door.

when you grab his shirt, and yank him closer. his mouth crashes into yours. his tongue slides against yours in a way that makes your knees weak.

you can taste the coffee he drank earlier, the one you made this morning.

his metal hand grips your thigh hard enough for you to jerk, hauling your leg up around his hip as his other hand pushes under your skirt. his fingertips skates along the damp lace of your panties underneath your skirt.

"missed you," he mumbles against your lips. his fingers hook into the fabric of your panties, dragging it aside.

"been thinkin' 'bout this all goddamn day—how wet you'd be for me, how you'd sound when i finally got my hands on you."

his fingers slide through your slick without warning, two pressing in deep on the first thrust. the initial stretch burns just enough to make you moan.

"oh fuck—"

"that's it," he murmurs, watching your face as his fingers curl, dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision go white.

"you'll take it anywhere, won't you? my pretty little slut. you'd spread out you on that desk in the lobby, huh? press you against a wall and fuck you—doesn't matter where, even at work, long as you get what you need." his thumb circles your clit, rough and perfect.

you choke on a moan, your nails dig into the fabric of his shirt. "bucky, please-"

"could lose your job, you know," he breathes against your ear, his lips scraping the sensitive skin there as his fingers fuck into you harder and faster.

the wet sound of it is obscene, and you're convinced anyone could hear you as they walk past the door.

"val could walk in any minute. hear what a desperate little whore you are and how you beg for it." he chuckles, looking at you as he teases you with his words.

you whimper. your hips jerks against his hand ans your back arches off the door. the thought and the risk sends another wave of pleasure through you.

"you like that?" he asks. his voice is filled with amusement as he watches you. "like the idea of someone hearing us? finding out what a slut you really are?"

his fingers twist, scissoring just enough to make you moan out and grip his shoulders harder, panting. your orgasm is building up tightly in your stomach.

"gonna come for me, princess?" he murmurs, his lips brushing yours. "gonna let everyone hear how good i make you feel?"

you shatter with a moan. bucky's other hand covers your mouth as your body clamps down around his fingers as he works you through it, moans muffled against his palm.

"that's it," he praises as he slows his movements, drawing out every last shudder. "so perfect for me. always so fucking perfect."

when he finally pulls his fingers free, they're glistening, and he doesn't hesitate to bring them to his mouth, his tongue swiping over his fingers with a filthy groan.

"fuck, sweetheart. you taste even better than this morning."

you barely have time to process anything at all as his metal hand reaches against the small of your back. he turns you around, your chest pressing harder into the cool concrete wall.

he notices—of course he does—his breath turns into a dark chuckle against your neck.

"always so damn responsive, princess," he murmurs. his other hand hikes your skirt up higher, the fabric crumples at your waist as his fingers trace the curve of your ass, making you gasp and arch further.

he tuts, clicking his tongue, "should've worn the black ones like i told you." his lips grazes your ear, just as his belt buckle clinks. the sound is obscenely loud in your ears. "this flimsy shit was never gonna survive the day."

you bite your lip to silence yourself when his palm connects with your bare skin, the sharp sting blooms into pleasure as he soothes the spot with slow, deliberate circles.

his touch is maddening, alternating between punishment and pleasure, and you squirm against him. "always testing me," he rumbles. his zipper lowers with agonizing slowness, the sound makes your cunt clench around nothing.

"tryna see how far you can push before i lose control and just fuck you, huh?" his metal fingers dig into your hip, holding you in place as he nudges your legs apart with his knee.

"gimme five more minutes and i'll fuckin' show you," he asks—demands of you.

when he finally pushes in, you feel that familiar stretch and your head drops against the wall. his forehead is on your shoulder as he buries himself to the hilt with one thrust.

"fuck," he hisses. "always so goddamn tight for me." his hands bracket your hips, holding you steady as he sets a punishing rhythm, fucking you against the wall. each thrust knocks a breathless moan from your lips.

you try to muffle it, but he’s relentless, dragging his body against yours.

"quiet, sweetheart," he warns. "whole damn building's gonna know what we're doing in here." his metal hand slides up your body, squeezing your tits before he clamps it over your mouth as you whimper.

he chuckles, the vibration rumbling through you. "that’s it. take it like you’re not fuckin' dying for it." his hips snap forward, harder, deeper, and you choke back a moan against his palm. "like you didn’t beg for this with every look you gave me today."

the file shelves rattle with each movement. beyond the door, you can hear a phone ringing, the tone is a distant reminder of the outside world and how exposed you truly are. it feels like the world narrows down to the friction building between you.

"gonna come," you pant against his hand. you could feel your thighs shaking, as his other hand keeps your hips steady against the wall.

"i know," he breathes, his voice wrecked. "i can feel it." his thrusts grow uneven, his control fraying. "let go. wanna feel you fall apart."

when the orgasm hits, it crashes over your whole body. your knees buckle as bucky holds you upright with an arm around your waist.

his grip on you is strong and keeps you from collapsing as pleasure takes over your boxy. "knew you'd fall apart for me," he murmurs against your skin, his own release following with a groan. he buries it inside you, his breath hot against your shoulder. "you always do." he mumbles.

the distant ding of the elevator nearby brings you both back to reality.

bucky pulls away with obvious reluctance while he listens for approaching footsteps. "time's up," he says. his hands are still roaming over your body, like he can’t bear to let go. "but we're finishing this tonight."

he adjusts your skirt before spinning you around to capture your lips in a rough, needy kiss. "we gotta go before someone notices what we've been up to."

as you straighten your clothes with trembling fingers, as bucky does the same to himself with that infuriating smirk plastered all over his face, looking far too pleased with himself. "oh, and sweetheart?" he adds. "next time? wear the black lace."

you huff, smoothing down your hair. "or what?"

"or i’ll ruin every pair you own," he murmurs, fingers tracing your panties through your skirt. "starting with these."

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lemoniceteee · 6 hours ago

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why couldn't nepotism have chosen me, I would've spent all that money so wisely

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lemoniceteee · 6 hours ago

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John Walker is so cocky before sex, but it really doesn’t last long, drabble:: fem!reader

Warnings: piv, a little bit of self doubt (john), comfort, aftercare(i think lmfao), Walker being a little pathetic but we love it :)

John Walker’s the type of guy to be all bark before sex, but once he’s inside you he’s all whimpery, breath stuttering, jaw slack. He cant get a single coherent sentence out without moaning or stumbling over his words. Babbling under his breath, “fuh-fuck, take it, fuckin’ t-take it, baby. Just like that.”

The man is gone, he’s so drunk on your pussy he cant even think straight, words tumbling from his lips without him realising, hips faltering as they buck up into you in unpredictable movements, hands trembling from pleasure, ranking down your body, squeezing, pinching, rubbing— never staying in the same place, always moving, always on you. Fingers in your hair, your mouth, trying to find new ways to please you, find new noises that make his pace hesitate and dick twitch. “Squeezing me so fuckin’ tight, i— i cant, fuck, oh shit, fuckin’ sweet, so good…”

He’s a little embarrassed at himself afterwards, coming inside you buried deep, rutting against you like theres still room, all twitchy, mouth open and gasping for air, eyes shut tight with pleasure and hands groping you, tight enough to leave marks and bruises. Whispering praises into the sweat musked air, “too good— too good f’me… perfect, my girl… my perfect girl.”

he hates you seeing him all pathetic and whiney, but you always make it known how much you love it, how its sweet, how you love his small noises, how he turns to putty in your hands just from your smell alone, how you feel loved in ways you’ve never felt before.

And how can he not? You’re like a goddess, his own personal deity he gets to worship in his own fucked up, pious ways. And you always make sure he knows you love him afterwards, hands in his hair, his beard, kissing soft pecks around his face— cheeks, chin, the corners of his mouth, bridge of his nose, eyelids— trailing your fingertips over his skin, arms, stomach, chest, reverent and light, as to not overwhelm. Letting your touch fill him up, let his eyes settle on your face as you whisper quiet ‘i love you’’s just for him to hear, only for John.

#lemon’s drabble ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 #john walker x reader #john walker #thunderbolts #wyatt russell #john walker headcanons #i love john walker #john walker fanfic #john walker x y/n #john walker fluff #john walker imagine #john walker smut #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts*#the new avengers #thunderbolts x reader

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lemoniceteee · 8 hours ago

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the kiss hypothesis

bucky barnes 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), sexual themes, MDNI, porn w barely any plot. unprotected sex, lots of pet names, pure filth, Bucky is desperate for it, fem reader, he uses his dog tags as a collar and I said WOOF WOOF

word count: 2.6k ish

notes – not proofread. can’t get this man out of my head !!!!!! men who yearn r men who earn

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The room is too quiet.

That’s the first problem.

The second is him.

Bucky’s on the couch—or what passes for one in a dingy safehouse rental off a barely-paved backroad in Eastern Europe. The mission was a success, technically. No one died, and the intel was secure. But “success” doesn’t account for the ache in your shoulder or the sting on your ribs or the fact that every time you close your eyes, he’s the one you see.

Laid out like a sin you haven’t confessed. Shirt off. Pants slung low on his hips. Dog tags nestled against his chest like a damn invitation.

And you?

You’re pacing. In a sleep shirt that barely covers your thighs. Pretending like you’re just too keyed up from the mission. Like you’re not looking at him again.

He’s lying still. One arm slung over his eyes. Breath steady. Asleep, you tell yourself.

Which is good. He can’t know what you’re thinking. What you’re feeling. What’s been slowly, steadily driving you insane for the past few months. Ever since you realized Bucky Barnes doesn’t hide when he wants something.

And he wants you.

But you’ve been fighting it. You have to. You’re partners. You work together. You’re… safe, as long as you don’t touch it.

Except— tonight something snaps. Quiet. Subtle. Like a hairline fracture in your resolve widening just enough to let the desire bleed through.

You cross the room before you think twice. Before you can stop. You crouch beside him slowly, knees brushing the rug.

He’s still. Beautiful, even in sleep. The slope of his nose, the stubble along his jaw, the way his fingers twitch like he’s dreaming. You wonder if it’s about you. If he ever lets himself go there.

Your heart slams in your chest. Just once, you think. Just one kiss. I just want to know. Maybe it’ll help me stop.

You lean in. So slow your breath catches. And then your lips brush his. It’s soft. Barely there. Like the whisper of something sacred. You press into it a little more, savoring the heat of him, the way his breath catches—probably a fluke, just sleep patterns—and your lips part against his for a second longer than you should allow.

And then you pull away.

And freeze.

Because you feel it. The slightest pull. A chase.

Your breath catches, as his hand slides up, warm fingers curling around your wrist.

You snap your gaze up to see his eyes are open. Sleepy and glazed, but undeniably aware.

“…Do it again.” The words are nothing like you expect. Not teasing. Not cocky. A voice you hadn’t heard from Bucky Barnes before.

He sounded ruined. Broken and raw and yearning.

Your mouth opens. No sound comes out. “I thought you were—”

“Asleep?” he finishes hoarsely, eyes burning into you. “I was trying.” He brings your hand to his chest. Places it there like an anchor. “I heard you get up,” he whispers. “Felt you watching me. Didn’t wanna scare you off.”

You should run. You should leave, pretend this never happened. That the kiss was nothing, that it didn’t flip your whole goddamn body inside out.

But you can’t.

Because the way he’s looking at you—like he’s starving and you just gave him a taste—is unraveling every last thread of your control.

“I was just—” you start, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t lie. Not now.”

Your throat works around a word that never comes. He lifts himself up on one elbow, hand still on your wrist. Still grounding you.

“Do it again, sweetheart.”

You shouldn’t. So naturally, you do. You surge forward and kiss him again—nothing soft this time. No testing. No hypothesis.

Your hands find his shoulders, his chest, dragging him into you as his lips crush back into yours like he’s been holding this in for years. He groans—actually groans—like the sound’s been building in his chest waiting for this exact moment.

And then?

You’re straddling his lap. You don’t remember how you got there. His hands are at your thighs, up your sleep shirt, firm and hot against your skin as his mouth trails along your jaw. Your fingers twist in his hair.

“You trying to get it out of your system?” he rasps against your throat.

“Yes,” you lie, breathless.

He laughs. Rough. Disbelieving. His teeth scrape your skin. “You kissed me like that,” he whispers, “and think you’re gonna walk away?”

You press your forehead to his. “This was supposed to make it stop.”

He pulls back enough to look you dead in the eye. His pupils are blown wide. His lips are kiss-bruised. “Does it feel like it’s stopping?”

You shake your head. Tiny. Helpless. “No,” you breathe.

“Didn’t think so,” he says, voice tight. “Because I’ve wanted this every damn day. And now that I’ve had it…”His hands grip your thighs harder, dragging you down against him. You can feel how badly he wants you. “I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

Your breath hitches. “Bucky…”

He leans in again—kisses you so deep your toes curl. And when he breaks away, he doesn’t give you a chance to recover.

“I’m gonna ask you one time,” he says. “Do you want me?”

You don’t answer. You grab his face in both hands and kiss him like you’re trying to make up for lost time. As your hips rock forward he growls into your mouth.

His hands fly to your waist, guiding you against the hard line of him, and it’s insane how quickly it escalates. How fast this night has flipped from denial to disaster. The kind you never want to end.

“Say it,” he whispers, lips on your neck.

“I want you,” you admit, wrecked. “Worse now than before.”

“Good,” he growls. “Because I’m not pretending anymore. And you’re not walking away from me tonight.”

And God help you—

You don’t want to.

You don’t know who moves first anymore. All you know is that Bucky’s hands are everywhere—hot and rough, dragging up the hem of your sleep shirt with reverence and greed. His mouth is still on yours, devouring you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops. And you’re clinging to him like your body finally caught up to what your heart’s been denying.

The shirt peels off and hits the floor and you feel his breath hitch. He pulls back just enough to look—eyes dark, wide, starving. He swears under his breath when he sees you— really sees you.

“You’re not real,” he says hoarsely. “You can’t be.”

You try to make some flirty retort, something smart to deflect how exposed you suddenly feel—but it dies in your throat the second he lays his hands on your bare skin. His thumbs stroke the swell of your chest as his mouth follows, hot and slow, licking over your breast before sucking it between his lips. You cry out, hips bucking against his lap, and he groans into your skin like the sound was punched out of him.

Your gasps only seemed to urge him on as suddenly his mouth is everywhere—your lips, your neck, down the center of your chest. His hands are rough and reverent, gliding over your body like he doesn’t know what to touch first.

You moan as he kisses lower, then lower again, until he’s tugging your shorts down just enough and spreading your thighs, dragging his tongue over your slick folds through your panties with a hunger that breaks you in half.

He groans like he’s the one falling apart. “Fuck, sweetheart… You’re already soaked for me.”

You arch up off the bed, hands tangled in his hair, thighs shaking as his mouth moves with unbearable precision—licking, sucking, tongue flicking against your clothed clit until your whole body seizes.

You’re begging—words that barely make sense—please, please, need you, can’t wait. Your fingers claw at his pants, desperate. You feel him smile against your chest.

“Can’t wait, huh?” He asks with a mocking smirk.

“Shut up,” you whine.

He leans back on his knees, lips wet, eyes locked on yours. “Not teasing. I get it. I’ve waited long enough too.”

Then he’s out of his sweats.

No boxers.

You go still. You knew—of course you knew—he’d be big. But seeing it? Watching him stroke himself once, eyes on your mouth like he’s imagining it there? It hits you in a whole new way.

And then his hands are sliding your shorts completely off, slow but firm, pulling your panties fully down with them. He kisses up your thigh like he’s worshiping you, like he’s waited years to have his mouth on this exact patch of skin.

“I ever tell you how many nights I thought about this?” he murmurs. You can barely breathe. “How many nights I thought about how tight you’d be around me?”

You arch up into his touch with a strangled moan. “Bucky—” Your fingers brush against his dog tags where they swing against his chest. “Do you ever take these off?” you whisper.

His gaze darkens as he reaches up and slips them off in one slow, deliberate motion. “No,” he murmurs. “But I think I just found a better use for ‘em.”

He leans over you, sliding the chain around your throat with reverence, letting the metal settle heavy at the hollow of your throat.

“You wear this for me,” he says, fastening the clasp behind your neck. “Just like that. You feel it? Right there on your skin?”

You nod, breath hitching. It’s cool and solid and his.

“Good,” he says. “Now I want you to feel it while I ruin you.” He’s on you again in a second. Mouth to yours, hips grinding slow against your cunt, his cock thick and heavy between your legs, fucking himself against your folds. He’s not even inside you yet, but you’re shaking.

He lifts his head, chin wet, eyes wild. “You sure?”

You nod frantically, reaching for him, pulling him up. He fists his cock, strokes himself once—twice—and then lines up, the blunt head brushing against your entrance.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he growls. “Dreamed about this. Nothing’s gonna feel like it.” Everything else fades. His eyes never leave yours as he grows serious, “but I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“Tell me to stop and I stop.”

“I won’t.” You smile. Then he pushes in and you both cry out. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he sinks deeper, inch by inch, thick and slow and bare.

You feel everything. His heat. His pulse. The raw, unfiltered stretch of him claiming every part of you. He chokes on a sound the moment he’s fully seated. Bucky groans through gritted teeth, sweat already beading at his temple.

“Fuck, doll. You feel like heaven.”

You’re panting, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him deeper. You can feel how badly he’s holding back—shoulders tense, arms shaking. His thrusts are shallow and achingly slow. And all the while—those dog tags stay pressed to your throat. You feel them move every time he thrusts, no matter how shallow. You hear the faint clink with each slide of his cock, and it makes everything worse. Better. Hotter.

“Oh my God,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel so fucking tight. I’m not gonna last.”

“Please move,” you whisper. You can barely breathe. You’re already trembling, so full and burning and dizzy with it. “Move,” you cry again, desperately working your hips against him. “Please, Bucky. Just move—”

And he does. His rhythm starts slow—almost torturous. Like he wants to memorize every sound you make, every twitch of your hips, every stuttered breath. But then your nails rake down his back and he snaps, pace stuttering. Buckys control fractures and before you know what’s happening, he pulls back and slams back in, causing you to scream.

Every thrust after is brutal. Deep. Perfect. Not cruel—but desperate. Like he’s chasing something that was always his to begin with. He braces himself with one arm beside your head, the other wrapped under your thigh to keep you spread wide and helpless.

“Been so good,” he growls, voice ragged. “So patient. But I can’t—fuckfuckfuck—I can’t be gentle if you keep moaning like that sweetheart.”

You tighten around him at his words and he loses it. You cry out, hands grabbing at his back, his shoulders, anything to ground you as he pounds into you raw, your wetness coating him with every thrust. Bucky sees the way your eyes flutter, the way your lips part when the tags press just a little too hard. So he wraps the chain to the dog tags around his fist and pulls. Gently. Just enough. Your head tips back with a moan, exposing your throat to him completely. A collar for his favorite girl. His mouth is on you in an instant—kissing, licking, biting just beneath the edge of the chain around your neck as he holds them tight in his fist.

“Like that, huh?” he murmurs. “You like wearing my name while I fuck you full?”

“Y-yes,” you gasp, already close again. “Bucky, please—”

He fucks you deep. Desperate. Not rough out of dominance—rough out of need. Every thrust is punctuated by the filthy sound of skin against skin, by gasped curses and broken sobs of pleasure. His hand stays tangled in the dog tag chain, keeping your throat bared, and it makes you feel owned. His.

Your name leaves his mouth like a prayer. He kisses your jaw, your throat, your shoulder.

“I wanted to,” he breathes, “wanted to make it slow—our first time and all. But you feel too good sucking me in like that, doll. You’re too good.” He buries his face in your neck again, kissing and biting his way down your throat, murmuring filth between groans, completely pussy drunk at this point. “Three goddamn years,” he grits out. “Three years of wanting this. Wanting you. No more games, doll. You’re mine. You have to be mine now.”

He kisses your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. Then your hand—fingers laced with his, pinning it to the bed like he needs the contact to stay grounded. Like if he doesn’t hold you there, he’ll fly apart. “Say it,” he gasps. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You nod, dizzy, teary-eyed. “I already was.” Is all you can manage as you clench around him and chant his name like it’s a plea.

That ruins him.

“That’s it,” he groans, thrusts deep, sharp, endless. “That’s fucking it—give it to me, baby. Give me everything.” He buries his face against your neck, hips stuttering, moaning your name like it’s being ripped from his soul. He fucks you harder, faster, whispering broken, devastated things.

“I dreamed of this—of you—every damn night.” His sentence is punctuated with a sharp thrust.

“I’m not gonna let you run anymore.” Next, a small spank to your clit.

“You feel so fucking good, baby—please, please come for me.” And then a kiss; searing against your lips.

And you do. Your whole body convulses, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave, your back arching, mouth open in a silent cry.

“Gonna give you everything,” he growls, thrusting harder now. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna stay inside you ‘til you remember who you belong to.” You milk him through his orgasm with a cry that echoes off the walls—you feel the second he breaks. He curses, loud, raw—hips slamming once, twice—as he’s spilling into you, face buried in your neck, breath ragged and shattered. He lets out a wrecked groan, mouth hanging open against your skin like he can’t believe this was real.

Both of you are shaking, breathing so incredibly hard. Burned out and undone and still tangled together—no space, no barriers, no breath between what’s left of you.

His lips find your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again—slow and reverent. Your breath returns slowly, chest rising and falling against his.

“I’ll take ‘em off,” he whispers, brushing the chain. “If you want.”

You reach up, fingers curling around the metal. “Leave them.”

His smile is slow. Lethal in that devastating way that only he can be. “Yes, ma’am.”

You’re quiet for a long time. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he brushes your cheek with his thumb, desperately wiping them away.

“Shit,” he breathes. “Did I—was it too much?”

You shake your head. “No. No, I just…” You swallow hard. “I wanted it to fix things. Just one kiss. But now I want you worse.”

Bucky laughs softly against your lips, kissing you again. Then, still inside you, still warm and sticky and tangled in the sheets, he murmurs, “Still think that kiss was gonna get it out of your system?”

You groan out a laugh and smack his chest. But you don’t deny it. Because he was right. One kiss didn’t cure you. It wrecked you.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispers, wrecked and warm. “Welcome to the rest of your fucking life.”

526 notes · View notes

lemoniceteee · 8 hours ago

Note

Feel free to delete this so so fast if it's not something you'd envision or simply dont like!! Would totally get that.

So...mafia!Stucky where one of Steve's enemies touches her wrong or tries to kiss/touch her at an unguarded moment and she really struggles with intimacy and closeness after it because she was so scared something else was going to happen. So Steve and Bucky just help her heal slowly until she can accept their touch again.

⁀➷ Taking Myself Back // Mafia!Stucky x F!Reader

Summary: You’re the heart of a dangerous mafia empire, but when someone violates that safety in a sinister way, the men who would burn the world for you must learn to hold you gently while you heal.

Requested by: Thank you for your request! I've tried to be sensitive with this request, so please read with caution, as lots of discussion regarding non-consensual kisses, the guilt and trauma that comes with this, etc.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, poly relationship, angst, non-consensual kiss, off-screen murder, discussion of trauma, slowburn recovery, therapy, panic, emotional healing, comfort, domestic bliss, emotional sex, size kink, slight pain kink, reader in control, aftercare

Words: 5.5k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The party sparkled like sin dressed in silver. It was hosted in one of Manhattan’s oldest, most prestigious hotels, where the walls were white marble, and the ceilings stretched so high they couldn’t have brushed the heavens.

The chandeliers dripped crystal like champagne bubbles. The music was live, seductive and loud. Power hummed beneath every clink of glass, every sharp laugh, every hushed deal made between men in designer suits and women with diamonds heavier than their morals.

And in the centre of it all, you were one of the most protected partners, simply because you were theirs.

You could feel it in the way eyes turned when you passed. Not just because you were beautiful, though Steve always said you were. Not just because your dress shimmered like poured mercy – Bucky’s pick. No, it was because you were theirs. Claimed in every way.

Everyone here knows to whom you belonged. Not to approach a risk to their lives.

Steve Rogers, the name that’s been whispered around the room since you all arrived at the party. Leader of the most powerful Mafia groups on the East Coast.

Sharp jaw, sharper mind. In a black on black suit tailored to perfection, his broad shoulders commanded every room he entered. Golden hair slightly longer than usual, just about curling at the nape of his neck, blue eyes calm, for now.

Then, there was the man at his side. James Barnes, Bucky. Second in command and Steve’s shadow, enforcer and best friend since childhood and lover in their adulthood. Where Steve was calculated, having a powerful aura, Bucky to his enemies was chaos in a leather jacket. Shoot first, ask questions later.

Hair shaved to a buzzcut, stubble rough and eyes like winter, cold and brutal unless they were looking at you. Then they softened along with his entire personality.

To the world, they were terrifying. To you, they were just Steve and Bucky.

The men who made you tea just right. The men who let you curl up in bed between them with a book, crying about the latest plot twist. They were gentlemanly and always had you as their priority, even more than the job.

They had blood on their hands, so much of it, but never, ever yours.

So when you excused yourself for a drink that night, you weren’t afraid. You told Sam, your bodyguard and best friend, and he gave you a quick nod, eyes constantly scanning. He already had the guest list and names of every security guard in the building; it was supposed to be a safe event.

But a crash came from behind the curtains near the far hallway. Sam swore under his breath, a hand on your shoulder giving a reassuring squeeze before darting off to see what was going on. Just for a second. Just enough.

You never saw the man coming. One moment, you were reaching for a champagne flute. Next, a voice slid over your skin like oil.

“So this is the girl who made Rogers go soft.”

You turned abruptly, instincts flickering. Tall, Armani, Snake’s smile. You recognised him faintly, something about a gun shipment Steve had shut down last month. A name Steve refused today, always followed by ‘he’s nothing but a pest’.

You stepped back, trying to look out of the corner of your eye for Sam, Steve or Bucky. “I’m not interested.”

He followed your movement, now crowding you back against the wall. “I just wanted to see what the fuss was about. He lets you walk around unchained? Must not care that much.”

His hand snatched your waist. You gasped, trying to jerk back, but he was already leaning in.

“Don’t–”

“Relax, babe. You might just enjoy it.”

He kissed you. Slamming his chapped lips to yours, brutal and in a way to own. You tasted and smelled alcohol, cigarettes, and his cologne, stinging your nose. Then–teeth. Pain bloomed as he bit your bottom lip hard enough to split skin.

You shoved at him, hands trembling, but he only smiled, licking his lips as he backed off.

“Bet they don’t kiss you like that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not until his footsteps disappeared and you were left standing, stunning, body trembling from head to toe. You’d always thought, if ever in a situation like that, you’d be able to fight someone off, punch them, kick them, but it was over in seconds, before your brain was even able to comprehend what was happening; he was already biting your lip. It was only the pain that had brought you back to the disgusting moment.

And now, you didn’t know what to do.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice pulled you back.

He was walking toward you, leather gloves on, suit unbuttoned, tie loose from him, pulling at the discomfort of it. His smile faltered when he saw your face.

“Hey, baby girl.” Steve was beside him, standing just as tall, a steady behemoth of a man. “I’ve been looking for you. You okay?”

You blinked at them, hands by yourself, neither of them noticing the broken champagne glass behind you that you’d dropped during the altercation.

“I.. I was kissed.”

You meant to shout it. Yo, you barely whispered. The music swelled, some jazzy, smoky song, and they didn’t catch it. Bucky tilted his head. Steve stepped closer, his hand just starting to lift to your cheek, when he froze.

His eyes caught it—the blood.

“Your lip,” Bucky growled, his entire posture changing.

Steve’s whole body locked. He set the glasses down on a passing tray without breaking eye contact. “Who did that?”

Not a question. A death sentence.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out—just a shallow breath. Steve’s hand slipped into yours, his thumb stroking gently.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Bucky lowered his tone, already flanking your other side. “Let’s get you home and safe.”

They moved like shadows, swift and terrifying. No one stopped them, no one would. You barely registered their arms wrapped around your back as they pushed through the crowd. White noise was ringing in your ears so that you couldn’t hear them shout for Sam.

The car was already waiting. You barely registered the click of the locks before you were inside. Steve knelt in front of you in the cramped space. Bucky took the seat beside you, tense but tender. You were still frozen.

“What happened?” Steve’s voice held a gentleness that drew you in, making you feel safe. He never sounded like this for anyone but you and Bucky.

You looked down at your lap, vision blurring. “He cornered me. Said… said you didn’t care because I wasn’t leashed. Said he wanted to know what all the fuss was about to make you so soft.”

Bucky swore under his breath, his grip on the door causing the metal to grind as he bent it in his fury.

“He bit me,” you whispered, feeling nauseous all of a sudden. “When I didn’t kiss him back.”

Steve’s hands closed around yours, calloused, big and warm. “You’re safe now. I promise you, baby.”

“I didn’t scream. I couldn’t scream. I didn’t even react until he pushed me. What is wrong with me?”

“Oh, baby…”

Bucky leaned in now, cupping your face between his gloved hands. “You did nothing wrong at all. You were in shock.”

“I didn’t stop him–”

“You got away. That’s all that matters now,” Steve said firmly. “Sam is going to take you home, okay? He’ll stay with you and Dodger. We’re going to take care of it. Unless you want us to stay with you?”

You shake your head, finding comfort in just being with Sam and needing to get as far away from this place as possible. A part of you also wanted them to take care of him, knowing what it meant, and for once, you didn’t want to stop them.

You sat up front with Sam, the heater on full, Bucky’s blazer over your lap. You ignored the drive home, only noticing when you got home.

The gates to the house opened, a soft glide of steel and security, letting the car through before they shut again with a cold, final thud. No one got in unless Steve Rogers authorised it.

Sam, sleeves rolled up, gun visible at his hip, still scanned the driveway as he approached the door, rolling the car to a stop. He jumps out of the car first, noticing you aren’t making any attempt to leave, so he dashes to the front door, opening it to let your fur baby out, Dodger.

Your Rottweiler child ran to your side of the car, pawing against the door and whining to get to you. The moment the car door opened, Sam moved.

You didn’t remember getting out. You barely felt your heels touch gravel before your knees buckled slightly, and then there were strong arms around you. “Whoa there, Boss Lady,” Sam encourages gently, with a hint of worry. “I got you.”

He picked you up as if it were nothing, his strong arms supporting your body as he carried you into the house—your safe space. With guards lined up properly, even in the shadows, the camera tracked every angle, and steel shutters could lock down the windows at the tap of a button.

But inside, it was filled with soft, warm lighting, polished wood, pillows, and throws on every surface. Family pictures cover the walls and countertops, and the faint scent of vanilla and pine fills the air from the numerous candles.

Sam nudged the door open with his foot and carried you straight to the oversized couch in the lounge. Dodger padded alongside, whimpering softly, knowing something was wrong. He rested his big head on your knee the moment Sam laid you down.

“There we go,” Sam said, crouching to slip off your heads. “These heels look like medieval torture. You need a new stylist. Don’t tell Bucky I said that.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared ahead. He took the pins and clips out of your hair next, his hands slow and unthreatening. One by one, they clinked into a bowl on the table.

“Let’s get this fancy armour off, huh?” Sam asked in a vice-feather-light voice. “Can’t fight a war in sequins. Would you like me to grab your robe? Or hell, I’ll just cut this thing off. I’ve seen you wear Steve’s shirts before. Man’s got a closet the size of a panic room.”

Still no reply. Sam paused. His smile flickered, but he didn’t push.

He draped a soft throw blanket around your shoulders, smoothed it into place, and finally sat beside you, one hand rubbing Dodger’s ears, the other loosely resting on the back of the couch near you, just in case you needed to hold it.

“You’re safe now, y’know,” he tried to point out gently. “You got two pissed-off monsters with hearts of gold out there painting the city red for you. And me. Your favourite. Your handsome, emotionally available bodyguard. I mean, really, you got a dream team.”

You blinked, barely moving or acknowledging him.

Sam sighed, softer now. “You don’t have to talk yet. I'm not going anywhere.”

The silence that followed was deep. Too deep. It stretched between the flickering firelight and the long windows that overlooked the garden beyond, where shadows moved with the wind.

You didn’t cry or shake. You just sat there, blank and silent, your hands in your lap like you didn’t know how to move them anymore.

It wasn’t long before the front door opened again. You didn’t hear it. But Dodger did. He lifted his head and let out a soft boof–not a bark—a greeting.

Sam looked up as the footsteps approached, heavy and slow. Steve appeared first, jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled up. His knuckles were scraped raw, blood drying at the cuticle. His face was unreadable. Controlled. But his eyes were burning blue.

Bucky followed close behind, sweat evident on his temple, the vein in his neck thick and pulsing.

“Hey, baby,” Steve said softly, crouching in front of you. Bucky knelt beside you, metal hand twitching once before curling into a loose fist. You blinked at them both.

They were so beautiful, and here they were covered in someone else’s blood. “Are you–” Bucky started.

But the moment Steve reached out to brush his fingers against your arm, you flinched. Not hard or with a scream, just a tiny jerk of your body. The movement had Steve freezing on the spot and Bucky’s mouth closing as his jaw tightened.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, pulling his hand back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You looked at them both, wide-eyed and hurting, mouth slightly open like you wanted to speak but didn’t know how. “I didn’t mean to,” you said, and god, your voice broke around it.

Sam stood quickly, as if he was struggling with his own emotions in the situation, but trying not to make it about himself. “I’ll give you guys some space.”

“No,” you say, panic rising for the first time. “Stay.”

That stopped them all. Sam nodded slowly, sitting right back down again. “Right here, Bossy Lady. Got nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Steve and Bucky stayed where they were, kneeling, hands still, hearts breaking.

Dodger nudged his head under your hand. You stroked him without thinking, fingers clutching his fur. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whispered.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Steve said fiercely, and then softer, “You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to heal.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Bucky confirmed firmly. “You don’t have to touch us until you want to. Just let us stay close. Let us keep you safe.”

You looked at them both at the softness beneath all that blood. And you nodded, just once. That was enough.

~~~~~

It didn’t go away. The blood washed off. The lip healed. The bruised echo of his grip on your waist faded. But the way it felt, it stayed.

It crept in every time you looked in the mirror. When you felt their eyes on you. When you would suddenly remember his hand on your body, your body tensed like it was waiting for something, whether it be pain or shame.

Every time Steve reached out to pass a glass. Every time, Bucky moved too suddenly from behind. Every time a hand brushed too close to your skin, you flinched, froze, or fled. You hated it. You hated the silence that lay between you, the warmth you could no longer reach.

And worst of all, you hated that they still looked at you like you were soft and good and theirs, even when you felt like a broken person that they should’ve thrown away.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Steve's voice is quiet, spoken from across the long, sunlit kitchen where he was slicing apples. He hadn’t looked up; he didn’t have to. He always knew what you were thinking before you could say it.

“I let him,” you say, barely audible, staring into space.

The knife stopped. “You didn’t,” Bucky said firmly from the breakfast table, where he was sorting through files. His voice wasn’t cruel, though. “You froze. That’s not consent. That’s survival, Doll.”

“But–”

“Sweetheart,” Steve said, crossing the room now. He leaned down, not touching, just crouched enough to meet your eyes. “If it were me, or Bucky, if someone hurt us, would you think we’d asked for it?”

Your throat tightened. “No. Of course not.”

“Then don’t do that to yourself,” Bucky assured.

Later that night, you stood at the doorway to your shared bedroom, staring at the bed like it was a trap. “I can’t,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I want to, I do. I just feel wrong. Like if I sleep next to you, I’ll ruin everything.”

Steve stepped forward, calm and warm, and so tall, but never threatening. “You don’t have to explain, baby. If you need space, that’s okay.”

“I want to sleep alone,” you whispered, then added quickly, “but I don’t want to be without you. I just– I don’t want to wake up and not know where you are.”

Steve didn’t even hesitate. “We’ll sleep here, right next to you. We won’t go anywhere,” he said, nodding to the floor beside the bed.

“Guys, you don’t have to–”

Bucky was already grabbing pillows. “Yeah, we do. Trust me, the carpet is a hell of a lot more comfortable than some of the shit holes me and Stevie used to sleep back in the day, isn’t that right?”

Steve nodded along, grabbing a couple of blankets. “Absolutely. Why do you think I picked the thickest carpet available? I want to be able to sleep comfortably anywhere in our house.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Steve was now taking off his jacket, preparing himself for bed. “You’re not alone, baby,” Steve continued. “Not for one fucking second.”

Dodger padded in, tail wagging as he jumped up onto the bed like he knew this was where he was supposed to be. His head rested near your feet, his body a silent comfort.

You climbed into bed slowly. It felt too big without them beside you, but not empty. You looked over the edge.

Bucky was on his back, one arm behind his head. Steve was curled into his side, hand resting atop Buckys waist, looking in your direction.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, even though you weren’t sure for what anymore.

Steve’s eyes softened as he gave you a reassuring smile. “Stop apologising for healing.”

“Yeah,” Bucky added. “You’re doing this your way. We’re just along for the ride and to catch you when you’re ready.”

Your heart twisted. “I think I need help,” you finally admitted. “Like, real help. Not just from you. A therapist, maybe.”

Neither of them moved. Then Steve nodded once. “Okay.”

“That’s good, Doll. We’ll find someone. Whoever you need,” Bucky added.

“We’ll be there every step,” Steve nodded. “Even if we’re just waiting in the car. Even if you never want to be touched again, we’ll still be yours.”

You bit your lip, tears welling.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank us for loving you,” Bucky said softly.

That night, you fell asleep with your hand dangling over the side of the bed, not even realising when Bucky’s metal fingers slowly curled around yours. He never squeezed or pulled, just held on. Just stayed.

Maybe it was the fact that it didn’t feel like flesh that didn’t have you flinching and pulling away. But for the first time in days, you didn’t dream of being alone.

~~~~~

The car ride home was silent. Not awkward or cold. Just quiet. You stared out the tinted window, cheek resting against the cool glass, the therapist’s voice still swimming somewhere in your mind.

“What happened to you wasn’t your fault. You’re allowed to feel angry. And sad. And scared. You can take your power back in small ways. Let’s find what safety looks like for you.”

You hadn’t cried. Not during the session. But now? You were so tired. Your bones ached in ways they shouldn’t. Your chest felt heavy. And as Sam pulled the car into the long drive, the right of the house, tall and bathed in the soft green of the massive garden, made something in you twist.

This was your home. You were supposed to feel safe here. Sometimes, you even did, but today, it felt too quiet.

Until you opened the door, the scent hit first: vanilla and cinnamon, the candle Steve always lit when you had a bad day. You blinked, confused for a moment. You hadn’t texted them yet. They didn’t know you were back.

Except, of course, they did.

Steve stood at the kitchen island, his sleeves rolled up, his hair a little messy from running his hands through it too much. He wasn’t pretending to be calm, you could tell. His jaw was right. His eyes were on the door the moment it opened.

Bucky was sitting at the breakfast table, tapping a pen against his knee, posture stiff with worry. His leather jacket was draped over your usual chair.

Both of them stood when they saw you.

“His,” you said, voice tentative.

Steve smiles just a little. “Hey, baby girl.”

Bucky moved first, but stopped a few feet away. “How’d it go?”

You dropped your bag. “Hard.”

“That’s okay,” Steve said gently. “It's supposed to be. You're doing the hardest part.”

“I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

“Then we won't,” Bucky said quickly. “Want tea? Food? =you want us to leave you alone or…?”

You stepped closer, “Just sit with me?”

They didn’t hesitate.

You sat on the couch with Dodger curled beside you, his weight a comfort against your thigh. Bucky sat on the floor, back against the couch, his hand resting on the rug near your feet but not quite touching. Steve brought you tea, your favourite, and then joined Bucky on the floor too.

None of you spoke. The fireplace crackled softly. After a few minutes, you reached out. Not much, just a few inches. But your hand brushed against Steve’s shoulders, and instead of freezing or pulling back, you let it rest there. Bucky saw it. His eyes softened, and he did not say a word.

The next few days came in waves. You started reclaiming control in little ways. You chose your own clothes again, rather than just oversized old shirts, and you began to wear their clothes for comfort.

You asked Bucky to cook your favourite breakfast. You asked Steve to walk with you through the garden. You even took Dodger out to the back grove one afternoon.

Each time, they praised you without smothering. “So proud of you. That was brave. You’re doing so good.”

And you were. You were building a version of yourself again, one that didn’t feel dirty or fragile or broken. You even held Bucky’s hand through a movie. His warm hand, the callused one that trembled when you reached for him, like he didn’t want to believe it was real.

But then, the kiss sent you right back to the start again.

It was small. It was supposed to be. You were sitting on the porch swing with Steve at sunset. The sky was bleeding gold, and he’d just made you laugh, a soft, breathy thing that felt unfamiliar in your mouth.

He turned to look at you, grinning, and you didn’t think. You leaned in—a small kiss on the cheek.

But before your lips touched his skin, something snapped. Your chest locked. Your stomach lurched. You recoiled so fast the swing creaked behind you.

“Shit–” Steve started, but stopped the moment he saw your face.

Bucky was at the door in an instant, coming to you, but not too close. You were breathing hard, hands shaking. You couldn’t stop blinking.

He didn’t even look like the man who hurt you. But your body didn’t care. Your brain had screamed, Don’t touch him, and you’d obeyed.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I thought I could. I wanted to–”

“Hey,” Steve said slowly, crouching low. “Look at me. No apologies. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I was trying–”

“And you will,” Bucky said gently. “When you’re ready. Not because you feel like you owe us anything.”

You felt tears prick your eyes.

“I hate this,” you admitted, your bottom lip wobbling. “I feel like I'm taking two steps forward and ten back.”

“You’re not,” Steve said firmly. “You’re surviving. And something that means stumbling.”

“You don't have to be perfect ot be ours. We love you no matter what,” Bucky added.

You looked between them, both crouched at your feet like you were a queen on a throne and not a shattered girl in a t-shirt and slippers, trembling from a failed kiss. You nodded slowly, and they stayed.

~~~~~

They laughed, surprised even you. It slipped out, light and sweet, as Bucky cursed at the flour exploding across his shirt. He stood frozen, hands mid-whisk, apron now streaked in white. Dodger barked once in alarm before sneezing in the cloud of dust.

“Oh my god, Buckaroo,” you wheezed, hands on your knees. “You look like a piss-off Pillsbury ghost.”

Steve leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with the softest smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“You laughing at me, Hot Mama?” Bucky teased, shaking out his shirt, using his favourite nickname for you.

“I'm absolutely laughing at you.” It felt good. It felt normal.

~~~~~

Therapy was still hard. Some days left you hollow, some made you cry, others filled you with a strange kind of peace. But the difference now was that you always came home to light. To warmth. To men who didn’t need you to be healed to hold space for you.

You’d startled letting them in again, piece by piece.

That afternoon, you reached for Steve’s hand first while walking through the garden. The way he looked at you, surprised, then relieved, made your chest ache in the best way.

That night, you curled into Bucky’s side on the couch whilst a film flickered softly across the screen. His arm slipped around you with care. You didn’t flinch or freeze. You just melted into his hold.

He kissed the top of your head for a long second, “You’re doing so good, Doll.”

You still have bad days. But today wasn’t one of them. Today, you made jokes in the kitchen. You wore your favourite socks. You kissed Dodger’s nose and didn’t cry when Steve gently kissed your knuckles afterwards. You were starting to feel like you again, and for the first time in weeks, you believed it would get better.

~~~~~

The lights were all on. Warm with no shadows, no dark corners, no flickering candlelight to hide behind. Just the steady glow of the bedroom lamps, the faint hum of jazz through the speakers, and the quiet sound of your breathing as you stood in front of them.

Steve and Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweatpants riding low on their hips. Neither of them moved. Neither spoke. They just looked at you, not hungry, not impatient, but waiting.

You had asked for this.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow touches, long talks, and safe distance. Therapy sessions that left your chest raw and your hands shaking. Nights when you fell asleep wrapped in their arms, fully clothed but safe.

But tonight, you wanted more, you needed to feel them, to see them. To let your body remember that their touch wasn't something to fear. You knew these men better than yourself; you knew there was only trust and love from them.

“Don’t touch me,” you asked quietly. “Not unless I ask.”

Steve nodded instantly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Bucky’s voice was steady, “Anything you need.”

You stepped forward, fingers slipping beneath the he of your oversized t-shirt. Slowly, you pulled it over your head, your bare skin heating under their intense gaze, but not shrinking.

You wanted them to see you. They stayed perfectly still, their eyes wide, their chests rising with restraint. You turned to Bucky first.

“Lie back.”

He obeyed immediately, spine against the pillows, arms loose at his sides. His cock was already half-hard under his sweats, thick and straining, but he didn’t reach for it. He just watched you climb onto the bed and straddle his waist.

Your knees framed his hips. Your hands braced against his chest.

His skin was warm, familiar, real.

“It’s you,” you tried to reassure yourself, ignoring the tremble in your fingers. “It’s just you.”

He sucked in a shaky breath. “Yeah, Doll. Always me.”

You reached between you and pushed his sweats down just enough. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, and god, it had been a long time. He was huge, the veins bulging, the tip darker than the rest of him, and already leaking.

You took him in your hand. He groaned.

“Don’t move,” you warned again.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, arms twitching with restraint. “I won’t.”

You sank slowly. The stretch was instant. You gasped, thighs trembling as the thick head of his cock pished into you. Your body fought the intrusion, the slick heat of him forcing your walls wide.

“Fuck–” you whimpered, halfway down, frozen.

Your breath stuttered. Your pussy fluttered, struggling to adjust.

“You okay?” Bucky rasped, voice tight.

You nodded, not because it didn’t hurt, but because it hurt good. The pressure, the burn, the delicious fullness that bordered on overwhelming, it grounded you.

You looked down at him. His face was wrecked. His fingers fisted in the sheets like he was in pain from holding back.

“You’re so big,” you gasped. “I forgot how much you stretch me out.”

Bucky groaned. “You’re perfect. You take me so well, baby. Always did.”

You breathed in deep, the scent of him, clean sweat and soap and safety, and slowly lowered yourself the rest of the way.

“Fuck,” you cried as your thighs met his hips, fully seated. “Oh my god.”

You stayed there, unmoving, cock pulsing deep inside, until the pain eased into need. And then, you started to move.

Slowly. Grinding more than bouncing. Just enough to feel the drag of him along your walls, the fullness that made your head spin.

Steve watched silently from the edge of the bed, eyes dark, jaw tight, his cock hard under the soft grey of his pants. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

This was your moment.

“Don’t stop,” Bucky panted. “You feel– fuck, you feel so good.”

You rocked harder. Your clit brushes against his pelvis with every motion, sparks dancing up your spine. Your thighs trembled. Pleasure coiled in your belt, high and hot and close–

“Bucky–”, you mewled. “Please. I need your hands.”

His restraints snapped. Bucky sat up fast, arms wrapping around your waist, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between you to press firm, perfect circles against your clit.

“Cum for me, Doll,” he growled into your neck. “Let go.”

And you did. You shattered in his arms, body locking tight, pussy pulsing around his cock as you sobbed out his name, not in pain but in relief.

He held you, thought it, rocking you gently, kissing your shoulder as he found his own release. “You’re okay. You did so well.”

You rested for a while. Tangled in his arms, heat slowing, hands twitching.

You kissed his cheek, soft and slow. And then, when your breath had returned, you looked to Steve.

“Your turn.”

Steve sat up slowly, eyes soft but blazing. His cock was bulging, hard and straining visibly under his sweats. You crawled over to him, chest flushed and thigh sticky with your orgasm and Bucky’s.

He let you climb into his lap. Let you kiss him deep and slow.

“I want you inside me,” you said softly. “But I need time. Our boyfriend has made me sensitive.”

Steve chuckled, voice strained. “We can take all the time you want, baby.”

Easing him from the confines of his sweatpants, you finally were able to lower yourself onto him.

The stretch was just as intense; your breath caught, your body resisted, and your legs trembled.

“You okay?” Steve asked, his hand twitching where it rested beside you.

“DOn’t move,” you panted. “Not yet.”

He was patient. Letting you take him inch by inch, Bucky’s cum helps to lube your cunt to take him more.

“You’re so fucking big, Steve.”

Steve groaned deep in his chest. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So fuckign tight around me. Taking me so well.”

When you were finally fully seated, he let out a strangled breath. “Fuck–look at you. So fucking brave, taking my cock all the way.”

Yu rode him slowly, lifting and lowering your hips with shaky precision, feeling everything—the drag, the fullness, the pressure building again.

And when you couldn't take it anymore–

“Please,” you begged. “Touch me. I need you.”

His hands snapped to your hips, guiding you down harder, his thumb pressed to your clit, sending you spiralling.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Give it to me.”

You came again, falling forward into his chest, shaking, crying out against his skin. Steve held you close.

“You’re safe. You’re ours and you're safe.”

It took several long minutes to catch your breath. Then they both cleaned you up gently. Bucky fetched water, and Steve wrapped you in one of his shirts. They didn't say much; they just touched you, held you, and breathed with you.

Dodger returned to the room and curled around your feet at the bottom of the bed.

You lie between them under soft blankets, your head on Steve’s chest, and Buck's arm wrapped around your waist.

“I want to sleep here tonight. With you both, in our bed.”

Steve kissed your forehead. “You're home, baby. We aren't going anymore.”

Bucky kissed your shoulder, “We love you,” and for the first time since it happened, you believed them.

241 notes · View notes

lemoniceteee · 8 hours ago

Text

the mystery of love

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader summary: clark is soft in ways the world doesn’t always notice. he makes breakfast for dinner, reads to you when you’re sick, peels oranges like his mom used to, and sunbathes on the fire escape like a houseplant that loves way too hard. he doesn’t say “i love you” until the light is just right and you’re wrapped up in him like a second skin, but he shows it every day in the way he stays. inspired by the orange poem by wendy cope. (or alternatively: 4 times he showed you he loves you + 1 time he says it) listen to the playlist here. word count: 11.1 k. oops. i swear this was only supposed to be 8k words but unfortunately, i'm insane. content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, established relationship, piv sex, character study, dom/sub undertones, switching (reader and clark take turns domming/subbing), marking kink, hair pulling, big soft men who are whipped for you, soft but kind of unhinged sex, size kink (clark picks up the reader/pins them down), nipple play, unprotected sex, oral (fem!receiving), outdoor sex (sex against a tree), face riding, public sex, use of pet names, tooth-rotting fluff, my love letter to midwest summers!

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes.

Well, that's the joke, anyway.

You’ve said it so many times now it might as well be printed on a T-shirt. My Boyfriend Is Solar-Powered! in Comic Sans. Or maybe Papyrus. Whatever will annoy him the most. Haven't really decided yet.

It started out as a throwaway line, one of those things you kind of just say when you’re half-awake and fully-annoyed because he’s hogging the sunny spot in the kitchen again like a smug, six-foot-four housecat with insane shoulders and even more insane bedhead.

But the first time you said it—like, actually really said it—he was standing by the window, shirtless, holding his coffee in that chipped blue mug that says "My Son's a Smallville Elementary Grad!" and somehow survived a farm, a college dorm, three apartments, and a move cross-country.

The light was doing that thing it loves to do in the morning, all golden and warm and syrupy, catching on his collarbones and the slope of his neck like he was painted by fucking Michelangelo. He had one hip braced against the counter, the other leg crooked, like someone told him to look as unintentionally hot as possible while waiting for the kettle filled with your guys' tea to boil.

You blinked at him, still clutching your own mug and not yet caffeinated enough to regulate your mouth, and said, “Do you ever feel like… like a plant?”

He raised an eyebrow. Blew on his coffee. You can see the way his breath fogs up slightly, that super breath of his doing just enough to cool down his coffee to the perfect temperature. “That a dig?”

“No. It’s just. You—" You waved vaguely in his direction. "Well, you just kinda look like you’re charging.”

That got a huff of a laugh. “What, like a phone?”

“No,” you said, and grinned into your mug. “Like I said, a plant. Like you're photosynthesizing.”

After that, it became a thing.

He always smiled when you said it. Looked down at himself, half-amused, half-embarrassed. “I mean,” he’d say, “you’re not wrong.” Or: “Someone’s gotta keep the plants company, y'know?"

But he never corrects you. Never laughs it off like it’s ridiculous.

Because it isn’t.

You’ve seen the truth of it, slow and subtle and layered in all the small things. The way he’s just a smidge lighter on his feet after a sunny day, how he runs warmer, more golden, like someone turned the saturation up to a hundred. The way his voice softens, deeper, when he’s been in the sun too long. The way the shadows under his eyes seem less sharp after just an afternoon spent lying on the roof, pretending he’s napping when you both know he’s just... breathing.

And the bruises. That’s the part he thinks you don’t see.

You do.

They heal so much faster when he’s been drenched in the sun. You’ve watched the inky blackish-purple fade to this sickly yellow in the span of a couple hours and tried really, really hard not to stare.

You’ve said nothing when he limped into bed one night after a particularly difficult battle and rolled out of it the next morning like absolutely nothing had even happened. Sometimes he winces and pretends it’s nothing. Sometimes he… forgets to pretend.

And still, you never say that’s not normal out loud, even though it’s not. Because he isn’t. Not in the way that matters. Not in the ways that make you love him.

You love him like a long exhale. Like a secret that’s safe with you. Like the song you play on repeat in the car, the one you never get sick of, even though it makes your throat tighten every time.

Sometimes it’s peaceful, like when your ribs finally uncages and let someone else in for the first time in your life. But sometimes, sometimes it's just so fucking devastating.

Because he’s Clark. And Superman. And most importantly, he's yours.

And it feels too big. Too fragile. Like trying to hold water in your hands. You want to keep him safe, but you also want to keep him. The real him. The him that leaves you sticky notes that say “eat something, please” and walks around humming old Mighty Crabjoys songs and insists you don’t have to fold my socks, seriously, who folds socks?

But you lie awake sometimes watching him breathe, thinking to yourself, How do I love someone that belongs to the world?

And the answer is: you just do. One day at a time. One morning at a time. One sunlit moment in the kitchen at a time.

That Monday morning, it’s the same as always.

You pad into the living room half-asleep, dragging your feet and wearing one of his T-shirts that hits you mid-thigh. He’s already up, standing barefoot by the window, coffee in hand, arms folded loosely across his chest like he’s holding himself together in case he gets pulled apart again later.

Pause in the doorway. Watch him for a second. The way the light pools around his ankles. The way his shoulders lift, just barely, when he hears your steps.

He doesn’t turn.

“Guess what,” you say.

He smiles, small and crooked. “Hmm?”

You cross the room. Slide your arms around his waist from behind and press your face between his shoulder blades, where the sun’s been warming him for at least half an hour.

“You’re glowing again,” you murmur. “Must be that high-potency sunlight. You hogging the sun again?”

He laughs, the sound low and warm. “You caught me.”

“You’re a danger to local crops,” you whisper. Feel the goosebumps rising underneath his skin. “The corn’s jealous.”

“Oh no. Not the corn.” He turns a little, just enough to look down at you. His eyes are so fucking blue at that moment. “Should I apologize to the corn?”

“Absolutely. It’s your fault they can’t compete. You're literally the reason why Iowa's GDP is going down.”

He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your temple. “I’ll draft a formal statement for them later.”

You stay like that for a minute. Him holding you. You pressing your nose into the slope of his back, breathing him in—sunshine and laundry and that faint green note that’s uniquely Clark. Like basil, or clean leaves. Like something still growing.

And you think: This is the part he doesn’t say out loud.

This is how he tells you.

Not with words. Not yet.

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes. And maybe it’s not the kind of love you can pin down, or explain, or protect. But it’s real. It’s alive.

And you love him.

And he, quietly, completely, loves you back.

(He hasn’t said it yet. But you don’t really need the words to know.)

Clark shows you he loves you in ways so small, they’d be easy to miss if you didn’t know how to look for them.

But you do. You catch them in those quiet little corners of the day.

The way he folds down the corner of your book before you can reach for a receipt or a pen. The way he touches your wrist, not yanking, just there, when you step into the street without looking. The way he makes a soft sound of protest—ahem, maybe more like politely exasperated—when you try to carry six grocery bags at once like you, too, are invincible.

And then there’s the orange.

You’re curled into the couch, one of his sweatshirts swallowed over your knees, watching—but not really, to be honest—some long-winded documentary about volcanoes or Icelandic horses or some other quietly majestic subject that definitely feels at odds with your mood. The narrator has this super calm, soothing British lilt and the lighting is very National Geographic: all muted blues and wide drone shots and crashing waves. You haven’t really spoken in close to at least half an hour.

Clark doesn’t push. Never does.

He just lets you sit in it, whatever it is, as long as you need to.

But eventually, he nudges your ankle with his socked foot, like a hello, and when you glance up, he’s setting something on the coffee table with a kind of shy precision.

An orange.

Already peeled.

Not just peeled. Sectioned. Arranged.

It’s kind of ridiculous, how careful it is. No torn rind, no mangled wedges. The peel’s just laid out like a ribbon, one continuous spiral that speaks of time and gentleness and someone who took this seriously. Each segment is placed on a napkin, still glistening with juice, like a little offering.

You blink at it.

Then at him.

He’s pretending to watch the TV, but his body betrays him. His shoulders just slightly angled toward you, eyes flicking sideways like he’s checking the weather.

“I didn’t know if you were hungry,” he says after a beat. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say more. “But it’s one of the sweet ones.”

Your throat does something stupid. You reach for a slice and hold it for a second, too long, then pop it into your mouth.

It’s still cold from the fridge. Bright, juicy, perfect. Like summer broke through the haze in your chest.

You make a noise you don’t mean to. Something between surprise and relief.

Clark shifts, trying to look casual, but you catch that familiar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted one,” he says, still mostly facing the TV, his face painted in blue. “But you looked kind of… I don’t know. Stuck. So I figured I’d just do it.”

“You peeled it for me?”

He finally looks over at you, eyebrows lifted. “Well, yeah.”

And somehow that—that—is what catches in your chest. Not the orange, not the care. The way he says it like it’s obvious. Like of course he did. Like there’s a whole world of things he would do just for you without even needing to be asked.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says, shrugging a little. “But that's kind of the point.”

You don’t say anything for a minute. Just reach for another slice.

When you bite into it, something in you loosens. Maybe it’s the juice. Maybe it’s the tenderness.

Clark, watching out of the corner of his eye, shifts a little closer and says, voice low, “When I was a kid, my ma used to 'em for me.”

You glance over. He’s staring at the documentary again, but the way he says it, it’s not for the Icelandic horses on the screen.

“She knew I hated the sticky part,” he goes on. “Didn’t like having all that juice on my fingers. So she’d do it before school. Wrap ‘em up in plastic, tuck ‘em in the corner of my lunchbox next to whatever sandwich she made that day. Tuna on Fridays. Always with too much mayo.”

You smile, just a little. “You were a picky eater?”

“Not picky,” he says defensively. “Just—just particular. I didn’t like when my food touched.”

“Mhm.”

“I was seven!”

You laugh, and he finally looks at you, sheepish and warm.

“She used to write little notes sometimes too,” he adds. “On the napkin. Stuff like ‘remember your science quiz’ or ‘you’re stronger than you think.’” He scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes just a heart. Sometimes that was enough.”

You watch him as he says it, and you think, Of course. Of course you grew up like that. With kindness taught into you like table manners. With love folded into your lunchboxes.

“And now,” you say, voice subtle, “you’re the one peeling oranges for someone else.”

He shrugs again. “Only for you.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” he says. “Everyone else can deal with the sticky fingers. You get the napkin and everything.”

You press a slice into his hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

He pauses, then leans forward and bites it from your fingers, playful but gentle. A little juice escapes down the corner of his mouth. He licks it away without breaking eye contact.

It shouldn’t make your heart ache. But it does.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For the orange?”

“For the orange. And the napkin. And, you know. The general care and keeping of me.”

He smiles at that. Tilts his head toward you until your shoulders brush.“Well,” he says, “you’re pretty high-maintenance. Comes with the territory.”

You scoff, gently ebow him. “I am not.”

He raises his brows. “Okay. Yesterday, you made me reheat the tea because it was two degrees below your ideal sipping temperature.”

“That’s not high-maintenance. That’s just me having standards.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, bumping your knee with his. “And your standards include expertly peeled fruit on Tuesdays, apparently.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “I just mean…” You trail off, unsure how to say it without sounding too serious, too much. You chew your lip, watching the way the light hits his profile. “I hope,” you say softly, almost to yourself, “you never stop doing that.”

He leans his head against the back of the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “What, feeding you citrus?”

You huff out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then he says, simple and sure, like the truth it is:

“I won’t.”

You don’t even really remember texting him. You think you might’ve. Maybe. Who knows.

In the middle of your 2 a.m. sick delirium, burning up and freezing at the same time, with every single cell in your body screaming and staging some sort of mutiny, you vaguely remember opening your phone with bleary eyes and typing something half-coherent.

A string of emojis. A sad face, a skull, a wilted flower. Vomit emoji. You might’ve hit send. You might’ve just passed out mid-thought.

Either way, Clark’s there when you come to.

He’s on the floor beside your bed, cross-legged, slouched a little in that way he always is when he’s trying to make himself smaller than he actually is. He’s doing this thing he does similar to when he's reading out his first drafts—voice low and even, a little scratchy like he hasn’t used it much today, or maybe just because it’s the middle of the night and the Metropolis is quiet for once and so is he.

You blink, once, twice, groggily, and he doesn’t even look up as he says:

“…and then I told Jimmy that if he was going to hide in the cafeteria instead of facing Eve, he should at least clean up after his brooding, because no one wants to sit next to a scone that’s been glared at for thirty minutes."

That's when you make a sound—half a groan, half a breath—and he glances up.

“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Hey. You’re awake.”

God, you swear your head's a pressure cooker. Your throat feels like someone lined it with sandpaper and regret. You’re pretty sure you’re covered in sweat, and not in a sexy, cinematic way, but more in a swampy, bedraggled, my skin might never be clean again kind of way.

And yet here he is, reading from what you now realize is his work notebook.

Not even a novel. Just… Clark, narrating his week.

“God,” you croak. “I think I’m dying.”

Clark shifts immediately, one knee bent, his hand brushing against your arm like he’s checking for tremors. “You’re not dying,” he says gently. “You’re just sick. Classic human stuff. I Googled it to make sure.”

“You Googled my flu?”

“Yeah. Also called my dad.”

Your lips twitch. “Of course you did.”

“He said tea, soup, and don't try to touch your toes.”

You blink at him slowly. “I wasn’t gonna—”

“I didn’t think you would. But he insisted.”

He presses a glass of water into your hand. Holds it there, actually, like you might forget what to do with it. You sip slowly, mostly because he’s watching you with the intensity of someone monitoring the nuclear launch codes. His hand stays curved behind your back the whole time, steady and warm, his thumb sweeping once over your shoulderblade.

“Still tastes like shit,” you mutter, grimacing.

“That’s just your fever lying to you,” he says. “Give it time. I brought supplies.”

Which is how, ten minutes later, you’re propped up like a limp marionette with three pillows, wearing one of his hoodies, while Clark, bless him, is rumbling around in your kitchen making the world’s most dramatic instant ramen.

He hums while he works, something mellow and vaguely twangy—something that sounds like wide-open spaces and Sunday mornings and the kind of radio stations that only exist halfway between here and Kansas.

When he brings the bowl back, he sits on the edge of the bed and feeds you, spoon by spoon, blowing on each bite first like he thinks you might scald your tongue.

You watch him through a fever-glazed blur. “You’re really committing to the bit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What bit?”

“The Florence Nightingale… Florence Kent thing.”

He grins, bashful. “It’s not a bit. I just… I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Your stomach flips. It has nothing to do with the soup.

“And also,” he adds, “I brought a book, thought you might like something to listen to in the background.”

You blink at him.

“I figured I’d read to you once the soup’s done. Unless you’d rather I make more toast. I could do toast. Or try. I mean, it’s technically one of the few things I can’t mess up.”

You take the spoon from his hand. “Baby.”

��Yeah?”

“Sit down before you vibrate out of your flannel.”

He obeys instantly, because Clark is nothing if not obedient when you sound just a tiny bit bossy and ill. You laugh a little. Then cough a lot.

When you stop hacking, there’s a glass of water in your hand again, and he's looking at you like he’s trying to mentally calculate your temperature based soely off your pupil dilation. You wave him off until he settles down again, until his work stories blur into white noise and you feel yourself drifting.

Later, when the room is dark except for the glow of the bedside lamp, and your fever’s burning lower, no longer trying to boil you alive but still leaving your limbs really heavy and wrung-out—you stir, blink groggily, and find him exactly where he’s been all day: back on the floor, this time leaning against the bed frame like he’s trying to become one with the carpet.

There's a book in his hands.

You squint. “Is that… Star Wars?”

He doesn’t look up right away. Just flips a page, calm and unbothered, like this is a completely normal Wednesday night activity. “Yeah. From a Certain Point of View. It’s like… like—little side stories. People on the edges of the main stuff. Background characters getting the spotlight. I thought you might like it.”

You blink slowly. “You’re reading me Star Wars fanfiction.”

Clark glances up, grinning. “Not fanfiction. It’s licensed content.”

“Clark.”

“It’s from Jimmy.”

“Clark.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, it’s kind of sanctioned fanfic. But it’s good. There's one from the point of view of Obi-Wan’s ghost and it made me emotional.”

You try to snort, but it comes out more like a croak. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Says the person who cried over an R2-D2 Lego set last Christmas.”

“That was a very moving gift and you know it.”

Clark reaches over to adjust your blanket, tucking it up under your chin with careful fingers. “I just thought it might be nice. Something familiar. It’s kind of like comfort food, but for your brain.”

You look at him—really look at him—glasses askew, hair flattened on one side from the couch pillow, sweatshirt stretched over his broad chest like it was never meant to fit a man built like a brick wall—and feel that weird, awful feeling twist in your chest again.

The one that always comes when he’s like this. Sweet and earnest and just slightly off-center in a way that makes your whole life feel gentler.

“Thank you,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sincere.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Don’t mention it.”

Then, after a beat:

“I was gonna read the one about the cantina bartender next. He has some very strong feelings about the music.”

“. . . Okay yeah, you're weird.”

“Exactly.”

He closes the book for a moment and reaches for your hand under the blanket. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and firm and callused at the knuckles. He squeezes gently.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “The taking-care-of-people thing. Not like my dad was. He used to bring orange Jell-O and put those cold cloths on my head when I got sick. He'd sit with me and hum old country songs like that could fix it. And sometimes, it kinda did.”

You squeeze his fingers back. He looks at your joined hands like they’re something fragile.

“I don’t really even know all the right things,” he continues. “But I’m gonna stay right here until you feel good again.”

You swallow. Your throat aches. Your heart does, too, but in a different way.

“Clark,” you whisper. “You’re doing perfect.”

He gives you this look—hazy and overwhelmed, like maybe he needed to hear that more than he thought. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, cool and steady and grounding.

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”

He reads until your breathing evens out again, then switches to humming—barely there, just a thread of melody tracing the shape of the room. He doesn’t move from his place beside your bed.

You don’t think he even blinks when you stir, reaching a hand out for his. He’s just there.

So you dream of a cantina bartender with strong feelings about the music. Of a man with dark hair and horrendous posture and the kindest eyes in the galaxy, carrying soup and picture books and the whole weight of your heart like it’s not heavy at all.

It was supposed to be a date.

Like, a real date. One with proper shoes and napkins that aren’t made of recycled drive-thru material. A night where neither of you had to sprint, lie, cover for the other, or show up late with leaves in your hair because someone, cough, got caught helping rescue a tour boat from sinking off the coast of Maine.

Just dinner. Just one Thursday evening. A normal, honest-to-god, pre-planned, mildly fancy dinner.

You’d even made a reservation at that Italian place ou guys have been meaning to try.

Clark had combed his curls with what looked like actual intent and buttoned his shirt all the way to the top, then unbuttoned one (just one) like he’d read about the concept of casual in a book. You caught him practicing his posture in the hallway mirror before you left.

“Do I look like I own a belt?” he’d asked.

“You do own a belt.”

“Right, but do I look like I believe in it?”

You had rolled your eyes. He’d kissed your forehead. You’d both agreed, silently and aloud and silently again: This time, it’s gonna stick.

Just dinner.

Just you and him.

Just—

The sky, it turns out, had other ideas.

You’re only two blocks from the restaurant, your heels clicking rhythmically against the sidewalk. He’s saying something about dessert—about how he’s never actually had crème brûlée and how suspicious he is of any food that requires a blowtorch—and you’re about to tell him that he’s a coward and has terrible, horrible opinions when he—

Flinches.

Just slightly. A twitch, more than anything. Like someone tugged on the collar of his shirt from behind.

You stop. Narrow your eyes.

“Kent.”

He stills, then winces, and it’s over. The wind picks up just enough to ruffle his jacket and toss a strand of your hair across your lip.

“Baby,” you say, dragging out the vowels like you’re preparing to scold a dog who’s eyeing the Thanksgiving turkey.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know. I know. I just—there’s something happening in Hob’s Bay. I think it’s Parasite again.”

“Parasite?” you repeat, like that somehow makes it better. “The guy who eats energy and punches holes through cement walls like graham crackers?”

Clark winces again, guilt washing across his face like rain.

“I can take you home first,” he says quickly. “I’ll be fast. Twenty minutes. Tops.”

“You said that last time,” you remind him.

“Yes, but this time I mean it with—” he pauses, trying to sell it, “—I mean it. I've got improved time management skills. I’ve been working on it, I swear. I downloaded a calendar app.”

“Oh my god, Clark.”

“I even color-coded it!”

You cross your arms. “Clark.”

“I swear on my mom’s ceramic cow collection.”

“…The one on the microwave?”

“She dusts them twice a week.”

You sigh, but you’re already unhooking your arm from his. He’s practically vibrating now, trying to stand still. There’s a flash of green in the far-off clouds.

“I liked this dress,” you say.

“I love that dress,” he says, almost reverent. “I’m gonna come back and ruin it for you in much better ways.”

A beat. He realizes how that sounded. “I mean, like—because of pasta sauce. And maybe dancing? gosh, I’m terrible at this—”

You laugh despite yourself. Even as the first drops of rain start to hit your shoulders. “Go, Kansas.”

He kisses your cheek. Then the other. His hands linger against your face a half-second too long, his thumbs warm even through the chill.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, quiet now. “Promise.”

Then he’s gone.

“I know,” you reply to no one in particular, because you do.

You spend the next hour curled on the couch in the dress you never got to wear properly, the hem slightly damp from the rain and your eyeliner gently betraying you. The news cycles through static, then footage of Clark shielding a crowd with a dented bus stop sign like it’s a riot shield, eyes glowing faintly, shoulders squared. Calm. Measured. Still gentle, even in a fight. You eat a sleeve of saltines out of spite.

He texts you twice:

CLARKY <3: STILL FIGHTING THE SLIME GUY. HE’S YELLING ABOUT “THE SYSTEM” SO I THINK THIS IS POLITICALLY MOTIVATED. CLARKY <3: ALMOST DONE. PLEASE DON’T FALL ASLEEP. I OWE YOU SO MUCH CREME BRUILALAE 🍨

You don’t reply. He needs to focus. But you do leave the kitchen light on.

It's past ten when he gets back. He lands with a whisper on your fire escape—so quiet it takes you a second to realize he’s there. You’re already in pajamas at this point.

He taps gently on the window.

When you slide it open, he’s dripping. Suit ripped at the collar. A graze on his temple that’s already healing. Mud on his boots. Eyes wide and sheepish and a little desperate.

“You’re late,” you say.

“The Italian place was closed,” he says, holding up a crumpled brown paper bag like an offering. "But I brought dumplings?"

Your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. Fucking saltines. He smiles, relieved.

“They’re from that place you like,” he adds quickly. “The one with the crab rangoon that makes you make weird noises.”

You cross your arms. “You think you can just bribe me with steamed buns and flattery?”

“Yes?” he tries.

“…You’re not wrong.”

You step back to let him in. He shrugs off the cape, moving slower than usual. His shoulders dip lower. His steps drag a little. The exhaustion sits in him like weight.

“Sit down,” you say.

“I can—”

“Clark. Couch. Now.”

He obeys without question, settling into the cushions like a man unraveling. You grab a towel and a hoodie from your room—one of his—and toss both at him. Then you disappear into the kitchen.

After a beat, he calls after you: “I missed you, by the way.”

You don’t answer right away. Just finish plating the takeout, dividing the dumplings and the sticky rice and the rangoon with practiced ease. Your apartment smells like warm ginger and garlic. Familiar. Safe.

When you bring the food over, you find him curled sideways on the couch, legs too long, towel around his shoulders like a cape. He grins when he sees the plates.

“You forgive me?” he asks, hopeful.

You hand him a rangoon. “Chew before you talk.”

He does. Then says, with a mouthful of crab: “I really did want it to be a normal night.”

You look at him. At the tired, good man who flew across the city to keep someone else’s world from breaking. At the one who brought you dumplings and rainwater and apologies on the roof of his tongue.

“I know,” you say.

He finishes chewing, then leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice curling around the edges. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

You snort. “You say that now that I’m in fleece pants with soup stains.”

“I stand by it,” he murmurs. “Always.”

You let him curl around you then, dinner plates on the coffee table, reruns of I Love Lucy playing low in the background. He eats with one arm around your waist. You steal his dumplings when he’s not looking.

Later, when you’re both too full and too warm and too tired to move, he says it again.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You already are.”

He hums, pleased but tired, and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “Still wish I hadn’t missed dinner. Not the food. Just—being there. With you.”

There’s a smear of sauce near his mouth when you glance over him. He’s so unbelievably warm around the edges like this—like the fight’s finally bled out of him and he’s just Clark again. Your Clark.

“You always say that,” you murmur.

“Because I always mean it.”

You reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He goes quiet. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The kind that hums with the weight of something unspoken, blooming slow between you. Then, without moving your hand, you ask, “You gonna let me kiss you now, or are you still trying to be polite?”

That gets a smile. A real one. A little crooked, a little shy.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says. “You always could.”

So you lean in.

The kiss starts off like a warning.

Your mouth brushes his—brief, firm, no room for questions, not really—and then again, slower this time. He makes a noise, deep in his chest, something caught between relief and surrender.

When your fingers slide into his hair, he tilts into it instinctively. His hands stay right where they are, just one at your waist, one braced uselessly on the couch cushion like he’s reminding himself not to move unless you ask him to.

He huffs something like a laugh when you pull back for a breath. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

You smile. “Flatterer.”

His hand on your waist shifts slightly, pulling you in closer. Not rough. Not needy. Just—anchoring. Your knees bracket his hips and you kiss him again, open-mouthed this time, licking into his mouth like you’re starved and this is your first taste of real food.

And Clark lets you.

He lets you kiss him with all the frustration of the ruined date and the tension of waiting and the affection that’s been building in your chest for weeks, maybe months. He meets you where you are—mouth pliant, eyes closed, his breathing slowly unraveling under your hands.

“You always come back like this,” you whisper, teeth grazing his jaw. “All apologies and those puppy dog blue eyes and your make-up take-out. Like I wouldn’t crawl across glass to have you.”

He exhales, sharp and shaky, like your words hit a nerve. His hands tense slightly at your thighs, just for a second, then relax again. He doesn’t try to flip you, doesn’t shift to take control. Just looks at you.

“I mean it,” you murmur, kissing just under his ear. “You come in, wrecked and kind and too damn good, and I’m supposed to what? Sit next to you like my skin isn’t trying to crawl off my bones just to get to yours?”

Clark swallows. “You—” His voice is rough, halting. “You can have me.”

He says it so quietly you almost miss it.

“You already do,” he adds. “You don’t have to prove anything. You—”

Your mouth is on his before he can finish. You kiss him like you’re trying to breathe him in, to memorize the way his ribs rise under your hands. His lips part on a gasp, and you take it as invitation. He lets you tilt his head back even further, lets you set the rhythm—his hands gripping the couch cushions like they’re the only things that can possibly ground him.

You pull back, just enough to see his face. His hair’s still damp, starting to curl at the edges, his cheeks flushed. His glasses are askew, so you reach up, slow, deliberate, and slide them off. Set them gently on the side table. His eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

"Stand up," you say, and he does, wordless, chest rising fast under the hoodie. He's got the towel instead of the cape draped around his shoulders, like he's still half in hero mode. You take that off.

Your fingers go to the hem of the hoodie next, lifting it slow. He raises his arms obediently, eyes half-lidded, focused. He’s still in the bottom half of the suit, and your breath catches—because even now, even like this, he wears it like a second skin.

But you want the man. Not the symbol.

“Off,” you say, fingers brushing the slick, faintly scorched fabric of the suit’s torso. “I want you, not him.”

He nods. It’s so damn slight, like he’s not so sure his voice will work. His hands go to the hidden seams and he peels the suit down, exposing inch after inch of bare skin beneath—toned and marked from the night, faint purple bruises already turning gold where his healing has started. You trail your fingers and follow him down, down, down his sternum, then lower, across his ribs.

The suit hits the floor in a gentle whisper. Boots, too. The cape’s already been discarded—somewhere between the fire escape and your front door—and now he’s just standing there in front of you, bare and breathless and completely yours.

“Come closer,” you say. "It's my turn."

He goes to help you, but you stop him. Eyebrows raised. "Eyes up here. I'll do it myself."

Clark watches you the whole time, not rushing, not leading. His expression open, undone. His bottom lip's caught between his teeth, eyes trained on every single one of your painstaking actions. Peeling your shirt off, your ratty fleece pants, your bra, all of it. He's enjoying this way more than he should, those eyes of his glinting in the light, but that's the intoxicating part of it.

When you're done, he finally speaks up, voice reduced to a hush. Wills himself to look away from your body and just look into your eyes. "How do you want me?"

You hum, turning on your feet, pretending to think it over. Really, it's just an excuse to have him look at your bare body. Tempt him a little bit. It drives him insane. Still, he doesn't break eye contact.

"I think," you purse your lips. "I want you underneath me tonight."

He nods. Serious. "Of course."

You lead him back to the bedroom slowly. Not because he needs help walking, but because there’s something in you that just wants to savor the walk. He lets you guide him backward, his legs bumping against the edge of the bed.

He sits.

Then waits.

Clark just looks so… perfect like this.

Hard, aching, weeping, cheeks pink and pupils dilated. Hands, those goddamn hands, politely by his sides. Does nothing but lay down on the mattress, just waiting for whatever you feel like doing to him. The knowing—the seeing, does more to you than you'd like to admit.

You crawl, slowly, over his body. Fingers skirting over the freckles of his body, the light dusting of hair across his torso, the goosebumps that rise there. Anything but pay attention to his cock that's begging for you, until you're close to straddling his face, hovering there.

A pause. Those baby blue eyes, the cause of so many of your little deaths. His lips, pink and wet as his tongue swipes over them. A hint of a smile. You brush a curl away from his forehead, fingers slow and thoughtful.

"Okay."

Once you give him the go-ahead, he's all instinct, steady hands pulling your thighs more snug over his shoulders with all of the skill and quiet confidence of a man who's been breaking you down and laying you out for a long time.

It's so easy—so easy to lose yourself in it. So easy when you're on top of the world.

Clark knows. You've genuinely never met a guy who enjoys eating someone out more than him. He knows all the ways to make your legs shake and your head vibrate out of its skull, all the little skills and patterns and consistencies to get you to cum within minutes, but from the way he takes his time, mouth roaming everywhere—your thighs, your legs, the back of your knees—

He means to torture you. Make you eat your words. But you're gonna have the last say tonight.

You squeeze your legs around his face, bringing his attention to you, all blue-eyed innocence glancing up to you. Little shit. "Hey," you will your voice into something vaguely commanding. "How many times do you think you can make me cum tonight?"

All you get is a lopsided smile. "As many times 's you want."

"Ball park?"

He strums his fingers along your thigh. Pretends to think about it. Looking up at the corner of his eyes like he's doing mental math. "How about we start with five or six and go from there?"

"Perfect. Delightful, Kent. Alright, procee—"

His arms tighten around your thighs, and that's all the warning you get before he dives right in, parting your lips with his tongue and tasting all that you've got to offer, and god, if that doesn't make the slick accumulate even more in between your thighs, gushing, eyes falling closed.

A trooper always, Clark's mouth is warm, forming into a smile. "Baby, you taste so good. Needed this."

There's desperation in it, the way he sucks on your clit, two fingers finding themselves rocking against your cunt so that you feel nothing but full, boundless pleasure. You're so wet that his digits are sliding effortlessly, even more so as he licks you through it.

All you can do is whimper and whine, hands coming to rest up against the headboard. "Clark, Clark, so good. Don't stop. Please."

The mattress shakes around you as he grinds up into the air, barely concealed want and need and everything he hasn't said before, teeth gently scraping at your cunt. You can hear it too, the way his mouth works against you, his moans rising above it all. And god, the tension—the fucking strength of this man—the fact that he's letting you ride his face like there's no tomorrow.

Then his tongue sweeps hot across your clit, his two fingers curling inside you at the exact moment you squeeze. And fuck, you pulse hard and come until you've got nothing left to give, just a mantra of his name—"Clark, Clark, baby—"

He licks and sucks you through the aftershocks, shuddering through it all, and then it's back down to earth.

You fall down on the bed next to him, legs unable to hold you up. The only way to describe how you feel now is just—pure, fucking, boneless glee. And then you look over, and god, if that's not the best view in the world—Clark. The bottom of his face glistening, smiling in that stupid, boyish way of his, curls in his eyes and a twinkle there like he just won the lottery.

"What are you smiling about?"

Clark shakes his head, shrugging and looking up at the ceiling like it has the answers. "Oh, nothin'. Just happy."

This hunger, this love for him—you don't think it'll ever go away. You don't think you could ever get sick of it, you don't think you can ever get your fill of him. You're going to want him this badly for the rest of your life.

But before you could spiral down that terrifying staircase of thoughts, you're brought out your stupor with one large hand trailing up your thigh. Clark's shifted so that you're beneath him, world turned upside down. He's going back down for more.

"We've got at least four more to go, sweet girl. Made you a promise, remember?"

It’s honestly the quiet that gets you, at first.

That slow, rolling kind that doesn’t sit heavy so much as drape itself across everything like an old quilt. The kind of quiet that has its own rhythm. Space between sounds.

Not silence, never that, but it's more akin to a hush. A pause you didn’t know your life had been missing.

There are birds, sure. A lot of them, actually. There’s the wind, too, rattling through those wheat-colored fields, whistling past the house's warped slats like it’s trying to remember a song it used to know. But underneath it all is stillness.

A kind of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, now slowly, slowly letting out.

Smallville wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You’d pictured something more… stylized. Romanticized.

A little more soap opera meets Hallmark original—maybe some mysterious family feuds and charming small-town antics. Some lingering drama about a pie contest. You fully expected someone with an old-timey name to pour you coffee at the local diner you guys stopped at and mention she “hasn’t seen Clark Kent around these parts in a while.”

Instead, you got: rooster at 5:30. Floorboard in the kitchen that creaks like it’s about to file a complaint against you just for exisiting. A guest room that smells faintly like wood polish and wheat. You got Clark, elbow-deep in chicken feed at seven a.m., wearing a white t-shirt that’s hanging on by a thread but you're not complaining.

You’re house-sitting for the Kents while Jonathan and Martha are on a cruise—a cruise, of all things. Clark’s voice had been thick with disbelief when he told you.

“Can you believe my dad packed four Hawaiian shirts?” Then later, when they called from the boat to say they’d already made friends with a retired couple from Branson and signed up for salsa dancing classes, Clark had stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“They deserve it,” he says eventually, a little quiet. “They’ve never done anything like this. I hope they stay gone the full two weeks.”

You’d kissed his shoulder and said, “Selfishly, me too.”

Because being here, just the two of you, it’s not glamorous. But it feels like something. Something good.

One morning, early on, you found yourself squinting into the haze of a Kansas dawn, clutching a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt hope, and whispering, half to yourself, “Do… do the cows have names?”

Clark, already in his work boots and wrist-deep in a feed bag, turns like you’d just offered to marry him.

“Of course they do!" he says, smug. “That’s Millie.” He points at a big black-and-white cow with the expression of someone who’d once gone on Twitter and got traumatized. “She’s real skittish when it rains but loves, absolutely loves cantaloupe rinds. That one’s Donnie—he’s dramatic. Moooos like he’s dying if you’re even five minutes late.”

You blink at him. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” he says, patting Millie with the same affection he uses on your lower back when you cook dinner barefoot. It makes you snort. “Also, we don’t call it breakfast here. It’s ‘morning feed.’”

You stare. “This is so not the rural romance novel I signed up for.”

He grins, boyish and crooked. “Let me guess. Thought it’d be Days of Our Lives but make it cornfed?”

“Exactly. Where’s the murder mystery? The barn dance? The family rival who wears all linen and says ominous things like, ‘You’ll never take the south pasture from me, you bastard.’”

"You forget. It's the Midwest. We're not in the South," He scratches behind Donnie’s ear. “But there is a someone with drama kinda like that here. Name's Barb, I think,” he says. “She runs the Dairy Queen and once hit a deer with her truck and cried about it for a week.”

You pause. “…Okay. That’s actually kind of sad. But wholesome."

“See?”

The days fall into a rhythm, eventually.

You weed the garden (poorly). He fixes the gate (obscenely well). You help collect eggs and try not to let on that the chickens genuinely unsettle you. Clark, that menace, just laughs every single time one flaps in your general direction and you flinch like it’s going to demand your wallet and keys and job.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself washing strawberries at the sink while Clark scrubs paint off the porch railing—some old project Jonathan started and never finished.

You glance up and he’s standing there in the sun, t-shirt stained, face flushed, humming some old country song under his breath, and your chest physically hurts from how much you love him.

“You wanna do something dumb?” you ask, voice louder than it needs to be, just to get his attention.

Clark looks up, squints against the light. “Always.”

It’s not fancy.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both in the back pasture, far enough from the house that it’s just you and the cows and the sound of summer in every direction.

There’s a plastic grocery bag between you full of things neither of you should technically call lunch. Two kinds of chips (barbecue for you, cheddar for him). A Diet Dr. Pepper, sweating in the heat. One sad gas station brownie. And a couple of oranges, wrapped carefully in plastic wrap.

You lift an eyebrow as you start to unpack. “You know we have actual food, right?”

He shrugs, pulling the chips open. “The grocery store’s like forty minutes away,” he says, like that explains everything. “Didn’t wanna leave you.”

Your mouth opens, ready to toss something casual back—something about sandwiches, or homemade pasta salad, or literally anything with protein—but then you see how gently he’d wrapped the oranges. How he packed napkins, remembered your favorite chips, brought two plastic forks for the brownie like it was a birthday cake.

So instead, you say, “...I like barbecue,” and your voice is quieter than you mean it to be.

He glances over, chin on his shoulder, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I know.”

You eat like kids. Cross-legged on the blanket, crumbs everywhere, licking orange juice off your thumbs. You wipe your hands on your pants. He stretches out on his side, elbow propped, watching the clouds like they’re moving too slow. His knee brushes yours and doesn’t move away.

You think you feel a mosquito bite. You don’t really care anymore.

“I forgot what this feels like,” you say at one point, picking salt from the corners of your lips. “Just… doing nothing. On purpose.”

He hums. “It’s good for you. Stillness.”

“You sound like your mom.”

“She’s smarter than I am.”

“You said that last night when I told you to take a nap.”

“See? Pattern holds.”

You lean back on your elbows and look at him, really look. The way the light gets caught in his lashes. He’s watching you, too, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Like the world could ask for him and he’d still choose to stay here, sweaty and dumb and mosquito-bitten and happy beside you.

He peels another orange with a practiced hand, splitting it down the middle and handing you the sweeter half.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Sometimes I miss this, y'know?” he says, around a bite of an orange.

You glance over.

“Not the chicken poop or the mosquito bites,” he adds, “but the...quiet. The not-having-to-be-everything-all-the-time. Out here, you’re just...you. You fix the fence. You make a mess. You listen to cicadas and complain about the humidity and your ma yells at you for tracking dirt inside.”

You tilt your head. “You ever think about staying? Settling down here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just plucks a blade of grass and spins it between his fingers.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But then I think—this is what shaped me. But it’s not all I am. The world’s loud, and it’s messy, and it needs things. But this…” He looks at you. “This is what I miss when I’m out there.”

You nod. Reduced to speechlessness, because it's so tender and perfect and so him that it hurts.

Clark finishes the orange. Wipes his fingers on a napkin, then on his jeans when that doesn’t do the trick. You lie back on the blanket with a quiet sigh, letting the sun press into your skin, the breeze lift the sweat at your temples.

It could’ve ended there. Could’ve been just a quiet kind of golden. But then you nudge his ankle with yours.

“Bet I could outrun you,” you say lazily, like you’re not poking a bear.

Clark huffs. Turns his head toward you, amused. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” you say, stretching. “You’ve been slacking. Porch paint and chicken duty’s got you soft.”

He squints at you. “You really wanna start this?”

“You said yourself, Kansas. Nothing to do out here but complain about the heat and cause a little trouble.”

He smiles slowly. The kind of smile that curls at the corners. Dangerous in the way only someone so gentle and kind can be.

“Alright then,” he says, sitting up. “You get a ten-second head start.”

Your eyes go wide. “Wait, really—”

“Nine,” he says, already grinning, already counting.

You scramble to your feet. “Oh my god, you are not serious—”

“Eight.”

You bolt.

The grass is taller in some spots and it catches at your ankles, slows you down. The air is thick with sun and the hum of everything living. You turn left, laughing, hair sticking to the back of your neck, and glance behind you just in time to see him loping after you, easy and unhurried, like he’s letting you win.

Which is worse. Infuriating. Fucking ass.

“KENT!” you shout over your shoulder. “I swear if you let me win I’m gonna trip myself just to spite you—”

“Then you better run faster!” he calls back, but he’s laughing too, bright and open and young in a way he doesn’t always let himself be in the city.

You make it halfway to the barn before he catches you, just a hand on your waist, barely a tug. You spin with the momentum and half-collapse against him, breathless, wheezing from the run and the heat and the sheer absurdity of it all.

“You cheated,” you gasp.

“I didn’t even use my powers.”

“That’s worse.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, both of you flushed and sweating and smiling like idiots.

“You’re fast,” he murmurs, voice low. “But I know how you move.”

You roll your eyes, still catching your breath. “Don’t say stuff like that unless you wanna get kissed.”

“Maybe I do,” he says, quiet now.

Oh, if that doesn't make you wanna ruin him. When you lean in, he tastes like oranges and sweat and something warm you can’t name.

“You’re always holding back,” you murmur against his mouth. “Let me have you.”

Clark’s breathing stutters.

“You have me,” he says, like it’s a promise. Like it’s been true since the first day you met.

Your teeth graze his lip, just enough to make him gasp. “Then act like it.”

Now that—that—does something to him.

His hands slip quickly under your sundress, palms mapping the curve of your back, hungry and greedy all at once. Your head tips back when his mouth finds your neck again, hot and open and just a little bit wild. His teeth scrape the spot just beneath your ear and your fingers clench in his curls, hard.

The bark digs into your shoulder blades. You can faintly feel the ground disappearing from under you. Grass sticks to the backs of your calves. The sky overhead is lazy and blue, clouds like pulled cotton, and none of it, absolutely none of it, matters.

Not the cows, not the heat, not the fact that you're pressed up against a pecan tree in the middle of a Kansas pasture—just this. Just him.

It doesn't take long for it to escalate.

You're not normally a fan of this—quickies, anyway, you'd rather take your time, break him down methodically, piece by piece, but you think you'd actually combust if you don't have him right there, right at that second. And damn it, you will.

You will.

Your hands scramble to wrench his shirt off, a mad dash to get as close to his skin as possible. He helps you, your pretty boy, your sweetheart, your sunshine—chuckling when the fabric inevitably gets caught between his head and shoulders.

"Clark—" you glare at him, not really annoyed with him but his stupid, stupid shirt. "Get it—please, get it off—"

"So impatient," He grins. He helps you anyway, giving you that final push to get the shirt off his head. And then ou're like a moth drawn to a flame, nipping at his skin, sucking little love bites that you know he adores into his chest. "Baby, sweetheart—"

"Sweetheart, baby—" You kiss his collarbone, hands going to undo his belt, the metal clinking from your actions. "Need you now."

Clark nods vigorously at that. "Yeah, yeah—okay."

He readjusts, free now from his belt, jeans dropping low, and he's scooping your thighs up so you're flush against the tree for leverage. The bark of the tree's rough and it'll leave some truly horrendous marks later, but he's pushing your dress up around your waist, cock situated and ready at your entrance.

A breath. A look between you. And then he sinks you down, no prep, no foreplay, just him and the burn of taking all of him bare.

You make an embarrassing noise when he bottoms out, yelping and wrapping your arms around his neck. Clark slows down, pressing kisses on your forehead and muttering small little praises. "You're doing so good. You feel amazing, baby, you just let me know when, I'll wait—"

Fuck, that turns you on more than it should've. You clench around him, mouth parting in a quiet moan. "Now, I'm ready now. Move, Kent."

His hand hitches your leg up higher for a better angle, and—yeah, if that's not the hottest thing in the world. The tenderness mixed with the way you know he's about to utterly destroy you. He rolls his hips, once, twice, until he sets a punishing rhythm.

He moves, hard and deep inside of you, always a stretch widthwise. Always feels like a rearrangement. Every single vein, every twitch, every agonizing inch as he gets to work fucking you like your life depends on it.

And the tree shakes—it fucking shakes, leaves falling all around you—when his pace gets punishing and relentless. All you can do is take it, legs shivering and hands scrambling to hold on to something, anything.

The strap of your dress has fallen down your shoulder at this point, and Clark takes the opportunity to wrap his hot mouth around your exposed nipple, eyes falling closed. "Tastes like heaven."

"Clark—" You shudder, his ruts turning more and more shallow. "Need more, I need—need help, please—"

He nods against your skin, letting go of your nipple with one wet pop. A hand skirts down between you, wordless, and rubs hard circles against your clit, never twisting, just a constant, almost vibrating pressure that wrenches more desperate gasps out of you.

You love him.

It hits you the hardest at that moment, when he grins and you can feel those tell-tale signs of your orgasm shuddering closer, so impossibly close that it makes your knees weak. Like your body can’t hold the thought anymore.

Months of this, this agonizing need to tell him, to show him. And suddenly it’s all you can feel—this pressure behind your teeth, this wild, unspooling thing clawing to get out. You didn’t plan on it. You don't meant to. But it’s already there, clawing its way up your throat with a kind of ferocity that feels unstoppable.

You pull back a breath. Just enough to get the words free. Try to get lucid fast.

“I—”

But then his hand’s on your cheek.

Soft. Certain.

“Wait,” he says, and it’s gentle, but firm enough to stop you.

You freeze, stunned. Like someone hit pause on your entire brain.

“W–W–What?” you whisper, barely breathing. His pace doesn't break. Still pounding into you like he doesn't see right through you. His eyes flicker between yours—quiet, careful, like he sees exactly where you were going. Like he caught the words mid-flight.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not like this, baby. Not while I'm—not against a tree.”

“I don't—I don't mind,” you whine.

He laughs under his breath. "No.”

You must've pouted, must've frowned, or… or something, because Clark's expression goes soft. He tugs you closer, hips going deeper this time until your head falls back, like an apology.

You're so close, so goddamn close, and fuck, if he's not determined to make it up to you. Focus redirected to the sole goal of making you finish harder than you ever have before. Another broken moan slips out of you.

And you're still overtaken by this need to say something, something to encapsulate this feeling inside of you. So instead, you say the next best thing, “You’re mine,” you say, fierce and true and sure.

Clark nods. “Yours,” he echoes, like it’s gospel.

You come around him like that, muscles wound up tight, him working himself into you faster—faster, until he pulses inside you. It's all warmth, his shoulders shaking like a leaf, you holding onto him like the old tire swing on a tree. Chests heaving. Sweat pooling underneath your knees. But he doesn't let go.

He pulls back just a tad, just enough to rest his head against the crook of your neck. His curls tickle your skin, just slightly. "Hold me tighter?"

You're still quivering, traitorous legs twitching, but you do. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze until he sighs, relaxed and spent and all the things that you let go unsaid.

The cows, thankfully, have the decency not to interrupt.

He’s on the fire escape again.

You don’t see him at first—just the corner of his shirt sleeve through the window screen, fluttering gently in the breeze like a flag someone planted in a place they want to stay.

You step closer.

And there he is.

Sitting on the metal grate, knees drawn up, socked feet tucked against the warm steel, one arm draped loosely over the railing like he forgot the rest of the world exists. His head's tilted back against the sun, eyes closed, face subdued in that way it only gets when no one’s watching.

Or maybe just when you are.

His shirt—some washed-out old thing from Central Kansas A&M—is rumpled and crooked on his frame like he pulled it out of the laundry basket and shrugged it on without thinking. One sleeve's shoved all the way to his elbow, exposing the freckles on his forearm.

You’re barefoot, cradling a sweating glass of lemonade in your palm, still in sleep shorts and one of his too-big sweaters again. You hadn’t meant to come looking for him. You just woke up and felt the space beside you was empty, not in a sad way, just… hollow. Cool.

You followed the pull of it until it led you here.

He doesn’t move when you open the window. Doesn’t speak. But his eyes blink open, lashes catching the light. He looks at you, and that alone does something to your insides.

It’s the kind of look that hits low and blooms slow.

Not a spark, but a sunrise.

His smile when he sees you is small. A little crooked, like maybe he’s not so sure it’s okay to be this happy about something so simple.

Like you just standing there, sleepy and squinting and probably still with pillow creases and hints of drool on your cheek, is his favorite part of this whole Saturday.

He lifts a hand and stretches it toward you.

Palm up.

Fingertips flexing.

“C’mere,” he says, voice warm from disuse. “It’s nice.”

You don’t hesitate.

You climb carefully, your lemonade forgotten on the windowsill, and ease down between his legs. The fire escape creaks beneath you but holds. Of course it does. He shifts to make room for you like he already knew exactly how this would fit—your back against his chest, his knees bracketing yours, arms folding around you like second nature.

And you just sit like that, folded into him.

His chin hooks over your shoulder. His breath brushes your neck. One of his hands rests against your stomach, just above the hem of your sweater, warm through the fabric. The other finds your thigh, fingers drumming lazily against the denim there.

And you breathe. In and out. Slowly. Like maybe you forgot how before this.

“You been out here long?” you murmur.

He shrugs behind you. “I dunno. Long enough, maybe.”

You lean back into him, let your head fall onto his shoulder. “Get what you needed?”

There’s a long pause. Not like he’s unsure, just like he’s letting the quiet fill in some blanks first.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I did.”

You let the silence stretch after that. It’s not awkward. It’s just… Clark.

Which is to say: it’s safe.

The sunlight spills golden across the alley, catching in the curls at his temple. Today, he smells like clean cotton and cedar and whatever fancy soap he borrowed from your shower. His skin's warm.

You rest your hand over his where it sits on your stomach. His thumb traces a lazy circle just under your ribs, like he’s mapping out the shape of you in his mind.

“I used to sit like this back home,” he says after a while, voice soft. “Not on a fire escape, obviously. We had a roof. And a swing. My dad always left it out a little too long, so in the summer it was warm to the touch by the time I got to it.”

You hum, eyes slipping closed.

“He used to say it was good for me. Sunlight. Said I always looked like a weed after a storm when I stayed inside too long. Pale and strung out and grumpy.”

“Grumpy?” you smile, turning your face a little to glance at him. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins. “Pouty little farm boy, hair sticking up, refusing to eat my vegetables unless they were corn.”

“Let me guess,” you say. “Martha snuck green beans into casseroles when you weren’t looking.”

He makes a pleased noise. “Bingo. Said it was her secret weapon for keeping me out of trouble.”

“That and the swing?”

“That and the swing.”

You settle again, your cheek to his shoulder, the metal warm beneath your thighs. You wonder if this is what he felt like, back then—sitting outside in the golden quiet, the weight of the sky pressing gentle on his shoulders, like a blanket he didn’t know he needed.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he says suddenly, like it just occurred to him.

And it is.

But it would’ve been, anyway.

You twist slightly, enough to catch the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose. He’s not glowing. Not exactly. But something in him is bright.

And you—you love him so goddamn fiercely in that moment it feels like your ribs might crack from the inside. Like your heart is blooming against them, stubborn and wild and wholly his.

You lace your fingers with his where they’re still resting against your chest. His grip tightens. Not possessive. Just… sure.

He’s quiet a long time.

Then, like he’s been trying to time it right: “I love you.”

Just that.

Just the words, tucked into your collarbone. No fanfare. No build. Just truth. It roots into you like sunlight in soil. You don’t speak for a long moment, trying to get your lungs to work again. Your body. Everything else. Because it’s a simple sentence, but it feels like something tectonic and holy.

Eventually, you turn, slow and sure.

“I love you too.”

His head drops forward until his forehead presses to yours. You feel him exhale, shaky but smiling.

“I kept trying to find the right time,” he says. “I didn’t want it to feel like… I don’t know. A checkpoint. Like I had to say it because it was next on the list.”

You smile, thumb still brushing his skin. “So you went with the middle of the fire escape, during golden hour, while I’m in your hoodie and haven’t showered since last night?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Felt right.”

You sit like that for a while, sun on your skin, his breath on your neck. The world feels quieter with him this close. Still.

Eventually, when the light starts to dip low, painting the fire escape in rust and gold, you shift to get up.

He doesn’t let go. Not immediately. His hands stay at your waist, his fingers patient where they rest at your sides. Anchoring you.

“You look good in this light,” you murmur. “Like—too good. It’s kind of rude, honestly.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Like you belong in it.”

He looks at you for a long moment, something intimate and private in his eyes.

Then, “You’re not wrong.”

You tilt your head. “What, that you photosynthesize?”

But he just shakes his head, slow.

“No. Just… I think it’s you,” he says, almost like he’s surprising himself. “You make everything brighter.”

And it’s stupid, and it’s a little embarrassing, and you kiss him anyway. Because he’s warm and real and saying the kind of thing that would make anyone else roll their eyes—but with him, it just lands.

Tastes like the last light of the day and something sweet and earthy beneath it. Like coming home.

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lemoniceteee · 8 hours ago

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I love you so much this was perfect to wake up to :’)

mdni! more sentryagent x reader

bob reynolds loves eating pussy.

it’s not just something he enjoys; it borders on obsession. he genuinely can’t get enough of it. whether he’s fucking you with his tongue, nose nudging your clit with every thrust, or making out with your clit like it’s his only source of oxygen while his fingers work deep inside you, it doesn’t matter.

if he could, he’d have his face buried between your thighs every second of every day, just to hear you moan, to feel you tremble under his mouth.

yes, it’s about your pleasure. in bob’s mind, that is his purpose. making you come, fall apart, squirm. that’s what he lives for. but it’s more than service. it's deeply, shamelessly carnal. eating you out gets him off like nothing else ever has. too often, he's come untouched — just from the taste of you, the sound of your breathing, and the way your thighs twitch around his ears.

he gets lost in it. wrecked by it. you could ride his face until your legs give out, and he’d beg you to keep going.

john walker, on the other hand, loves eating ass.

he’d never say it aloud, not to anyone but you and bob, but he fucking lives for it. there’s something about the intimacy of it, the filth of it, the raw vulnerability it draws out of you that short-circuits something in his brain.

he’ll spend hours down there, tongue lazily circling your rim, teasing and tormenting, before he finally starts fucking you with it — deep, slow, possessive. it’s not clinical or neat. it’s messy, devoted. worshipful.

he doesn’t know where the fixation came from. doesn’t really care. all he knows is when he’s there, face buried and hands spreading you wide, everything else disappears.

and, though he’s ashamed to admit it, it gets him off too. just like bob. no stroking, no grinding, no friction needed. just the act itself — the taste, the sounds, the way you melt under his mouth — it’s enough to make him come, untouched and breathless.

which is how you find yourself in quite possibly the most awkward position of your life.

you're on all fours, back arched and thighs trembling, with your ass in john’s face and bob spread out beneath you, lying on his back, propped up on his forearms as he latches onto your clit with messy, desperate hunger.

it’s not elegant. not even close.

john’s chin keeps bumping into bob’s head. bob’s arms cramp every few minutes from holding himself up. and you, caught in the middle, are trying to focus on any kind of rhythm while they knock elbows and shift awkwardly around each other just to keep you in place.

they keep muttering curses under their breath, swearing about angles and space, but neither stops. if anything, the chaos only spurs them on. they're both so determined to make it work, to make you fall apart, even if it means bruises and strained necks by the end of it.

and the best part? you never even asked for this. they came to you with it, all wide-eyed and needy, practically begging to try this ridiculous sandwich of bodies. you just blinked at them, confused, and somehow said yes.

now here you are, being devoured from both ends, with john’s tongue dragging over your hole while bob’s mouth works your clit like he’s trying to drink from you. both of them are fumbling, muttering, and colliding, all in service of your pleasure.

it’s clumsy. it’s hot. it’s kind of ridiculous. but it’s them, and somehow, it works.

you moan, barely holding yourself still, every muscle trembling with the effort. you’re trying not to move too much, knowing the slightest shift might send all three of you crashing into each other again. it's a delicate balance, one you're barely clinging to.

but it's hard. so fucking hard.

you can feel everything. every flick, every drag, every molten press of their tongues. like your skin has become hypersensitive, every nerve ending tuned to them. the way bob laps and suckles below you while john buries his face behind you — it's too much. every kiss, every lick feels molecular, electric, like their mouths are rewriting you one cell at a time.

you’re honestly shocked you’ve lasted this long, that you haven’t completely collapsed into a shaking mess. but you’re close now. so close. every second feels stretched, taut, like the next touch might break you open completely.

bob is a whimpering, overwhelmed mess beneath you. flushed and panting, lips slick with your arousal, every sound he makes sending vibrations straight through your core. his mouth is relentless, his tongue working your clit with rough, needy licks that blur the line between worship and desperation.

he’s not gentle. he’s hungry. like he’s trying to imprint the taste of you into his memory forever, his tongue dragging up and down before circling your clit again and again, lips sucking it into his mouth with a filthy wet noise that only makes your thighs shake harder around his head.

his hands are gripping the sheets in an attempt to ground himself, trying to balance against the overstimulation he’s drowning you in. his whimpers are lost beneath your body, breath hot and broken as he moans directly into your pussy like he can’t help it.

and behind you, john isn’t faring much better.

he’s groaning into your ass like a man possessed, mouth pressed tight to your hole, tongue fucking you with deep, obscene precision. his hands are spreading you open, thumbs pulling you apart so he can push in deeper, licking into you like he’s claiming something. like this is his, and he's going to prove it with every stroke of his tongue.

he’s not teasing. he’s not gentle. he’s working you. aggressive, unrelenting, his face buried so deep you can feel the scrape of stubble against your skin every time he breathes.

they’re not talking. not anymore. there’s no coordination now, no plan, just raw instinct and the shared need to ruin you completely.

you’re caught between them, hips trembling, hands clawing uselessly at the sheets. every flick of bob’s tongue makes your stomach clench. every press of john’s mouth sends heat spiralling through your spine. you can’t tell whose sounds are whose. whether it’s john groaning, bob whimpering, or your own breathless cries melting into the room.

it’s chaotic. it's overwhelming. and it's perfect.

(lol is this too insane?)

#mars writes *:･ﾟ #sentryagent x reader #sentryagent

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lemoniceteee · 8 hours ago

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Almost Caught -C.K

Setting: Kent family farm, Smallville

Synopsis: You visit the Kent farm for the weekend and watch Clark play the perfect son in front of his mom—but he’s anything but innocent when he’s alone with you in the barn.

cw: Rough sex, semi-public sex, exhibitionism risk, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, creampie, slightly bratty reader, dominant Clark, near-caught scenario, suggestive teasing, unprotected sex, filthy language.

You really were trying to behave. You swore you were.

You’d come out to Smallville for the weekend—supposed to be sweet and wholesome, meet-the-mom energy. Martha Kent was everything you expected and more: kind, warm, soft-spoken, with those homemade pies that made you question if she had some magical abilities of her own. The woman adored you, welcomed you like family.

But you were one blink away from throwing all that kindness straight out the barn window because Clark Kent in farm boy mode was something dangerously unfair.

T-shirt sticking to his chest with sweat, biceps flexing every time he lifted a hay bale, that damn cowboy hat he wore backward while fixing the tractor. You watched him from the porch like a woman possessed, thighs pressed together, sipping lemonade with trembling hands.

He’d kiss your cheek sweetly in front of his mom, whisper “you okay, baby?” with that boy-next-door charm like he didn’t fuck you raw the night before in the backseat of his truck with your panties shoved in his pocket.

By noon, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You caught him in the barn, alone, wrench in hand, working on some old farming equipment. Sweat dripped down his neck, his white tank clinging to every ridge of muscle.

“Clark,” you breathed, stepping in behind him and shutting the barn door.

He turned, brow furrowed, wiping his hands on a rag. “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you pouted, toeing off your shoes. “My boyfriend’s being way too good in front of his mom and it’s driving me insane.”

He chuckled, setting the wrench down and crossing his arms. “You like seeing me play the perfect farm boy?”

“You have no fucking idea.” You closed the space between you, slipping your fingers under the waistband of his jeans, your voice dropping. “It makes me want to be a very bad girl.” Clark’s jaw tensed—his kryptonite wasn’t green anymore. It was you.

“You know we can’t—”

“I locked the door,” you whispered, licking up his throat. “Unless you want your mom to find out what a dirty mouth her sweet son actually has when he’s knuckle-deep in me—”

“Jesus,” he hissed, grabbing you by the waist and pinning you to the nearest stall wall. The air left your lungs as your back hit the wood, his thigh forcing its way between your legs.

“Thought I was being nice,” he growled against your throat, “but you just don’t know how to act, do you?”

“Not when you walk around like that,” you whined, grinding down on his thigh, your panties soaked through your shorts. “You’re killing me, Clark.”

He popped the button on your shorts like he was pissed, yanking them down with your underwear in one go. He didn’t even bother undressing himself—just pulled himself out, already hard, thick, angry.

“You want to get fucked like a slut in my mama’s barn?” he muttered, hiking one of your legs around his hip.

You nodded desperately, arms thrown over his shoulders. “Want you to—

You didn’t get to finish the sentence—he shoved into you in one brutal thrust, knocking the wind from your lungs as your nails dug into his back.

“Oh fuck— Clark—”

“Shut up,” he grunted, pounding into you with slow, punishing thrusts. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“You’re the one—oh God—fucking me like this!”

He bit down on your shoulder to keep himself from groaning too loud. You were soaking wet, squeezing him like your pussy was made for him, and the sounds of skin slapping filled the barn with every thrust.

“You like being fucked where anyone could walk in?” he hissed into your ear, holding you up like you weighed nothing.

“Yes—yes—fuck me harder—”

He angled his hips, hitting that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back, and then—just as you were spiraling, breath caught in your throat—

“Clark? You seen the pie dish?”

Your heart stopped. Martha’s voice came through the window, clear and close. Clark froze, one hand clamping over your mouth, the other still gripping your ass as your body trembled on the edge of orgasm.

Your eyes met his—wild, terrified, turned on as hell. He stayed still, cock buried inside you, both of you straining to hear.

“Check the pantry!” he called back, voice perfectly casual. The man didn’t even stutter.

You wanted to moan, but his hand stayed firm on your mouth. You both waited in silence, barely breathing. Then—footsteps retreating.

Clark smirked. “Told you we’d get caught if you kept acting up.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you whispered, “Don’t you dare stop now.” He didn’t. He fucked you harder. He had you coming in seconds, his hand still over your mouth, soaking his abs with your slick as your body shook. He didn’t stop until he was full of you, pumping you full of hot cum with a grunt in your ear. You gasped into his shoulder, body twitching from overstimulation as he stayed buried inside you, panting against your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” you whimpered when he finally pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes blown, sweat dripping off his temple. “You’re gonna make me walk back in there leaking down my thighs.”

Clark laughed, breath hot against your neck, voice low and smug. “Good. Maybe you’ll behave now.”

You scowled, still trembling, tightening your legs around him. “You’re an asshole.”

He nipped your jaw. “Keep it up and I’ll take you right here again after dinner. Bet you’ll still be wet.”

He let you slide off him slowly, steadying you with that absurd strength like you weren’t melting. You wobbled when your feet hit the barn floor, thighs slick and sore, your pussy aching and stuffed full of him.

You reached for your shorts, legs jelly, but Clark caught your wrist. “Leave ’em,” he said, smirking as he pulled your panties from his back pocket—the same ones from last night. “I’ll hold onto these.”

“Clark,” you hissed, wide-eyed. “I have to sit at the table with your mom!”

He leaned in, kissed your swollen mouth, and whispered, “Then try not to squirm too much, sweetheart.”

Back in the house, you sat at the Kent family table like nothing happened. “Everything okay?” Martha asked sweetly as you stepped back inside the house.

You cleared your throat, forcing a smile and ignoring the way your legs wobbled. “Just needed some fresh air.”

Clark kissed your cheek like the gentleman he absolutely wasn’t. And under the table, he slid his hand up your thigh again.

a/n: my cat is sick and im writing smut to not lose my mind lmao. i hate adulting. luckily the vet can see us tomorrow morning so im hoping for the best for my furbaby. sorry for ranting like this im losing my mind because thats my baby and if anyone has a cat who stopped eating all of a sudden any advice/comfort would be appreciated<3

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lemoniceteee · 8 hours ago

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im obsessed with john walker manspreading

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lemoniceteee · 8 hours ago

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mutualism, symbiosis & commensalism - bucky barnes

nerdy,roommate!bucky barnes x reader

summary. your roommate no longer has a sense of boundary. he follows you everywhere, shares everything with you, but maintains a strictly platonic friendship. sort of. until one night, when his mind takes him to a strictly forbidden place and he can no longer deny it. 18.5k words.

cw. college!bucky is such a fucking nerd and won't shut up about fish or whatever the hell. clothes stealer reader (happens sm i have to put a warning), perv!bucky if you squint with a magnifying glass. eventual smut! male!receiving. dry humping, sleepy grinding? unprotected p in v. nipple play. fish talk (yes i have to give a fucking warning for this) DURING SEX, among other things. unfortunately bucky is a psycho who wears jeans to sleep in this.. (req prompt at the end so it doesn't spoil anything :) !) minors dni

a/n: HAPPY 500 followers guys!!! thank u :3 alsooooo i accidentally made him autistic.... lowkey. erin says he's spencer reid coded! you'll see. i went SO OVERBOARD with this but anything for u guys! proofread by erin!

taglist: @54nboo @demiebarnes @kararchives | masterlist

the kitchen smells like burnt popcorn and cheap ramen, but mostly like him – that mix of old spice deodorant, laundry detergent, and something uniquely bucky that clings to the faded band tee you're currently drowning in. his shirt. again. laundry day was yesterday, but you grabbed it anyway this morning, pulling it on over your sleep shorts before shuffling out to scavenge for coffee.

he's already at the counter, back to you, humming something off-key while scrambling eggs. his own worn sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his sleep-mussed hair against the weak morning light filtering through the dirty window.

"mornin'," you mumble, reaching past him for the coffee pot. your arm brushes his bare back.

he jumps, a little, turning his head. his eyes flicker down – just for a split second, landing squarely on the v-neck of his tee where it gapes slightly as you lean – before snapping back to your face. a faint pink tinges his ears. "mornin', sleepyhead. coffee's almost ready. eggs?"

"please." you pour your coffee, leaning against the counter beside him. you can feel his gaze again, warm and heavy, drifting down towards the way the soft cotton drapes over your chest.

it's not creepy, not demanding. it's just... there. like he can't help it. like you're the sun and he's a particularly helpless sunflower. you take a slow sip, hiding a tiny smile in your mug. "smells good. not like last time."

he grins, poking at the eggs. "hey, i maintain that charcoal is a valid flavour profile." his hand, holding the spatula, moves near your waist as he reaches for the pepper grinder behind you.

instinctively, his other hand comes to rest lightly on the small of your back. his palm is warm through the thin cotton. he doesn't move it away, just keeps it there, grounding, as he leans past you. "pepper?"

"always." you don't move either. the touch is familiar, constant. his thumb makes a tiny, absent circle against your spine. "did you finish that poli-sci reading? looked brutal."

he groans, shifting slightly, his hand slipping away as he turns back to the stove. you miss the warmth instantly. "nah. got sidetracked watching that documentary about deep-sea anglerfish. terrifying and fascinating. mostly terrifying." he plates the eggs and slides yours over. "you steal my good spatula again?"

you bat your eyelashes innocently. "who, me? never. maybe it's hanging out with my collection of your hoodies."

he laughs, a warm, rumbly sound that fills the tiny space. "collection? it's like a damn infestation. open my drawer, bam, one of my henleys is missing. look in the laundry basket, yep, there's my flannel snuggled up with your stuff." he points his fork at you, but his eyes are soft, crinkled at the corners. "you're worse than a sock gremlin."

"they're comfy!" you protest, shoving a forkful of eggs in your mouth. "and they smell like you. which is... nice." you shrug, trying to sound casual, but your cheeks feel warm. nice? understatement.

bucky's gaze drops to your mouth for a second as you chew, then darts away again, focusing intently on his own plate. the pink on his ears deepens. "yeah? well... s'okay, i guess. long as you don't stretch 'em out." he takes a huge bite, avoiding eye contact. "so... anglerfish. the males basically fuse to the females and become, like, permanent sperm providers. wild, right?"

you nearly choke on your coffee. "bucky!"

"what?" he looks genuinely confused, blinking those big blue eyes. "it's biology and fascinating stuff!" he gestures emphatically with his fork, oblivious to the slightly horrified, slightly amused look on your face. "think about it. permanent attachment! no more dating apps."

you stare at him. "you are... uniquely disturbing sometimes, barnes."

he just grins, wide and unrepentant. "keeps you on your toes." his eyes drift down again, lingering this time on the curve of your shoulder where the oversized collar of his shirt has slipped down. he seems momentarily mesmerized by the strip of skin revealed. "uh... you got... uh... egg. right there." he points vaguely near your collarbone with his fork.

you look down. there's no egg. you look back up, raising an eyebrow.

he flushes crimson. "or... maybe not. morning light. tricky." he shovels more eggs into his mouth, suddenly very interested in his plate.

later, you're crammed together on the tiny, lumpy couch, textbooks and notebooks spread everywhere. you're trying to decipher organic chemistry diagrams that look like abstract art, legs tucked under you, the worn fabric of his sweatpants (also stolen) soft against your skin.

bucky's beside you, ostensibly reading history, but you can feel the heat of his gaze more than see it. it's not on the book.

you stretch your arms above your head with a yawn. the hem of the stolen shirt rides up, exposing your skin above the waistband of the sweatpants.

bucky makes a noise in his throat. making you glance over at him. he's staring fixedly at your exposed stomach with the his book forgotten in his lap. he looks completely focused, utterly unaware of how blatant he's being.

you slowly lower your arms, letting the shirt fall back down. "see something interesting, pervert?" you ask, teasing.

he jerks like he's been electrocuted, snapping his gaze up to yours. panic flares in his eyes. "what? no! i was just... uh... contemplating the structural integrity of this couch! yeah.. because um, feels like it might collapse any second." he pats the cushion vigorously, avoiding your eyes, his cheeks flaming. "definitely not staring at your... stomach. nope. wasn't happening. would never."

you laugh, nudging him with your foot. "relax, bucky. it's just skin. happens to the best of us." you lean back, pulling your knees up, deliberately making the tee stretch tighter across your chest as you wrap your arms around your legs. "now, explain this carbonyl group nonsense to me again? you said it was like a greedy little atom?"

he swallows hard, his eyes flickering down to the stretched fabric for a nanosecond before he forces them back to your chemistry book. his voice is slightly higher than usual. "right. greedy. yeah. so... carbon double-bonded to oxygen... very needy..." he launches into a shaky explanation, his finger tracing the diagram, but you can tell his focus is shot. his knee is bouncing nervously, brushing against yours.

when he pauses for breath, you stretch again, this time letting your head fall back against the couch cushions, exposing the line of your throat. you sigh dramatically. "god, i'm exhausted. maybe i should just nap right here." you close your eyes.

you feel him shift beside you. the intense weight of his gaze is back, sweeping over your face, your closed eyelids, your lips, then drifting lower, lingering on the pulse point in your neck, the way the collar of his shirt hangs open. you can practically hear his thoughts stuttering. you keep your eyes closed, a small, secret smile playing on your lips. his breathing hitches, just slightly.

"you... uh... you can borrow my pillow," he offers hoarsely after a moment, his voice rough. "the one on my bed. it's... better. good for naps."

you crack an eye open. he's looking at you now, a mixture of earnest concern and something darker simmering just beneath the surface. completely oblivious to the effect he's having on you. his hand twitches on the couch cushion, like he wants to reach out and touch your hair, your cheek, but he doesn't.

"nah," you hum, snuggling deeper into the worn fabric of his shirt. "this couch is fine. and your shirt's pretty comfy too. like wearing a hug. you don't mind, do you? me stealing all your stuff?"

he stares at you, his eyes wide, soft, and utterly, adorably bewildered. the pink is back, painting his neck now. "mind?" he echoes, his voice barely a whisper. he shakes his head slowly, a dazed, tender look spreading across his face as his gaze drops once more, inevitably, to where his name might be printed across your chest, hidden under layers of soft, stolen cotton. "no. no, i... i kinda really don't mind at all."

the weirdness blooms slowly, like mold in the damp corner of the shower stall you both pretend not to see.

it progresses in the bathroom.

you're under the spray one morning, water sluicing through your hair as you work shampoo into a thick lather. the dorm bathroom is thick with steam, smelling sharply of your body wash and the damp tile grout. the curtain is a flimsy shield.

then, the door clicks open. no knock. just the familiar shuffle of bare feet.

"shit, sorry!" bucky's voice, thick with sleep or panic, cuts through the steam. he doesn't leave. instead, the distinct, unmistakable sound of a zipper fumbling open, followed by the splash of liquid.

he's peeing. in the toilet. while you're actively showering three feet away, separated only by a thin, damp curtain patterned with dubious sea creatures (his choice, obviously).

you crack one eye open, peering through the shampoo suds dripping down your face. you can see his silhouette. he's standing at the toilet, back to you. like this is a perfectly normal wednesday morning activity. sharing airspace while one pees and the other showers.

"hey," you call back over the rush of water, squeezing the suds from your hair. you don't pull the curtain tighter. you don't freeze. it's... bucky. "sleep okay?"

"m'here," he grunts, the sound of his stream steady. "s'okay. just... bladder emergency. didn't wanna wait. you don't mind, right?" he sounds genuinely curious, utterly oblivious. like asking if you mind him borrowing a pen.

you blink soap out of your eyes, a slow smile spreading despite the absurdity. "uh. no? i guess? as long as you aim."

"always aim," he states proudly, the splashing sound stopping. he grunts, the distinct sound of him relieving himself filling the steamy room. "weird dream. think i was being chased by a giant, sentient toaster." he shakes himself, flushes. "that and you hogged all the blankets again."

"liar," you laugh, tipping your head back under the spray to rinse. you turn slightly, giving your back to the water, knowing the movement shifts the curtain just enough. "you're the human furnace. i need fortifications against the heat." you feel the shift in the steam as he moves closer to the sink.

"excuses," he mutters. the faucet squeaks on, followed by the vigorous splash of him washing his hands. you can picture him, leaning over the sink, hair falling into his eyes. "you smell good," he adds, almost absently, over the running water. "like... vanilla. and warm."

you pause, rinsing your arms. his voice is closer. you glance sideways. the edge of the curtain isn't pulled completely taut. through the gap and the steam, you catch a sliver of him reflected in the foggy mirror above the sink. he's not looking at the mirror. he's angled slightly towards the shower, eyes fixed on the vague shape of you moving behind the plastic. transfixed again. utterly unaware.

"it's just body wash, barnes," you say, keeping your voice light. you deliberately reach for the conditioner, stretching, letting the water cascade down your side. the movement pulls the curtain open another inch. his reflection in the mirror doesn't move. "cheapest one at the drugstore."

"s'nice," he murmurs. the water shuts off. he grabs his toothbrush. "deep-sea anglerfish females secrete enzymes that dissolve the male's body once he fuses to her. except for his gonads. which just... hang out. providing sperm on tap. efficient, i guess. very brutal."

you snort, squeezing conditioner onto your palm. "christ, bucky. is that your idea of shower conversation?"

"what?" he sounds genuinely perplexed, toothbrush poking out of his mouth, foam starting to gather. he turns slightly, and his eyes land directly on the gap in the curtain. not on your face, which is obscured by steam and wet hair, but lower. on the curve of your hip, maybe, or the water sluicing down your thigh.

he stares for a solid three seconds, toothbrush frozen mid-scrub, before blinking rapidly and turning back to the sink, spitting furiously. "s'just science. find it very fascinating." he mumbles, pink creeping up the back of his neck, visible even in the steamy reflection. "brutal, but fascinating."

"so you've said." you reply.

there's a pause. you can practically feel him staring at the vague silhouette of you projected onto the damp curtain. his gaze feels like a physical weight, tracing the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, blurred by water and fabric.

"deep-sea vents," he announces suddenly. "hydrothermal vents. spew out superheated, mineral-rich water. supports entire ecosystems in total darkness. crazy, right?"

you squeeze conditioner into your palm. "crazy," you agree, starting to massage it into your lengths.

he doesn't move. "just... thinking about tube worms. they have no mouth or gut. bacteria inside them make food from the chemicals. symbiosis. wild." his voice is closer now. he's definitely leaning towards the curtain. "you ever think about that? relying entirely on something else inside you?"

you snort, rinsing the conditioner. "can't say i have, bucky. kinda busy relying on this water not turning ice cold."

"right, right." he finally takes a step back. the floorboards creak. "s'pose i should... let you finish. unless you need... soap passed or something?" he sounds hopeful.

"i'm good, perv," you chuckle, pulling the curtain back just a crack to grab your towel hanging outside. steam billows out, and you catch a glimpse of him – shirtless, sleep-tousled hair, sweatpants , eyes wide and fixed on the strip of skin revealed by the parting curtain before snapping guiltily away.

"out."

"yep! going!" he practically trips over the bathmat scrambling out, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

later that day, you're rummaging through your drawer, looking for a specific bra. bucky wanders in, already in his boxers and a shirt, toothbrush again in hand. he heads straight for the sink attached to the tiny vanity in your room.

"mnph gng t'brsh," he mumbles around the brush, leaning over the sink to spit. he runs the water, scrubbing vigorously.

you watch him in the mirror's reflection, arms crossed. "i see that. you know, most people knock before entering a room where someone might be changing."

you're standing near the closet, clad only in your underwear and another one of his stolen tees – this time a faded gray one with a peeling band logo. you've got a couple of bras draped over your arm, trying to decide.

he rinses his mouth, splashing water on his face. when he straightens, water droplets cling to his jaw, his eyelashes. he turns, leaning back against the sink counter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

his gaze, clear and blue now, sweeps over you – the tank top, the bare arms, the line of your neck. it lingers for a beat too long on the dip of your collarbone before meeting your eyes. he seems utterly unconcerned.

"why? you were covered." he gestures vaguely with his wet toothbrush. "besides, needed to brush. minty fresh breath is vital. prevents cavities. also, statistically improves social interactions." he grins, foam still faintly visible near his ear. "see? science."

"science," you deadpan, grabbing one of his hoodies – the soft, grey one – from the pile on his desk chair. you pull it on over the tank top, drowning yourself in familiar fabric and his scent. "you're a nerd and absolutely impossible."

"am not," he protests, pushing off the sink. he walks towards you, stopping close. too close for just conversation. his eyes are fixed on the hoodie's zipper pull resting near your sternum.

"just... efficient. and scientifically minded." his hand lifts, almost unconsciously, like he's going to adjust the zipper or touch the fabric. he stops himself, fingers curling mid-air. "that's... my hoodie."

"observant today, aren't we?" you zip it up halfway, the heavy fabric swallowing you. "caught me red-handed."

he doesn't move back. his gaze drifts down the oversized front of the hoodie, lingering where it tents over your chest, then further down to where it engulfs your hips and thighs. his throat works as he swallows.

"s'okay," he murmurs, his voice lower now. "looks... warmer on you anyway." his eyes snap back up to yours, a flicker of that familiar, helpless bewilderment in them. "you cold?"

"a little," you admit, though the room is stuffy. the proximity, his focused attention, is generating its own heat.

he nods slowly, still not moving. "right." he seems to be wrestling with something internally. his hand twitches again. "you... uh... want my sweatpants too? the thick fleece ones? they're... extra warm." his gaze dips down your legs, clad only in thin sleep shorts below the hoodie's hem, then flicks back up, cheeks flushing. "purely for thermal regulation. obviously."

you bite your lip to stop the laugh bubbling up. "obviously. but i think i'm good. wouldn't want to completely deplete your wardrobe reserves. might have to go to class naked."

the image clearly hits him like a physical blow. his eyes widen, pupils dilating, and he makes that tiny strangled noise in his throat again, the one from the couch.

he takes a jerky step back, bumping into the edge of his desk. "right! yeah! good point! terrible idea! very... drafty." he rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you.

"so! uh... anglerfish documentary? part two? the males basically dissolve into the female's flesh, becoming a permanent gonad. efficient for procreation, right?" he babbles, desperate for a safe, horrifyingly biological topic.

"hey," you reply, holding up a black lace one. "this one or the plain beige?"

he glances over, toothbrush moving methodically. his eyes sweep over you – the hoodie hitting mid-thigh, your bare legs, the bras in your hand. his gaze lingers, not on the lingerie, but on the strip of skin between the hem of the oversized hoodie and the waistband of your underwear.

it's a familiar, warm weight. he doesn't look away, doesn't seem to realize he's staring at you while you're half-dressed asking about bras. his brushing slows.

"uh," he says, foam dribbling slightly. he quickly swipes it with the back of his hand. "the... black one?" it sounds like a question. his eyes drift back down to that exposed sliver of skin above your hipbone. "looks... sturdy?"

you raise an eyebrow. "sturdy? it's lace, bucky."

"right. lace. strong lace?" he finally tears his gaze away, focusing intently on rinsing his toothbrush, his ears glowing.

"s'just... structural support is important! it's physics, you know. you wouldn't want... uh... catastrophic failure mid-lecture." he spits, avoids looking at you as you pull on the black bra under the hoodie, the movement making the cotton stretch.

you catch him sneaking another glance at the way the fabric tightens across your back as you fasten it. he quickly grabs a towel and starts drying his face with unnecessary vigor. "so! did you see that article about the octopus that can edit its own rna?"

"nope," you say, pulling on soft sleep shorts. "but i'm sure it's horrifyingly fascinating."

"exactly!" he beams, dropping the towel, finally looking at you properly now that you're 'covered'. his relief is palpable, but his eyes still do that quick, automatic sweep – down to your bare legs and back up. "it can basically change its own genetic code on the fly.. adaptation! it's.. it's incredible."

it escalates to sleeping arrangements.

your bed is marginally less lumpy than his, so sometimes, after late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered conversations and shared bags of chips, he just... stays. flops down beside you on the narrow twin mattress, claiming a sliver of space.

one such night, you're both on your sides, facing each other, knees bumping under the shared comforter. you're wearing his softest henley and a pair of your own shorts. he's in a thin white tee and boxers. the desk lamp casts long shadows.

"so the professor actually said that?" you whisper, stifling a yawn.

"swear on my ma's grave," bucky murmurs back, his eyes heavy-lidded but fixed on your face.

well, mostly your face. in the low light, his gaze keeps dipping. to your mouth as you talk. to the way the collar of his henley hangs loose, revealing the hollow of your throat. to the slight curve of your breast pressed against the mattress, outlined softly by the worn cotton. he seems mesmerized by the rise and fall of your breathing there. his own breathing has slowed, deepened.

"that's wild," you murmur, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. your knee bumps his thigh. your hand rests near your face on the pillow.

his gaze snaps to your hand, then slowly tracks down your arm, disappearing under the comforter.

he frowns slightly, a line appearing between his brows. "where'd your hand go?" he whispers, his voice rough with sleep and something else.

you wiggle your fingers under the covers near your hip. "right here, weirdo."

"oh." he blinks. his own hand, resting on the mattress between you, inches forward slightly. not touching, just... closer. his eyes drift back to the shadowed curve of your body under the henley.

"s'just... spatial awareness. important. in case of... nocturnal predators. or falling out of bed." he yawns widely, his jaw cracking, but his eyes stay open, fixed on that spot. "like... wombats. they sleep in weird positions. very adaptable."

"wombats?" you ask, amused. "really?"

"cube-shaped poop," he mumbles, as if this explains everything. his eyelids are fluttering shut, but his hand has crept another inch. his pinky finger brushes the side of your hip, just above the waistband of your shorts, where the henley has ridden up slightly. he doesn't pull away.

his breathing evens out, but his finger stays there, a warm, barely-there pressure. "very... fascinating..."

you wake up first. weak morning light filters through the blinds. bucky is sprawled on his back now, one arm flung over his head, the other... curled possessively around your waist. his hand is tucked firmly under the hem of the stolen henley, his palm resting flat and warm against the bare skin of your lower back. his face is relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted, dark lashes fanned on his cheeks. completely peaceful. completely oblivious to the intimate territory his hand has claimed.

you don't move. you just watch him, a slow smile spreading across your face. his thumb twitches softly against your spine in his sleep.

when he finally stirs, blinking sleepily, his eyes focus slowly on your face, then drift down. he registers the feel of warm skin under his palm.

panic flashes across his face immediately, followed by a deep, flustered crimson that starts at his neck and floods his entire face. he yanks his hand back like he's been burned, scrambling upright, the comforter tangling around his legs.

"jesus! sorry! i— i didn't— must've rolled over or— i was asleep! deep rem cycle! probably dreaming about... uh... tectonic plates shifting or something.. yeah, continental drift. very... hands-on science!" he's babbling, avoiding your eyes, practically falling off the narrow bed in his haste to put distance between you. "gotta pee! urgent geological bullshit.. stuff.. bathroom!"

he stumbles out of the room, leaving the door wide open. you hear the click of the bathroom lock, followed by the faucet turning on.

later, you find him meticulously reorganizing the spice rack in the kitchen. you walk to him up silently, wearing another one of his shirts. you lean against the counter, close enough that your arm brushes his.

he stiffens slightly but doesn't pull away. his eyes dart sideways, down to the flannel where it hangs open over your tank top, then quickly back to the paprika. "uh. hey."

"morning, pervert," you say softly, a smile playing on your lips.

he flinches, the paprika bottle slipping from his fingers. you catch it deftly before it hits the counter. his eyes are wide, mortified. "i'm not— i didn't mean—"

"bucky," you interrupt, placing the paprika back in his hand. your fingers linger over his for a second. "it's okay." you lean a little closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "wombats are fascinating."

he stares at you, confusion mixed with panic in his eyes.

then, slowly, a hesitant smile spreads across his face. his eyes drop down again, drawn like a magnet to the open collar of the shirt you're wearing, to slight reaveal of your collarbone and cleavage.

he doesn't snap it back up this time. it stays there, heavy and completely, innocently captivated.

"yeah," he breathes, his voice rough. his free hand reaches out, not touching, just hovering near the worn flannel fabric covering your hip. like he needs to confirm its presence. like he needs to anchor himself to this thing of his that you've claimed.

"they really are." his thumb brushes the fabric, just once. "you... uh... want my last clean hoodie? think it's under my bed. smells... okay, i guess."

then the knock comes just after lunch.

a sharp rap-rap-rap that can only be steve. before you open, you scramble to shove a mountain of bucky's dirty laundry (mostly his, but suspiciously intermingled with your softer, smaller things) into the overflowing hamper when you pad to the door, barefoot, drowning in bucky's faded navy flannel.

it hangs past your hips, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to your elbows. underneath, you've got on sweatpants and, crucially, a pair of bucky's thick, grey wool socks bunched around your ankles, swallowing your feet whole.

you pull the door open. steve stands there, in a white shirt and jeans, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. sam wilson is right behind him, already smirking, eyes instantly taking inventory.

"hey," steve says, polite as ever, though his gaze flicks down to the flannel sleeves covering your hands, then to the comically oversized socks. "bucky in?"

"bathroom," you say, stepping back to let them in. the tiny dorm feels even smaller with two more broad-shouldered bodies. "emergency anglerfish research, probably. or just... plumbing."

sam snorts, following steve in. his eyes sweep the space: the mismatched mugs on the counter, the textbooks piled together on the tiny table, the single, slightly battered armchair draped with another of bucky's hoodies.

his gaze lingers on your feet, "nice socks." he remarks, chuckling.

you wiggle your toes inside the woolly caverns. "they're warm. bucky runs cold." you shuffle towards the kitchen area. "coffee? it's kinda stale, but..."

"we're good, thanks," steve says, setting his bag down carefully. he glances towards the closed bathroom door, then back at you, a subtle question in his eyes. "so, uh... you guys been holding down the fort okay?"

"fort's still standing," you shrug, leaning against the counter. the flannel gapes open slightly at the neck as you move. you don't bother fixing it. "mostly. bucky tried to microwave ramen in the bowl yesterday. minor meltdown. literally."

sam chuckles, pulling out the desk chair and spinning it around to sit backwards. "sounds about right." he rests his chin on his arms folded over the chair back. "so. you two... you seem pretty settled in here. sharing space okay?"

it's innocuous enough. but the way steve shifts his weight, the slight tilt of sam's head... there's an unspoken probe beneath the surface.

"s'fine," you say, reaching for a mug anyway, needing something to do with your hands. "it's small. but we manage. laundry day's a battlefield, though."

"i bet," sam says, his eyes flicking pointedly from the flannel to the hoodie on the chair. "especially when the wardrobe lines get... blurry."

the bathroom door opens, cutting off any reply. bucky emerges, hair damp from splashing water on his face, wearing clean pants and a dark green henley. he stops short when he sees steve and sam. "oh. hey. didn't know you were coming."

"texted you," steve says mildly. "twice."

bucky pats his pockets, frowning. "phone's... uh... charging. somewhere." his eyes find you instantly, drawn like a magnet.

his eyes do their unconscious (and usual) sweep: down the flannel, pausing briefly at the cleavage exposed by your tank top visible beneath, then down your legs to the grey socks swallowing your feet whole.

he doesn't comment but shuffles further into the room, gravitating towards your spot by the counter. he leans against it beside you. "so. what's up?"

"just checking in," steve says. "brought those notes you asked for, buck. and sam wanted to borrow that history text."

"cool, cool," bucky nods, his gaze drifting sideways to you again. you're sipping the stale coffee, making a face. his hand twitches, like he wants to take the mug from you. because he usually does.

"careful, that's basically tar now. should've made a fresh pot before..." he trails off, realizing steve and sam are watching this exchange with unnerving stillness.

sam clears his throat. "so, barnes. she was just telling us how well you guys are cohabitating." he leans forward on the chair. "seems pretty... domestic. sharing clothes, sharing space..."

he gestures vaguely around the cramped room, his eyes landing meaningfully on the shared textbooks, the single hoodie on the chair, your socks. "you two... figure things out yet? lock it down?

bucky blinks. "figure what out? the laundry schedule? hell no, it's chaos. she keeps stealing all my—" he stops abruptly, eyes widening slightly as he glances down at your feet again. "—socks. and stuff. but it's fine. s'just stuff."

"yeah," you chime in, setting the mug down. "it's just practical. his hoodies are warmer than mine. socks are thicker." you shrug, trying for nonchalant. "we're roommates. sharing happens."

steve raises an eyebrow, the picture of polite skepticism. "roommates. right." he looks pointedly at bucky's hand, which has drifted to rest casually on the countertop behind you, his fingers almost brushing the small of your back where the flannel has ridden up slightly over your sweatpants. "looks... comfortable."

bucky yanks his hand back as if electrocuted, shoving both hands into his pockets. "it's a small counter! limited real estate.. we gotta maximize surface area utilization." he sounds flustered. "like... uh... meerkat burrows! very efficient use of space and communal living."

sam snickers. "meerkats, bucky? really? next you'll be telling us you stand guard duty while she showers."

bucky's flush deepens spectacularly, spreading down his neck. "what? no! i don't— i mean, sometimes the bathroom door sticks, and i need to pee, but it's not like—did you tell him about that? we don't—it's not like that!" he sputters, gesturing wildly between you and him. "we're just friends. you know, roommates! who share socks sometimes, and hoodies, and., and... couch space. very platonically!"

"extremely platonically," you confirm, nodding vigorously. you reach up absently to push a stray hair off your face, the movement making the flannel sleeve slide down your forearm.

bucky's gaze tracks the movement, lingering on your exposed wrist for a second too long before snapping back to sam and steve's expectant faces. "totally normal roommate stuff. he explains terrifying fish biology to me. i steal his comfiest clothes. equilibrium."

steve just hums, exchanging a long, loaded look with sam. the kind of look that says 'sure, jan' without uttering a word. sam's smirk widens into a full-blown grin.

"right," sam drawls, pushing himself up from the chair. "platonically sharing socks. got it. very... symbiotic." he walks over to the pile of books on the table, picking up the history text. "like those tube worms bucky's always on about, right? relying on each other? merging resources?"

"exactly!" bucky seizes the lifeline, his relief palpable. "symbiosis and mutualism! the tube worm provides a home, the bacteria provide food. it's efficient and very.. very fascinating might i add." he's practically vibrating with the need to explain, stepping slightly in front of you as if to shield you from sam's knowing gaze, though it puts him even closer to your side. "no unnecessary... entanglement! just practical biological cooperation."

"practical," steve echoes, his voice dry as dust. he picks up his canvas bag. "well. we won't keep you from your... cooperative sock-sharing endeavors." he nods at you. "always... interesting."

"likewise, steve," you say, offering a small smile.

sam claps bucky on the shoulder as he heads for the door. "keep up the good work, barnes. you know, defending the sock reserves and maintaining strict platonic boundaries." he looks at you, blatantly, over bucky's shoulder. "see ya. try not to stretch out all his hoodies."

"no promises," you call back.

the door clicks shut. a sudden silence takes over the room as you both stand there. bucky lets out a breath he didn't seem aware he was holding, then runs a hand through his wethair.

"jesus," he mumbles under his breath. "what was that about?"

"no idea," you say, turning to face him fully. you adjust the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing the soft fabric. "weird."

"super weird," bucky agrees, his eyes dropping to follow your fingers' movement. his eyes are on the spot where your fingers touched the collar. then it drifts down again, inevitably, to the oversized socks. a small, almost unconscious smile touches his lips. "those are my warmest socks."

"told you," you say softly, taking a step closer. the flannel sleeve brushes his arm. "practical."

he doesn't move away. his gaze lifts, meeting yours. the bewildered softness is back in his eyes, mixed with a familiar, warm intensity as he looks at you, wrapped in his clothes.

"yeah," he breathes. "practical." his hand comes out of his pocket, hovering near your elbow, not quite touching the flannel sleeve.

"so... you wanna watch that documentary about naked mole rats? they live in complex underground colonies with a single breeding queen. very... structured and hierarchical."

you smile, leaning into the warmth radiating from him. "sounds horrifyingly fascinating, buck. put it on." you nudge him gently towards the couch. "and maybe grab me that last hoodie? this flannel's not the warmest."

the shared bed routine had become as natural as breathing. the unspoken agreement after late nights studying or watching documentaries about terrifying deep-sea creatures. bucky would flop onto your marginally-less-lumpy mattress, claiming the edge, and you'd burrow in, stealing warmth and space until the narrow twin felt like home.

tonight, though, is different.

as you finish rinsing the last mug, bucky clears his throat. he's been unusually quiet since steve and sam left, reorganizing whatever he could in the kitchen again.

"so," he starts. you already found it suspicious enough that he was more quiet than usual, not rambling about whatever anglerfish or naked mole rat fact. but now he's not meeting your eyes, focusing intently on aligning the cumin with the paprika. "thinkin' i might... crash in my own bed tonight."

you pause, the damp cloth in your hand dripping onto the counter. "oh?" you keep your voice light, neutral. "anglerfish migration patterns keeping you up? or is it the threat of me stealing the entire comforter again?"

he flinches slightly. "nah, nah. just... uh..." he scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, the motion tight. "got some... thinking. to do. about that poli-sci paper. complex geopolitical... stuff. requires solitude. deep focus. brainpower." he gestures vaguely towards his head. "you know how it is. can't have distractions."

distractions.

the word hangs there.

you, wrapped in his flannel, wearing his socks, smelling like his detergent and your vanilla body wash, are apparently now classified under 'distractions'.

the suspicion coils warm and low in your stomach. steve and sam's knowing looks, their probing questions about 'figuring things out'... had their visit rattled him that much?

"right," you say, turning to hang the cloth neatly. "geopolitical stuff. very serious matters. i wouldn't want to impede international relations with my snoring." you offer a small smile, trying to ease the sudden, awkward tension. "suit yourself, barnes."

he nods, still avoiding your gaze. "yeah. thanks. 'night." he shuffles towards his room, shoulders hunched slightly, looking like he's heading to a detention hall, not his own bed.

you watch him go, the worn flannel soft against your skin. the silence of the tiny dorm feels heavier, emptier.

he reaches his door, hand hovering over the knob. something tightens in your chest. not anger, not exactly. a quiet insistence. a refusal to let him retreat completely into whatever flimsy excuse he'd built.

"bucky," you call out, your voice soft but clear in the stillness.

he freezes, hand still on the doorknob. slowly, he turns. his eyes are wide in the dim light filtering from the kitchen, a flicker of surprise and... something else... apprehension? hope? you can't quite read it. he watches as you walk towards him, bare feet silent on the linoleum, the oversized flannel whispering around your legs, his thick socks swallowing your feet.

you stop right in front of him, close enough to feel his warmth. he tenses, looking down at you with full anticipation.

his gaze darts over your eyes, and lips. his hand drops from the doorknob. he looks frozen. and braced. but for what? an argument? a kiss? a hug? a question about his sudden need for solitude?

instead, you tilt your head, a small smile on your lips.

you rise onto your tiptoes. his eyes widen further, his lips parting slightly on a silent inhale. he doesn't lean in, doesn't pull away. he just... stops. exists. suspended.

your lips brush the warm skin of his cheek it's light, brief. the scratch of his stubble against your lips is a tiny shock, grounding the moment. you feel the faintest tremor run through him.

"goodnight, bucky," you murmur, face to face with him. the scent of him – laundry soap, sleep, him – fills your senses.

then, you drop back onto your heels. you don't look at his face again, not immediately. you turn smoothly, the flannel swirling, and walk the few steps back to your own door. you feel the weight of his stare on your back.

only when your hand is on your own doorknob do you pause. you glance back over your shoulder. he hasn't moved an inch.

he's still rooted to the spot, one hand half-raised as if to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips had been. his expression is utterly blank, wiped clean by shock.

his eyes, though... his eyes are wide, dark pools reflecting the dim light, fixed unblinkingly on you. the pink flush has crept back on his cheekbones, clashing with the paleness of surprise.

you give him one last look. a soft smile touches your lips – with no hints of teasing. just... there. acknowledging the silence, the flimsy excuse he came up with, the lingering warmth on his cheek.

then you turn the knob, slip into your room, and shut the door behind you. the soft click echoes in the silence of the hallway.

bucky stays frozen in place. there was a phantom pressure on his cheek where you kissed him. he can still feel the soft touch of your lips. slowly, he raises his hand, his fingertips brushing the spot. it tingles.

goodnight, bucky.

the words replay in his head, soft and final. completely at odds with the jolt the kiss had sent through his system. his heart hammers against his ribs, solo drowning out any thought of poli-sci or geopolitical strategy.

distractions.

'looks... comfortable.'

'platonically sharing socks.'

and of course, his own frantic babbling: 'symbiosis! mutualism! no unnecessary entanglement!'

the words crash over him now, stripped of their defensive humor.

platonic.

the concept feels laughable, absurd, standing here with the ghost of your kiss burning on his skin and the image of you wrapped in his clothes seared onto his retinas. the way you'd looked back at him...

that quiet smile...

his gaze drifts down to his own chest, covered by the green henley. he can almost see the imprint of where your head rested against him countless nights, smell the vanilla clinging to his flannel currently wrapped around you.

his flannel. his socks. his space you inhabited so completely.

he leans back heavily against his own door, the wood cool against his back. he doesn't turn the knob. he just stands there in the darkened hallway, staring at the closed door of your room, fingertips still pressed to the warm spot on his cheek.

solitude. deep focus. brainpower.

all obliterated by a single, soft kiss and the echoing, devastatingly simple words: goodnight, bucky.

the only complex geopolitical reality he can comprehend right now is the territory mapped by the feel of your lips and the terrifying and absolutely exhilarating sense that the carefully constructed walls of 'just roommates' had just developed a very large, very warm, very you-shaped crack.

he slides down the door until he's sitting on the floor, back against the wood. the cold seeps through his pants, but he barely feels it.

the echo of that kiss, the soft weight of your lips, the scent of vanilla clinging to the air where you'd stood... it's a loop he can't escape.

platonically.

the word tastes like ash now. he presses the heel of his hand harder against his cheekbone, trying to ground himself.

what was that? a thank you? a pity gesture because he'd clearly freaked out? a... goodnight kiss?

but just on the cheek.

friends did that, right?

steve gave peggy cheek kisses sometimes. but steve looked at peggy like she'd hung the damn moon, and peggy looked back like she knew exactly how to knock it down if he got out of line.

he thinks of the way you'd looked at him before shutting the door. not like peggy looked at steve. softer. warmer. knowing. like you saw right through his flimsy 'geopolitical' excuse and his frantic symbiosis analogies. like you knew exactly the chaos that single touch had unleashed inside his skull.

he groans, dropping his forehead onto his knees. the wool of his socks – his socks, currently on your feet, warming your skin – itches slightly against his forehead. the scent of his own laundry detergent is faint, overlaid with the phantom vanilla. it's maddening. he's surrounded by evidence of you, of this tangled, comfortable intimacy you've built, and one stupid visit from steve and sam has him scrambling like a startled crab.

why had he retreated?

the thought of climbing into your bed tonight, after their knowing smirks, after sam's pointed comments about sock symbiosis... it had felt suddenly, terrifyingly exposed. like admitting something he wasn't ready to name, or admit, even to himself. especially to himself. sharing your space, your warmth, your quiet breaths in the dark... it had become essential. vital. and realizing how vital it was, how much he craved it, how easily steve and sam had seen it...

it had scared him right back into his own lonely, colder bed.

except now he's sitting on the floor outside it, feeling like an idiot.

he hears a soft rustle from behind your door. the creak of your mattress springs. the muffled sound of you sighing. settling in. alone. because of him. because he'd panicked.

"idiot," he mutters against himself, the word muffled by his hands. a colossal, world-class idiot. he'd traded the warm press of you beside him, the scent of vanilla and sleep, the unconscious way your hand sometimes found his in the dark... for this. cold floor, a throbbing spot on his cheek, and a brain buzzing with the memory of your smile and the devastating simplicity of your 'goodnight'.

the silence stretches. the spot on his cheek still tingles. it feels like a brand. a claim. a question he has absolutely no idea how to answer.

painfully, he pushes himself up off the floor. he doesn't look at your door again. he just turns the knob to his own room, slips inside into darkness, and shuts the door with a soft, definitive click. he doesn't bother turning on the light. he just walks to his narrow, untouched bed and sits heavily on the edge.

he stares at the darkness of the wall. his fingers manage to find their way back to his cheek. the ghost of your kiss lingers.

symbiosis.

mutualism.

practical cooperation.

it felt like none of those things. it felt like the ground shifting. it felt like the start of something terrifyingly, wonderfully entangled.

and bucky barnes, expert on anglerfish, wombats and naked mole rats, had absolutely no field guide for this.

bucky's laptop screen lights up his face in the shroud of darkness. his poli-sci textbook lies open beside it, pages dense with terms like "diplomatic immunity" and "sovereignty disputes."

a notebook is splayed open, filled with his messy scrawl attempting to diagram the complex web of alliances in some obscure 19th-century conflict. he'd meant to dive deep. he'd promised himself solitude for geopolitical brainpower.

instead, his finger traces the edge of the laptop's touchpad, not scrolling, just... hovering. his eyes aren't on the screen displaying a dry academic journal article about resource allocation in contested maritime zones. they're unfocused, staring through the pixels. the phantom press of your lips against his cheek pulses like a live wire beneath his skin. every few seconds, his free hand drifts up, fingertips brushing the spot, as if confirming the memory is real.

"goodnight, bucky."

your voice echoes in his mind in the silence, drowning out the imagined drone of a professor lecturing about treaty violations.

"right," he mutters aloud, forcing his gaze back to the screen. he blinks rapidly. "so. uh. article vii, subsection c establishes the the framework for..." his voice trails off. he leans closer, squinting. "...mutual recognition of... fishing quotas?" he frowns, tapping the touchpad, scrolling down. "no, that's not... wait, where was i?" he rubs his eyes, gritty with fatigue. the words swim on the screen.

'fishing quotas' dissolves into an image of your bare feet swallowed by his thick grey socks, shuffling across the floor towards him.

'mutual recognition' twists into the feeling of your arm brushing his bare back in the kitchen that morning, the way his hand had instinctively settled on the small of your back, possessively.

the word 'framework' just makes him think of the way his flannel hung loose on your shoulders, the collar slipping...

"jesus christ," he groans, shoving the laptop away slightly. it whines in protest. he picks up a pen, determined.

"okay. notes. key points." he jabs the pen onto the notebook paper. "one: humpback anglerfish. melanocetus johnsonii." he writes it carefully. "characterized by extreme sexual dimorphism. male... parasitic attachment." he underlines it twice. "fusion of tissues. permanent... connection." his pen stops.

permanent connection.

like the way your laundry seemed permanently intermingled with his in the hamper. like the way his hoodies seemed permanently migrated to your side of the closet. like the way he felt permanently aware of your presence, even now, through two closed doors.

he shakes his head violently, as if trying to dislodge the thoughts. "focus, barnes. focus. the male provides sperm, the female provides... nutrients." he writes 'nutrients'.

it feels insufficient. hollow. what had he provided? warmth? hoodies? terrifying fish facts? what had you provided? vanilla scent. stolen socks. that devastatingly soft kiss. a home, in the middle of your chaotic dorm. he wasn't dissolving into your flesh, but something felt... fused. entangled. sam's smug voice: 'symbiosis. mutualism.'

"it's not mutualism!" he hisses at the empty room, the sound too loud in the silence. "it's... it's..." he searches his mental index. "commensalism! yeah! one benefits, the other is unaffected." he writes it down triumphantly. "you benefit from my hoodies and socks. i'm... unaffected." the lie tastes bitter. he stares at the word 'unaffected'.

he could still feel the exact weight of your head resting against his chest when you slept. the way his hand had fit perfectly under the hem of his own clothes on your back this morning. your lips on his skin. utterly, completely affected.

he slumps forward, resting his forehead on the cool surface of the desk. the edge of his textbook digs into his arm.

"naked mole rats," he mumbles into the woodgrain. "heterocephalus glaber. eusocial mammals. single breeding queen. non-breeding workers. soldiers." he lifts his head slightly. "workers dig tunnels. maintain colony. support the queen."

he thinks of making coffee while you slept. scrambling eggs. explaining carbonyl groups. was he a worker? were you the queen? the thought is absurd, yet weirdly compelling.

"no unnecessary... entanglement," he whispers, echoing his own desperate defense to sam and steve. but the colony thrived because of the entanglement. the structure depended on it.

his eyes feel like they're full of sand. he forces them open, glancing at the clock in the corner of his laptop screen. 2:38 am. he blinks. once. twice.

had it really been hours? the article was still on the same paragraph. his anglerfish notes consisted of 'melanocetus johnsonii' and 'commensalism (lie)'. the naked mole rat section just said 'workers? queen?' in red. the notebook page was covered in doodles – vague, swirling shapes that suspiciously resembled the curve of a shoulder under stretched cotton, and one tiny, carefully drawn wool sock.

a wave of exhaustion crashes over him, heavy and inescapable. the frantic buzz of thoughts – geopolitical frameworks, parasitic males, stolen hoodies, your smile, goodnight, goodnight, goodnight – suddenly dulls, muffled by sheer fatigue.

the phantom kiss on his cheek is still there, but it's a warm ember now, not a live wire.

"fuck it," he breathes, the words barely audible. not angry, just... surrendered. utterly defeated by the combined forces of poli-sci, deep-sea biology, and the overwhelming, confusing reality of you.

he shoves the textbook closed with a thump. snaps the notebook shut. slams the laptop lid down, plunging the room into near darkness, besides the faint streetlight glow filtering through the blinds.

he stumbles to his feet, joints stiff from sitting hunched for hours. he doesn't bother changing out of his pants and henley. he doesn't even peels off his socks and pads to the bed, the sheets cold and unfamiliar.

he hadn't slept here properly in weeks. it smells faintly of dust and old laundry, lacking the warm blend of vanilla, sleep, and you.

he flops down. he pulls the thin comforter up, shivering slightly despite the room's ambient warmth.

he tosses. turns onto his side, facing the wall. too hard. turns onto his back, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. too exposed. curls onto his other side, facing the door.

the door that leads to the hallway.

to your door.

he squeezes his eyes shut.

solitude. deep focus. brainpower.

what a colossal joke.

all he'd focused on was the absence of the soft sound of your breathing beside him. the space felt too big, too cold. he misses the unconscious way you'd shift in your sleep, your foot finding his calf. misses the weight of your hand sometimes brushing his in the dark.

"commensalism," he mumbles into the pillow, the word thick with sleep and futility. "total bullshit." he presses his face deeper into the pillow, trying to conjure the scent of vanilla, but finding only stale cotton.

"workers dig tunnels..." he trails off, his breathing starting to deepen, the frantic energy of the night finally leaching away, replaced by bone-deep tiredness. "support the queen... you're the queen... steals hoodies... best socks..."

his body finally wins the war against his whirling mind. the tension bleeds from his shoulders. his clenched jaw relaxes. the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest under the thin comforter slows, deepens.

the image of your smile as you shut your door, the lingering warmth on his cheek, the confusing knot of feelings steve and sam had yanked tight–they don't disappear. they just blur at the edges, softening as sleep pulls him under.

his last conscious thought isn't about treaties or anglerfish. it's a fragmented, sleepy whisper, barely audible:

"...shoulda stayed... your bed's less lumpy... an' warmer... smells like... vanilla... an'... mine..."

the cold sheets finally pull him under, but the dream isn't restful. it’s thick, warm, real. he’s in his own bed, but it feels different. softer. warmer. the scent isn’t dust – it’s vanilla, sleep, and…

you.

then, the mattress dips behind him. a soft sigh ghosts against the back of his neck, sending shivers cascading down his spine. warm arms slide around his waist under the thin comforter, pulling him back flush against a soft, familiar body.

"mmph... cold," you murmur, sleepy and sweet against his skin. your breath fans over the sensitive spot below his ear. your knees tuck up behind his, your body molding perfectly against his back. the unmistakable press of your ass, firm and perfect, snug against the growing hardness trapped in the front of his sleep pants.

bucky freezes. the weight of you, the heat radiating from your skin, the scent of your hair tickling his nose. a low groan rumbles in his chest, half-sleep and half-overwhelming sensation. it feels so incredibly real.

his body responds instantly, blood rushing south. his cock hardens, aching, against the curve of your backside. he pushes back instinctively, seeking more of that pressure.

"bucky..." you whisper, your voice husky with sleep... or something else? one of your hands slides down from his waist, fingers splaying low on his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants.

your hips shift, grinding back against him slowly, deliberately. the friction is exquisite torture. "s'okay... s'just me..."

he can't speak, but can only gasp, arching his back, pressing himself harder against you. his hand finds yours on his stomach, lacing your fingers together, holding you there. his other arm snakes back, finding your hip, pulling you impossibly closer. the thin cotton of his sleep pants and the soft fabric of yours are the only barriers.

you can feel his cock pressed between the cleft of your ass, feel the way his abs spasm beneath your fingers. you hum softly again and shift, creating a slow grind of your hips that drags his erection against your warmth. he groans a sound of pure need, fingers tightening on your hip and squeezing with the last bit of control.

"like that?" you pepper soft, open-mouthed kisses just below his ear, between the curve of his neck and shoulder. "feel how much you want me?" you take your hand further down, and burrow beneath the waistband of pants, teasing the trail of hair that leads down.

he bucks against you, and a choked sound escapes him before he can stop it. "shhhh.." you soothe. "let me feel you…"

he's on his back now, blinking up at the familiar ceiling, but the air is thick. the weak light filtering through the blinds catches the curve of your smile as you straddle his thighs.

you're wearing one of his tees – the faded gray one he’d been looking for yesterday – but it's rucked up, revealing your smooth skin, and the lace of your panties.

"look at you," you murmur, your voice is soft and comforting to his ears. your hands slide up his bare chest, feeling the thud of his heart beneath his skin and muscle.

you trace the lines of his pecs, of his abdomen. a smile plays on your lips as your eyes travels down his body, lingering where the thin sheet tents dramatically over his erection.

"all worked up over little ol' me?" you lean down, your hair falling like a curtain of sunshine and vanilla around. your lips brush his ear. "want me to help with that, sweetheart?"

he can only manage a whimper, his hips lifting off the mattress, seeking friction and seeking you. the sight of you above him, in his shirt, looking down at him with that mix of tenderness and seduction… it’s devastating.

his hands come up, trembling slightly, to rest on your hips, fingers digging into the waistband of your panties. "please..." he rasps, the word raw.

"please what?" you tease, rocking your hips ever so slightly against the hard ridge of his cock straining against the sheet. he cries out, head thrashing back against the pillow. "tell me what you need, bucky."

he can't form words beyond gasps and groans. his eyes are wide, desperate, fixed on you.

you smile, understanding. "okay," you whisper, leaning down to kiss him. his mouth opens under yours instantly. you taste the coffee from earlier. he moans into your mouth, his hands sliding up under the back of your shirt, exploring the warm skin, pulling you closer.

when you finally pull back for air, his lips chase yours.

"shhh," you mumble against him, placing a soft kiss on his jaw. "let me..." you trail kisses down his throat, over his neck, down to his chest. you continue lower, down the tense plane of his stomach, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his sleep pants and boxers. you pull them down just enough, freeing his aching cock, thick and straining upwards, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.

you nuzzle the crease of his hip, inhaling the scent of him. "god, you smell good," you breathe. "all mine..."

then, without further warning, you take him into your mouth with soft, insistent pressure. your lips close around the swollen head, your tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge underneath. you sink down, taking him deep, until your nose brushes the coarse hair at his base.

he cries out, a strangled, animal sound, his hands flying to your hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life as his hips jerk off of the bed.

"oh god!" he arches, spine bowing. "fuck, yes... sweetheart. so good. your mouth feels so fucking good..." his words dissolve into incoherent moans, mixed with gasps. the sensations are overwhelming: the slide of your tongue along his length, the suction as you pull back, the soft hum vibrating through his cock, the sight of your head bobbing between his thighs, framed by the stretched collar of his own damn t-shirt. it’s perfect. devastating. primal.

you look up at him, dark with desire reflecting the faint light. a drop of your own spit glistens at the corner of your swollen lips.

"you taste good, bucky," you murmur, your voice thick and husky, before sinking down again, taking him deep. your hand works the base of his shaft in perfect rhythm with your mouth, twisting slightly on the upstroke. "so good for me..."

the pleasure builds. it coils tight and hot in his gut. he’s panting, moaning your name, fingers tightening in your hair, lost in the sensation, the utter surrender to your mouth. the tension is unbearable.

"gonna... oh fuck... i'm gonna..." he chokes out, his body tightening like a bowstring. "please... don't stop..."

and you really don't. you take him deeper, humming softly, the vibration sends waves of pleasure through him. your hand moving faster, your mouth sucking harder. you feel him swell harder in your mouth.

"come for me, bucky," you murmur around him, the words vibrating against his sensitive flesh. "let go... give it to me..."

suddenly, very suddenly, he wakes up with a gasp that feels like drowning. his eyes fly open, staring wildly into the pitch-black of his own room.

not yours. his. cold. empty.

reality crashes down.

he's alone. tangled in his own thin sheets, drenched in sweat.

his cock is painfully hard, throbbing against the damp fabric of his boxers. all he can think of is your mouth, the heat, the vibration of your hum.

it was so vivid he was convinced it was real. he can still feel the weight of you on his thighs, hear your whispers, taste the sensation of your lips. he can smell vanilla in the stale air.

"no..." he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes, pressing hard, trying to erase the images of your head bobbing up and down on his cock.

but they're seared onto his retinas, imprinted on his skin. his hips buck involuntarily, grinding against the mattress, seeking the you that was just there.

a frustrated moan escapes him, his hand instinctively moving towards his aching cock before he snatches it back, clenching it into a fist. "fuck... fuck..."

he rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow, trying to suffocate the ache, the humiliating evidence of the dream tenting the sheets beneath him.

but the pillow smells like dust, not vanilla, not you.

it's wrong. all wrong. the feel of your hair slipping through his fingers is replaced by rough cotton. the echo of your voice saying "all mine" rings hollow in the crushing silence.

he flips onto his back again, staring at the ceiling.

the dream replays in vivid, excruciating detail: the feel of your ass against him, the sight of you in his shirt, between his legs, the wet heat of your mouth, the sound of you calling him 'sweetheart'... the desperate plea ripped from his throat: "come for me, bucky."

his friends' voices echo, taunting him in the back of his head: 'platonically sharing socks.', 'looks... comfortable.'

then his own useless, stupid, idiotic babbling: 'no unnecessary entanglement!'

entanglement? fucking entanglement? he's drowning in it. unlike the anglerfishes.

tangled in sheets sticky with sweat and pre-come. tangled in the feeling of you. tangled in a desire so deep and raw it scares the hell out of him.

the kiss on the cheek hadn't been a dismissal; it felt like a key turning in a lock he hadn't even known was there. and this dream... this wasn't platonic. this wasn't symbiosis. this was pure, unadulterated want. a need that clawed at his insides, a hunger only you could satisfy.

he grinds his teeth, fists clenching the sheets.

he tries to force his mind back to poli-sci, to anglerfish, to naked mole rat hierarchies. anything. but his traitorous brain conjures the slide of your tongue, the press of your hips, the command "give it to me".

his cock throbs in agonizing agreement, untouched and purely fucking desperate.

minutes crawl by. they crawl.

the sweat cools on his skin, leaving him clammy. yet the frantic arousal doesn't subside; it simmers, amplified by the silence, the loneliness in his own bed by his own doing.

he kicks off the tangled comforter, the cool air doing nothing to douse the fire in him. he can still feel the grip of your hand working his cock, the tight suction of your mouth.

"can't..." he mutters to the darkness, burying his head into his own hand, clouding him further into the darkness. "just... stop... thinking... stop..."

but he can't.

the dream is too vivid, the ache too real, the closed door down the hall too loud in its silence. the rationalizations crumble. the geopolitical strategies evaporate. the intricate biology of anglerfish dissolves into the simple, overwhelming biology of need–need for you.

the dream wasn't just a fantasy; it felt like a revelation, a glimpse of a truth he'd been desperately denying.

he sits bolt upright. the movement is sudden, decisive. he doesn't think. doesn't weigh pros and cons or ponder the terrifying implications. the coiled spring inside him, wound tight by the dream, by the kiss, by weeks of shared breaths and stolen clothes, by the agonizing absence of you in this cold bed, finally snaps. the denial is obliterated, burned away by the intensity of that stupid dream that felt more real than the empty room around him.

the word 'platonically' shatters like glass.

the cold floor stuns his bare feet, but he hardly notices it. bucky's already moving, propelled by something deeper than thought. he goes across the room, leaving his heart pounding.

the hall is dark, and lonely. his own door creaks as he pulls it open. he goes out, barefoot, in his boxers, and the thin shirt stuck to his sweaty back, gaze landing immediately on your door.

he doesn't think twice. he really doesn't think at all.

the dream is still too close, the selfish ache deep in his gut is overwhelming.

he walks the distance, the sound of his heart slamming still ringing in his ears, stopping right at your door. his whole body is trembling with cold, with adrenaline, with the raw, terrifying need of you. the image of your sleepy smile as you shut the door, the softness of your lips on his cheek, and pressure of the dream… it all fucking crashes together.

the knob turns easily under his hand. unlocked. because it's always unlocked for him. the click is deafening in the hushed hallway. he pushes the door open just enough to slip inside, the familiar scent of vanilla and sleep and you hitting him like a blow, instantly amplifying the phantom sensations that he still felt in his wake.

your room is darker than his, the blinds drawn tighter. it takes his sleep-dazed, and adrenaline-fogged eyes a moment to adjust. then he sees you.

curled on your side facing the wall, the thin sheet tangled around your legs. you’re wearing nothing but his old white cotton t-shirt–the one with the stretched neckline and the faded bleach spot near the hem. it’s ridden up high on your hips in your sleep, revealing the smooth curve of your ass, barely covered by a scrap of panties. one leg is bent, the other stretched out, the shirt bunched even higher on that side, exposing a long line of your high.

bucky freezes just inside the door.

the sight is devastating. achingly intimate. the stolen shirt, your skin exposed, the vulnerable sprawl of your limbs…

it’s a punch to the gut, worse than the dream, because this is real. the turmoil from the dream, the kiss, steve and sam’s knowing smirks, it all crashes over him again, like a chaotic fucking whirlpool.

entanglement, really? because he’s drowning further.

the image of your figure behind the shower curtain, the steam, him washing his hands while staring, transfixed… the feel of your thigh pressed against his on the lumpy couch, you stretching, the shirt riding up… you reaching for coffee in his shirt, the collar gaping, his eyes helplessly drawn. the sheer, constant, unconscious intimacy of you wrapped in his things, smelling like him, inhabiting his space like you belonged there. stupid anglerfish.

"fuck," he breathes, barely audible. his cock, already half-hard from the lingering dream and the shock of seeing you, throbs insistently against the confines of his boxers.

the sight of the fabric against your skin, the way the white cotton stretched tight over the curve of your hip… sends a fresh wave of heat pooling low in his stomach.

he wants to touch. he wants to run his hand up that exposed thigh, slip his fingers under your panties, feel your skin. he wants to bury his face in the curve of your neck where the shirt collar has slipped, breathing you in.

the conflict is physical, a war in his muscles. part of him screams to turn around, flee back to his cold, lonely bed. preserve the fragile fiction of ‘just roommates’. the other part, the part still vibrating from the dream, the part that craved your warmth even in sleep, the part that ached… it pulls him forward.

he moves silently, like a ghost drawn to a flame. he doesn’t think. he just needs. needs the warmth, the scent, the feel of you nearness, even if it’s torture. he stops beside the bed, looking down at your sleeping form. the turmoil rages: guilt, desire, confusion, a deep, bone-deep yearning that terrifies him.

"just… warm," he mumbles to himself, the justification flimsy even in his own ears. "cold. my bed… too cold." he swallows hard. "just… for a minute. just… to warm up."

slowly, carefully, he lifts the edge of the comforter. the mattress dips softly as he slides in behind you, his body instinctively curling to match the curve of yours.

he’s careful not to touch you at first, lying rigid and barely breathing. the warmth radiating from your back is immediate.

then, inevitably, he shifts. his chest presses lightly against your back. his knees tuck up behind yours. and his hip settle flush against the perfect fucking curve of your ass.

electricity shoots through him. the thin layers of his boxers and your panties, the worn cotton of his shirt you wore, felt like nothing.

the firm, warm pressure against his fully erect cock is immediate, intense. a low groan escapes him before he can choke it back, muffled against the back of your t-shirt. he freezes, terrified you’ll wake.

you don’t. you sigh softly in your sleep, a contented little sound, and shift back into him. your ass presses more firmly against his clothed cock. your body molds even closer to his. one of your hands drifts back, fingers brushing his hip before settling loosely against his thigh.

bucky stops breathing. the friction, even through the layers, is fucking agony.

the feel of you, soft and warm and trusting against him…

it’s everything the dream promised and more. because it’s real. he can feel the rise and fall of your breath against his chest. smell the faint sweetness of your skin. see the delicate shell of your ear inches from his lips.

steve and sam were right, the thought slams into him, clear and undeniable amidst the haze of arousal and panic. they saw it. they saw what he wouldn’t let himself see. the shared clothes weren’t just practical. the shared bed wasn’t just about comfort. the way he watched you, the way he craved your nearness, the way his hand always found your back, his gaze always lingered… it wasn’t platonic. it wasn’t symbiosis. it wasn’t commensalism.

the memory of you on tiptoe, pressing your lips to his cheek, the soft "goodnight, bucky," floods him. the look in your eyes before you shut the door.

"oh, fuck," he whispers, the sound filled with realization. he buries his face in your hair, inhaling. the movement presses his cock even harder against your ass, and he can’t suppress another ragged gasp. "oh, fuck…"

it wasn’t just liking his clothes on you. it wasn’t just finding you fascinating. it wasn’t just enjoying your company.

he liked you. really, truly, devastatingly liked you. wanted you. craved you. in ways that went far beyond stolen hoodies and shared fish documentaries.

the kiss hadn’t started it; it had just ripped away the blinders. this feeling – this overwhelming, terrifying, exhilarating warmth flooding his chest, tightening his throat, making his heart pound against your back–

this was it. this was the missing piece steve and sam had seen, the entanglement he’d so desperately denied.

and here he was, hard as steel against your ass, wrapped around you in your bed, drowning in the scent of you. the turmoil peaked, a mix of elation and sheer terror.

what now? what did he do with this? wake you? pull away? stay perfectly still and hope the universe implodes?

the warmth is a drug. it lulls the frantic edge of his panic into a heavy, drowsy thrum.

the realization – i like you, fuck i like you – is still there, but the physical comfort, the rightness of holding you, overpowers his fear.

his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you infinitesimally closer. his hips, moving on some deep, instinctual level he can’t control, gives a grinding roll against the perfect curve of your backside.

"jus’…" he mumbles into your hair, the words slurring against your scalp. "jus’ for a bit. s’cold… alone."

another slow grind. his cock throbs, demanding more. "feels better here… with you." he nuzzles the nape of your neck.bhis hand splays possessively over your stomach under the bunched-up hem of his shirt. his thumb finds the soft skin just below your navel. "so much better…"

you stir. a soft sigh escapes you. shifting, your legs tangling more with his, your hips pushing back slightly, unconsciously seeking the pressure, and warmth he’s offering. "mmm…"

bucky freezes for a split second. then, emboldened by your movement, he grinds again. deeper this time. a low groan rumbles in his chest, pressed against your back. "yeah… like that…"

you stir more. your hand, resting loosely on his thigh, flexes. your fingers curl slightly against his skin. your head tilts back a fraction more on his shoulder, exposing more of your throat. and then, so soft it’s barely a breath, muffled by sleep and the pillow, a sound escapes your lips.

"bucky…"

a name spoken in the deepest intimacy of sleep. so soft he might have imagined it, except every nerve in his body is screamingly attuned to you. his ears, pressed close to your head, perk up. his entire body stills, except for the frantic hammering of his heart against your spine.

did you…?

the memories flood back viewed through the lens of his newfound, terrifying clarity: your blurred shape behind the shower curtain, steam swirling, him washing his hands, staring, transfixed, babbling about anglerfish while his eyes traced the silhouette of your hip. you didn’t pull the curtain tighter. you’d smiled.

you stretching on the couch, the stolen tee riding up, exposing your stomach. his desperate lie about couch integrity. you’d laughed. called him a pervert, but with affection.

you reaching for the coffee pot in his shirt, leaning, the v-neck gaping. his eyes snapping down, then away, ears burning. you’d hidden a smile in your mug.

the kiss. the soft press of your lips on his cheek. the knowing look before you shut your door. the way you wore his clothes like armor, like comfort, like… home.

and now. his name on your lips, whispered in sleep, while he held you, ground against you, in your bed.

you shift again. this time, he's convinced you know what you're doing. a languid roll of your hips back against his hardness, and a soft, needy moan escapes you, deeper this time. it's unmistakable.

"bucky…" you breathe again, laced with sleep and something else… something warm and wanting.

you’re waking up. very, very slowly. but you’re not pulling away. you’re pressing back.

bucky’s breath catches when he realizes. the realization ignites into a wildfire.

he just reacts. his arms lock around you, pulling you impossibly closer. his hips surge forward, grinding hard against the soft swell of your ass, seeking the friction, the pressure, the you. "fuck… sweetheart…"

you gasp, a soft intake of breath. your body tenses slightly against his – not in rejection, but in startled awareness. the sleepy movements cease.

you’re fully awake now. he can feel the change in your breathing, the slight stiffening of your spine. but you don’t pull away.

you don’t push him off. you stay perfectly still, molded against him. the moment is filled with unspoken questions.

the silence stretches. you can feel his heart pounding now, echoing your own rhythm. his face is still buried in your hair, his lips pressed against the soft skin behind your ear.

"bucky?" your voice is a whisper, rough with sleep and something else… confusion? shock? or… anticipation? "what…?"

he doesn’t answer with words. his hips give another small, involuntary thrust against you.

the thin cotton of your panties, the worn fabric of his boxers, feel like the flimsiest barriers in the universe.

"cold," he rasps, the lie pathetic even to your ears. "was cold… alone. came… came to warm up." he grinds again, helplessly, driven by the ache and the feel of you pressed back against him. "you… you said my name…"

you turn your head slowly, carefully, on the pillow. your eyes meet his. sleep still clings to the edges, but awareness burns bright in the center. confusion wars with something warmer. his arm is still locked around your waist, his hand splayed possessively low on your stomach, the knuckles of his thumb brushing the sensitive underside swell of your breast where his shirt has ridden up.

"bucky?" you repeat. the sudden intensity of waking up wrapped in him. his hardness.. also undeniable. "i thought… thought it was a dream." your brow furrows slightly. "it felt like… like before."

he freezes, the grinding motion halted mid-push. "like… before?" his voice is rough with sleep and arousal and sudden sharp curiosity. he searches your face, inches from his own. "what d’you mean?"

you blink, the sleepiness making the words tumble out unfiltered. "yeah.. hmm.. last week. maybe the week before? woke up like this, you know? you holding me. felt so warm an' real. but then i woke up properly and you were gone. back in your room." you shift slightly, your hips moving unconsciously, seeking the pressure that had vanished in those dreams.

"thought i was just… imagining things…" you trail off, your eyes widening as the implications of what you’ve just admitted crash over your fully awake mind. the sleepiness evaporates, replaced by a dawning horror. "oh god. i didn’t mean—"

"you’ve dreamt about me?" bucky cuts you off, his voice dropping an octave lower. the words aren’t a question, they’re a statement loaded with disbelief. his grip on your waist tightens. "like this? holding you?"

your eyes are huge, locked on his. you can’t look away. crimson paints your skin. you give the tiniest, frantic nod. "y-yes. but… i didn’t… i mean, it was just… sleep stuff…"

he doesn’t let you finish. the admission shatters the last remnants of his hesitation. his hips, which had stilled, surge forward again. not a tentative grind this time. he presses himself hard against the covered curve of your ass.

"like this?" he grinds the words out, his gaze burns into yours, refusing to let you look away. "you dreamt me holding you… like this?"

a whimper escapes your lips. your body instinctively arches back into the pressure. "bucky…" it’s half-protest, half-plea.

"tell me," he insists. his hand, the one splayed low on your stomach, slides down. not far. just enough. his fingers curl around the soft curve of your hip, his thumb digging into the dip just above your hipbone. he pulls. firmly. guiding your hips back flush against his own, forcing you to feel the length of him grinding against you. "you dreamt me… grinding on you… just like this?" he punctuates the question with another roll of his hips, the movement dragging a moan from both of you this time.

"yes!" the word is forced out of you. your eyes are wide, filled with panic. "yes, okay? i did! i dreamt… i dreamt you holding me an' touching me," your breath hitches as his hand on your hip flexes, pulling you tighter against the insistent thrust of his cock. "i dreamt.. that.. your hands…"

his other arm, still wrapped around your waist, tightens. his knuckles press more firmly against the soft underside of your breast. "where?" he breathes, grinding again. "where did you dream my hands?"

you gasp, your head falling back slightly against his shoulder, exposing the line of your throat. your hips move now, not just accepting his rhythm but meeting it halfway. "everywhere," you whisper. "on my hips an' my stomach… higher."

the sexual tension, potent since he crawled into your bed. bucky's control frays. the image of you dreaming about his touch, combined with the feel of you grinding back against him the scent of your arousal mingling with the vanilla… it’s too much.

his hand on your hip slides lower, fingers slipping just under the elastic waistband of your panties, brushing the smooth skin of your lower belly. his thumb traces the edge of the lace where it meets your hip. "here?" he grinds outs. "did you dream my hands… here?" his knuckles press deliberately against the soft swell beneath your breast again. "or… here?"

your frantic nod is all the confirmation he needs.

the dam breaks.

the hand splayed low on your stomach slides down, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties. his touch is hesitant, grazing the delicate skin just above the mound of your cunt.

you gasp, loud in the quiet room, your hips jerking back against his cock in a reflexive surge of need.

"here?" bucky rasps, wrecked. his fingertips trace the edge of the panties where it meets your heat. "you dreamt my hands… here?" his own hips grind forward insistently, pinning you against him. "tell me."

"yes," you whimper. your head presses back hard against his shoulder, your eyes squeezed shut. "god, bucky, yes… everywhere…"

the last vestiges of hesitation burn away in the furnace of shared desire.

his fingers curl, sliding lower, finding the slick heat already gathering at your core through the thin barrier. he groans, the sensation making you shudder. "fuck… you’re so wet…"

he presses the pad of his middle finger firmly against the soaked fabric, right over the swollen nub hidden beneath.

you cry out, your back arching, pushing your cunt harder against his hand, your ass grinding back onto his cock. "bucky! please…"

the "please" undoes him. his hand cups you fully through the panties, the heel of his palm grinding against you while his fingers press and circle the bundle of nerves.

his other arm tightens like a vice around your waist, holding you flush against him as his hips piston against your ass in a demanding rhythm.

the thin layers separating you feel like torture. you both need skin. you need him.

"like… like the anglerfish," he mumbles against your neck, his lips brushing your skin, tangled with desire and the frantic need to make sense of this overwhelming fusion.

"the male. he fuses an' tissues dissolve an' he becomes part of her. permanently." he grinds hard, his cock throbbing against your ass. "sharing everything. blood, nutrients, life." his hand moves harder against your cunt, feeling you shudder. "we’re fused. like that. shared clothes, shared bed, shared dreams…" he punctuates each word with a thrust of his hips, a press of his fingers.

"your scent’s on everything. my clothes are yours. you sleep in my arms. dream.. dream 'bout my hands…" he nips lightly at your earlobe. "permanent fuckin' connection, s’what it is. symbiosis. mutualism. fuckin’ fusion…"

you writhe against him, your breath coming in short gasps. "bucky, oh god, yes…" your hand reaches back, tangling in his hair, pulling his face harder against your neck. "like that. just like that. fused…" you grind back onto him frantically. "steve, and.. an' sam… they knew. they saw it."

"they saw. saw what i was too fuckin’ scared to see." his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down roughly over the curve of your ass, just enough. his palm meets your slick and bare heat. he groans, a sound of pure animal need. "oh fuck, sweetheart…" his fingers slide through your wetness, finding your clit bare, swollen, and desperate for his touch.

he circles it. "see? no unnecessary entanglement?" he scoffs, grinding his cock hard against the exposed swell of your ass. "bullshit. we’re entangled. tangled up in each other. clothes, beds, breaths. this…" he slips a finger lower, sliding easily into your tight and wet cunt.

you cry out, your body bowing to his touch, and your cunt clenching around his finger. "bucky! yes!"

he pumps his finger slowly, curling it, finding that spot inside you that makes you writhe against.

"naked mole rats," he pants, his own breath ragged, hips still moving against your ass. it catches you off guard but the sensations, his fingers, hand..

"whole colony relies on the queen. workers, soldiers, all connected… all for her." he adds a second finger, stretching you, feeling your walls flutter. "you’re my queen, you know? stealing my hoodies, ruling my damn bed, stealing my dreams…"

he presses his lips to your shoulder blade. "an' i’m your worker, your soldier.. makin’ coffee, scramblin’ eggs, fuckin’ guarding the shower door while you’re steamin’ it up…" he thrusts his fingers deeper. "jus' protectin’ what’s mine. protectin' what’s fused to me."

your moans turn into a series of whimpers, biting your lip to stay silent. you’re trembling against him, your cunt gripping his fingers like a vice, your ass pushing back hard, seeking more friction from his cock. "i'm yours. fused, tangled.. oh god, bucky- i’m… i’m gonna fucking…"

"let go, sweetheart," he rasps, rough with possession and awe. he presses harder on your clit, pumps his fingers faster. "come for me. come for your soldier. your fused, fuckin’ anglerfish."

he nuzzles your neck, inhaling your scent – vanilla, sleep, arousal, him. "we’re not jus' roommates," he breathes, the realization settling deep in his bones, warm and terrifyingly right. "we’re fuckin' fused. permanently."

a strangled moan rips from your throat as your body shatters. you shiver against him, your cunt pulsing around his fingers, your back arching against him, your ass grinding hard against his trapped, aching cock as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you.

bucky holds you tight through it, groaning as he feels you clench and flutter against his fingers, "that’s it, my queen. take it, take fuckin' everything…"

the words are a vow. the final, irrevocable and inevitable acknowledgment of what steve and sam had seen all along. the platonic lie dissolved, leaving only the tangled, beautifully fused reality of you and him.

a long, trembling sigh escapes you as the last waves of your climax finally subsides. you're panting, limp against him for a moment. but the heat, the frantic energy buzzing between them, doesn't fade. it intensifies, shifts. your hand, which had been tangled in his hair, slides down his chest, over the damp fabric of his henley, lower... lower...

bucky groans. his cock throbbing painfully against your hip where you'd turned slightly.

he's still murmuring, the words tumbling out desperately streaming against your temple. "and the male anglerfish loses his eyes, internal organs, everything but the gonads, dissolved by her enzymes, just becomes a permanent sperm source, attached, fused, utterly dependent."

your fingers find the straining outline of him through his boxers. you palm him, firmly, feeling the hardness of his cock. bucky chokes, his hips jerking into your touch. "fuck."

"keep talking," you murmur, still breathless, but full of new determination.

you lift your head slowly. your faces are inches apart in the dimness. your eyes lock onto his. shifting, and turning fully onto your side now, facing him. your foreheads touch. your breath mingles with his. your hand never stops moving, rubbing him through the fabric.

"can't eat, can't see, just exists to provide, fused, symbiosis, extreme mutualism." his hips buck against your hand, seeking more friction. "oh god, sweetheart, please." he whimpers, eyes fluttering shut for a second, overwhelmed by the sensation and your proximity.

"more," you breathe. your other hand comes up, tracing the line of his jaw, rough with day-old stubble. your thumb brushes his lower lip.

"tell me more, bucky. about the fusion." your eyes drop to his mouth, then back to his eyes. the hand on his cock slips lower, fingers tracing the outline of his shaft through the fabric, dipping low enough to cup his balls.

he gasps, his head falling back against the pillow, exposing his throat. "the—the.. tissues integrate, capillaries connect, his blood flows into hers, nutrients, oxygen, and everything's shared." he's babbling, his voice cracking. "there's no separation. it's.. a.. complete biological union." his hips piston shallowly, helplessly, against your teasing hand. "sweetheart—i can't—"

your lips brush his, just the lightest graze. it's not quite a kiss. bucky whimpers again, louder this time. his eyes snap open, fixed on your mouth so close to his.

"keep talking," you whisper against his lips, your hand moves from his jaw, sliding down his chest, under the hem of his sweat-damp shirt. cool fingers find the hot skin of his stomach, tracing the tense muscles, dipping towards the waistband of his boxers. "tell me about the connection, bucky."

"is deep an'," he rasps, his voice shredded. his whole body is trembling. "irreversible permanent attachment, sustained by her, for—for life." he can feel your fingers hooking into the elastic. "oh fuck, please."

your hand slips inside his boxers. cool air hits his skin for a split second before your soft fingers wrap around his bare, aching cock.

bucky cries out, a sound of pure relief and overwhelming sensation. his back arches off the mattress, hips surging up into your grip.

you squeeze gently, your thumb sliding over the slick head, spreading the precum there. "shhh," you soothe, your breath warm against his lips. "keep talking, soldier. tell me." you start to move your hand, a slow slide up his length, then down, your thumb circling the sensitive head on each upstroke.

he's panting, words tumbling out in broken fragments, his eyes locked on yours, drowning in you. "circulatory systems are linked and shared heartbeat. they are.. one organism functionally." his hips move in time with your strokes, fucking your fist. "her needs dictate his existence, pleasure, sustenance—all from her."

you pull back, spit in your hand and tightens around his cock again. the slick sounds fill the quiet room. "is that what you are, bucky?" you taunt, still jerking his cock. "fused? existing for my pleasure? sustained by me?" you lean in closer.

"yes," he gasps, thrusting harder into your grip. "fused and.. yours! please, please."

"then kiss me," you breathe.

he surges forward, crashing his lips against yours. it's not gentle. it's desperate, claiming.

a fusion.

his mouth opens against yours, tongue seeking, tasting. you meet him with equal fervor, your hand never stopping its rhythm on his cock, the slick slide amplified by the meeting of your mouths.

he groans into the kiss, his hands tangling in your hair, holding your head captive as he devours you.

the dam breaks completely. the animal facts dissolve into incoherent moans, your name gasped against your lips, pleas and curses tangled together. "fuck, yes, sweetheart, don't stop—so good—fused an' yours—oh god."

his hips stutter, losing their rhythm, fucking wildly into your fist.

suddenly, pleasure detonates through him. he tears his mouth from yours, back arching off the bed as he comes. thick, warm cum spills over your fingers and onto his stomach.

he shakes, crying out for you again and again as the waves crash over him. his body pulls towards your grip. lost, fused, yours.

you hold him through it. your hand slowing down its movements on his cock, gentle and milking the last bits of tremors from him. your lips softly press damp kisses to his jaw, his temple, murmuring his name in praise. "my bucky, mine."

he collapses back onto the mattress, drenched in sweat and his own release.

he turns his head, lips finding yours again in a slow, deep, exhausted kiss, tasting salt and himself and you.

no more words about anglerfish. no more denials. just the shared breath, the tangled limbs, the entanglement you'd finally stopped fighting. fused. permanently.

his lips are soft against yours. the desperate hunger replaced by a deep exhaustion. all the anglerfish metaphors have dissolved into this quiet reality.

"bucky," you hum against his mouth, pulling back to see his eyes. they're closed. "look at me."

he forces his eyes open. his pupils are blown wide, swimming with a vulnerability. he lifts a hand and brushes his knuckles along your jawline, his touch so tender.

"fused," he whispers. "yours." his thumb traces your lower lip. "didn't lie about that part."

a soft smile touches your lips. "i know." you shift slightly, settling your head back onto his shoulder. your hand slides from his stomach to rest on his chest. "talked a lot about fish," you tease gently. "not much about... this."

he lets out a weak laugh, vibrating through his chest. "easier talking 'bout parasitic males than.. than.. feelings." his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer. "is scarier."

you trace idle patterns on the fabric covering his chest. "scary? what's scary?"

he's quiet for a moment. the only sounds are his breathing. when he speaks again, he says, "how much i like seeing you in my clothes."

you lift your head again, searching his face. "my stealing annoys you?"

"no!" the word bursts out, vehement. he flushes again, looking adorably flustered. "god, no. the opposite." he swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where the oversized flannel you still wear gapes open at the neck.

"it drives me crazy. see you walkin' around in my hoodie. my sleeves covering your hands. smellin' like my detergent, but also like you..." his metal hand flexes against your back. "makes me, i dunno, sit up and take notice." he risks a glance at your face, his eyes dark and intense. "makes me feel... possessive. in a good way."

warmth blooms deep inside you. "possessive, huh?" you tease, but your voice is soft. "like your socks?"

he groans, burying his face momentarily in your hair. "don't even get me started on the socks. seeing your little feet swallowed up in 'em. makes me wanna..." he trails off, shaking his head, a helpless smile touching his lips. "makes me feel needed. like i'm keepin' you warm. protectin' you. even if it's just from cold floors." he lifts his head, his eyes serious now. "it's stupid, i know. but it matters. you wearin' my stuff... it matters. it matters to me."

"it's not stupid," you whisper, touched by his raw honesty. you slide your hand up his chest, over his shoulder, to cup his cheek. "i like it too. feels safe. smells like you." you lean in, brushing your nose against his. "and i notice things too, bucky barnes."

his brow furrows slightly. "notice what?"

a knowing smile curves your lips. "how you stare." you let your gaze drift pointedly down, then back up to meet his eyes. "especially when i'm wearing just a tank top. or when your flannel slips." you deliberately let the collar slide a little further off one shoulder.

his gaze instantly drops, snagged by the exposed curve of your shoulder, the hint of the swell of your breast beneath the thin fabric of your tank top.

a fresh wave of pink floods his neck and ears. he looks utterly caught.

"i—" he stammers, trying and failing to drag his eyes back to your face. "it's... distracting. in the best possible way. impossible not to look. you're... god, you're beautiful. everywhere." his thumb brushes the exposed skin of your shoulder, sending shivers down your spine. "seein' you in my clothes. half outta my clothes... it scrambles my brain worse than any deep-sea pressure."

you laugh softly. "scrambles it enough to lecture me on fish sex?"

he groans again, but this time it's laced with amusement and affection. he finally manages to meet your eyes, his gaze holding yours with intensity, the embarrassment fading into something deeper, warmer.

"maybe," he admits, genuine smile finally breaking through. "but only 'cause—'cause i was tryin' so damn hard not to just grab you and kiss you. tell you how much i wanted you. how much more than just the clothes... or the shared bed. i wanted this." his hand tightens on your hip. "wanted you. all of you."

it's a different energy now. not frantic need, but a deep, resonant connection. his admission hangs there.

"i wanted you too," you whisper "more than i wanted to admit. 'specially when you'd get all flustered looking at me." you trace the line of his jaw with your finger. "all that talk of symbiosis, mutualism... it wasn't just about the fish, was it?"

he shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. "no. it was... hope." he swallows. "hope that what we had... wasn't just roommates sharin' space. hope it was somethin' that fed us both. somethin' that kept us both alive." his thumb strokes your hip bone through the flannel. "somethin' permanent. fused."

"like the anglerfish?" you tease gently, but your eyes are serious.

"better than the anglerfish," he murmurs, leaning in, his lips brushing yours. "because we both get to keep our eyes. and our internal organs. mostly." he kisses you then, slow and deep and sweet, pouring all the unspoken feelings into the touch—the possessiveness, the need, the overwhelming affection, the sheer relief of finally being honest.

"and we both get this," he breathes against your lips when you finally part. "this is a choice. this... entanglement. together."

you melt into him, kissing him. your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

the flannel, his socks, the shared bed, the terrifying documentaries... they weren't just practicalities. they were threads weaving you together, a tapestry far more complex and beautiful than any biological analogy. and as his arms wrap around you, skin to skin, where the flannel has finally slipped completely off your shoulder.

the honesty in his eyes ignites a spark deep within you. the slow sweetness shifts.

his hand slides from your hip, up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair. it’s not rough, but it’s firm, possessive in a way. he cups the back of your neck, his thumb pressing gently just below your ear.

"closer," he rasps. "need you closer."

he pulls, guiding you towards him as he leans back slightly against the pillows.

you move instinctively, shifting your weight, one knee sliding over his hip, then the other, until you’re straddling his lap.

the thin fabric of your panties and his pants is suddenly too much, a frustrating barrier. his eyes lock onto yours as you settle over him. the line of his arousal presses against you, hard even through the layers.

"bucky..." you breathe, the word more a sigh than a name.

"yeah," he answers, his gaze dropping to your lips. "this. exactly this." his hand finds your waist, fingers splaying possessively, while his other hand remains at your nape, holding you steady. "forget the fish," he murmurs, leaning up to capture your mouth again.

this kiss is different. deeper. the slow exploration replaced by a shared urgency. his tongue strokes yours, a claiming touch that draws a soft moan from your throat.

your hands slide down his chest, fumbling with the buttons of his henley. he groans against your lips as your fingers brush his skin.

"off," he pants, breaking the kiss only long enough to yank the henley up over his head, tossing it blindly aside.

his chest is broad, beautiful in the dim light. your fingers trace the lines of muscle, the ridges of old wounds, before moving to the hem of your tank top. you pull it off in one swift motion, making your nipples tighten instantly.

his gaze rakes over you. "fuck," he breathes, his metal thumb brushing over the swell of your breast. "even better than i always imagined."

you lean down, kissing him fiercely, your hands busy with his waistband. he lifts his hips, helping you push them down, kicking them off.

the feel of him, hard and hot against your core, even through your panties, makes you shudder.

you break the kiss, scrambling back just enough to hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, pushing them down your legs.

he watches, rapt, as you shed the last barrier.

then you’re back, settling over him, skin against skin this time. the shock of contact—his hard length pressed against your wet heat—draws a gasp from both of you. he grips your hips, his fingers digging in, holding you still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours.

"god," he whispers. "feel that? feel how... connected?" his hips lift slightly, grinding against you, the friction exquisite. "like... like the fusion," he pants, his eyes searching yours, wide with awe and desperate need. "but mutual. reciprocal. both givin', both takin'..." he thrusts up again, harder this time, making you cry out. "not one dissolving. but both... feeding the fire."

you nod, unable to speak, rocking your hips against him, seeking more of that perfect pressure. his hand slides down your back, over your ass, urging you on.

"yes," you manage to let it out, despite it all. "like that, bucky. more."

he grips your hips tighter, guiding your movements as you begin to rise and fall against him, not taking him inside yet, just grinding, building the friction.

"the anglerfish fused for survival," he groans, his head falling back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut for a second before opening to watch you, to watch where your bodies meet.

"this... this is more. this is our life." his hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "this is choosin' to be tangled. to be consumed..."

you lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, increasing the pace, the slick slide of him against your clit sends pure pleasure up your spine. "bucky... please... need you..."

he understands. his hand slides between your bodies, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they find your entrance, slick and ready.

he guides himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against you. his eyes lock onto yours, questioning.

"now," you gasp, pushing down. "inside me."

a groan rips from his chest as you sink down onto him, taking him deep in one smooth stroke.

the stretch, the fullness, the sheer rightness of it steals your breath.

you stop, fully seated, trembling, adjusting to the feel of him buried inside you. his hands grip your hips, his knuckles white, holding you steady as he fights for control.

"christ," he chokes out. "you feel s'perfect. wrapped around me. so fuckin' tight..." his hips lift minutely, a shallow thrust that makes you gasp. "like—like the perfect symbiosis. mutual benefit. you... takin' me in..." another thrust, deeper this time. "...me filling you..." his eyes blaze with an almost primal possessiveness. "both thriving."

you begin to move, rising slowly, then sinking back down, setting a rhythm that makes him curse, his head thrown back against the pillow.

"yes," he hisses, his hands moving to your breasts, kneading, thumbs circling your nipples. "just like that. ride me, sweetheart. take what you need. give me what i need."

you lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, increasing the pace, the slick slide of him against your clit sends pure pleasure up your spine. "bucky... please... need you..."

he understands. his hand slides between your bodies, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they find your entrance, slick and ready. he guides himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against you. his eyes lock onto yours, questioning.

"now," you gasp, pushing down. "inside me."

a groan rips from his chest as you sink down onto him, taking him deep all at once. the stretch, the fullness, the sheer rightness of it.

you stop, fully seated, adjusting to the feel of him buried inside you. his hands grip your hips, holding you as he fights for control.

"christ," he chokes out. "you feel s'perfect. wrapped around me. so fuckin' tight..." his hips lift minutely, a shallow thrust that makes you gasp. "like-like the perfect symbiosis. mutual benefit. you... takin' me in..." another thrust, deeper this time. "..me filling you... and—an' both thriving."

you begin to move, rising slowly, then sinking back down, taking him deep again. "oh god," you whimper.

"that's it," he rasps, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "fuck, look at you. riding me. takin' me so deep." you set a rhythm, rising and falling, each descent making him curse, his head thrown back against the pillow.

"yes," he hisses. his hands move to your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak hard against his palms. "just like that. ride me, sweetheart. take what you need. give me what i need. fuck ... you feel incredible."

you lean forward again, taking his mouth in a messy, hungry kiss as you ride him harder. the angle allows him to hit that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.

the sounds of your breathing, the wet slide of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings, and your combined gasps and moans are the only thing you can hear. his hands roam your back, your ass, gripping your hips, and pulling you down harder onto him with every thrust upwards, meeting your movements.

"so fuckin' good," he groans. "so tight. so perfect. wrapped around my cock like you were made for it." he bucks up, driving deeper into you. "perfect fuckin' pussy. takin' every inch. milkin' me."

you gasp, the coil tightening unbearably. "bucky... harder..."

he obliges, his thrusts becoming more forceful, roughr. "look at me," he demands. you lift your head, meeting gaze. his hands leave your hips, sliding up your torso, fingers tangling in your hair, framing your face. he holds your head steady, forcing you to look directly into his eyes. the raw need, the possessiveness, the awe present.

"so fuckin' beautiful," he breathes, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "mine. all mine. look at you. ridin' my cock. takin' it so deep." his gaze drops for a second, down to where your bodies are joined.

"god, you've got the prettiest fuckin' cunt, my girl. so pink. so wet. stretched around me." he looks back up, locking eyes again. "prettiest sight i've ever seen." he pulls your head down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moan as he pistons up into you, hitting that spot relentlessly. "my girl. my perfect girl."

the kiss is desperate, tongues tangling, fueled by the rhythm of your bodies. you feel him get harder and twitching inside you, his thrusts becoming more less controlled.

he breaks the kiss, panting harshly against your lips. "gonna fuckin' cum," he warns, his voice strained, ragged. "fused.. but—but gonna— fuckin' ... can't hold it ..."

"me too," you gasp, the coil snapping tight, ready to burst. the pressure builds, white-hot and undeniable. "c—cum with me. cum together... please, bucky—"

he sits up suddenly slightly, wrapping his arms around you tightly, crushing you against his sweaty chest as he thrusts up into you with deep, almost brutal strokes.

the shift in angle, the force, the feel of his chest against yours, his arms locking you in place—it sends you hurtling over the edge. a cry tears from your throat as the orgasm crashes through you, wave after wave of convulsing pleasure and your inner walls clenching and fluttering around him in pulses.

"fuck—yes, holy shi—" he moans, his own release triggered instantly by your heat and the tight, rhythmic clenching.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck, kissing slightly as his whole body shudders in pleasure while he empties himself deep inside you.

"yours—yours. god, fused an' yours..." he thrusts shallowly through the aftershocks, his cock pulsing within you, filling you with his warmth.

you collapse against him, feeling the beat of his heart against your chest, the hot spill of his cum within you.

he holds you close, his breathing slowing down from gasps to deep and satisfied sighs that ruffle your hair. his lips press kisses against your shoulder, your neck, your temple, his hand smoothing down your back in circular strokes.

"not just surviving," he murmurs with exhaustion, and utter contentment. his flesh hand cups the back of your head, holding you gently against him.

"thriving. definitely thriving." he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. a soft, sated smile touches his kiss-swollen lips. he brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead. "best mutualism ever."

fused wasn't just a metaphor anymore. it was a promise, and it was home.

req prompt. Can i request for a perv dormate/roomate bucky in college where he’s always staring at the reader’s boobs, he also has a crush on the reader and they got really close to each other that now she’s stealing his shirts and him not minding about it until one night he got a dirty dream about them then he woke up and look at her sleeping wearing his shirt with no bra and with just lace panties underneath. Maybe he climbed on my bed because he cannot resist it anymore and dry humped her until she woke up and they fucked…

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lemoniceteee · 8 hours ago

Text

My Only Ghost

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader!

Summary: After not talking to you for a few weeks, Rhett randomly shows up at your door asking if you can patch him up.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Jealous (light)/Protective Rhett, Mentions/Descriptions of Bruises, Cuts, and Blood, Reader patches Rhett up (Cleans off his wounds), Mentions of Parental Loss (Brief), Emotionally Tense. Reader and Rhett are Friends, A few Derogatory Comments made by a male character (not Rhett) about Reader

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Oral Sex (Female Receiving), Face Grinding, Breast/Nipple Play, Biting, Scratching, Licking, Light Choking, Finger Sucking, Spit and Drool, Hair Pulling, Messy Sex? Emotional Sex? Sensual Sex? Yes, Yes, and Yeeeeessss. Overstimulation, Aftercare, Dirty Talk

Author’s Note: Y’all I love protective Rhett and writing that side of him is fun as hell. Anyways! I hope you enjoyed it <3 HAPPY (LATE) RAF :D (got delayed cause life happened, but! Glad to get this out :))

Word Count: 13,550

You were in your trailer watching television, though nothing on the screen was truly registering with you. The low blue glow cast flickered shadows across the narrow living room, bathing the walls in quiet movement. Some late-night rerun of a cooking show hummed in the background–muted, and forgotten. It was a show that you’d seen a hundred times but left on just to feel like you weren’t completely alone.

It was late. Past one in the morning at least. Time had started to bleed together recently, the days blurring into nights with little distinction beyond the change in light. You sat curled up on the worn corner of your couch in a robe, with just a pair of underwear underneath. Your legs were tucked beneath you and a half-finished cup of tea was cooling on the windowsill beside you. The steam had long since faded, leaving behind nothing but a bitter scent of over-steeped chamomile and peppermint.

Your paperwork was spilled out across the coffee table like an avalanche–receipts, ledgers, invoices, all creased and stained from too many cups of coffee being set down on them. You had been bringing your work home for weeks now, trying to juggle the impossible balance between running the storefront, managing inventory, keeping the lights on, and remembering to eat more than a granola bar before bed, and you had found a new appreciation for how your father was able to run things on his own until he passed away. The stress clung to you like humidity–thick and inescapable, pressing into your chest, robbing you of rest. Every time you closed your eyes, your brain kept churning through numbers and to-do lists, and it was like all you could see were bright stick notes with your chicken scratch handwriting scrawled across it. Sleep wasn’t rest anymore–it was a negotiation. One you continuously lost.

And without anyone to talk to, you had turned inward. Become a recluse. You hadn’t stepped foot inside a bar in nearly a month, hadn’t gotten a text from anyone that wasn’t related to work or bills. The silence in your trailer had grown into something bigger than space. It was a constant presence now. Something that sat beside you at your kitchen table and climbed into bed with you when the lights went off.

You were alone.

And that has always been your greatest fear. Not spiders, not failure–just that one aching truth

Being alone. Being without your people.

Or more accurately–now that both your parents are gone–being without your person.

Because Rhett Abbott, without warning or explanation, had decided weeks ago that he didn’t want to talk to you anymore. He had not ghosted you so much as completely vanished. One day he was there–half-laughing at his own dumb joke with a beer in one hand and his other arm slung around the back of your couch, the scent of dust, and saddle soap clinging to his clothes–and then the next…He was gone. No text. No call. No drunken voicemail asking if you were still up. No late-night truck in your driveway with a bag of takeout and that crooked smirk like he hadn’t just made your chest feel too tight for its bones.

It had all just…Stopped.

You had gone over the last day you saw him like it was a crime scene. Playing it back in your head on repeat, searching for the metaphorical bloodstains, cracks, and warnings. Was there something off about his expression that morning? Something strange in the way he lingered at your door, or the way he avoided looking you in the eye when he said see you later? Did you say something too sharp? Too honest? Too serious?

Was it all your fault?

That question had dug its claws in and refused to let go. Every little memory of Rhett over the past few months had taken on new, sharper edges. You tried to remember the warmth, but all you found were shadows of what once was.

Your eyes drifted to your phone resting face down on the arm of the couch. Still. Quiet. Not a single notification. You had not realized how long you’d been waiting for it to buzz until that moment. Like some part of you still hoped his name might light up the screen. But it hadn’t.

And then–

Three hard knocks echoed on your trailer door.

Your head snapped toward the sound, spine going stiff as your eyes locked on the door. Tuning into the sound of gravel. The crunch of it under boots. Faint and retreating. Of someone backing away.

You stood slowly, tightening the sash of your robe with a jerk and instinctively hugging it closer to your body. Your bare legs prickled in the chilled air as you crept toward the narrow window right beside the couch, peeking through the blinds with your heart in your throat, already halfway between panic and absolute terror, then the person came into your line of sight.

”What the fuck,” You whispered, before you even had time to process it.

You stormed over to the door and yanked it open so hard it banged against your wall, the rusted hinges squealing in protest, You stepped barefoot onto the warped wood of your makeshift porch, the cold biting into your toes, but you didn’t feel it.

You were too busy staring down at him.

Because Rhett Abbott had moved off the porch like he didn’t deserve to stand on it. Like he had come all this way just to keep his distance.

He stood on the gravel, a little hunched, arms hanging loose at his sides. His red and black flannel was torn at the shoulder, sleeves rolled halfway up to reveal the stark white of the shirt beneath–white that was now soaked through with dull red stains, deepening at the wrists. His knuckles were split open, swollen and scraped raw. You could tell he had tried to make fists, maybe out of habit, maybe from the nerves that wracked his body, but he couldn’t fully close them. The skin was too busted, too painful.

There were bruises forming on his cheekbones and there was a smear of dried blood caking at the corner of his mouth. His bottom lip was split open, puffed and cracked. Someone had gotten a few good hits in. You weren’t sure if he gave worse than he took, but judging by the defensive wounds, you had a good guess.

He wasn’t wearing a hat. That struck you more than it should’ve.

His hair–light brown and usually slicked back with some effort–was a mess. Disheveled. Like he had run his hands through it over and over, clawed at it while pacing or fighting or falling apart in some parking lot with a girl clinging to him. It curled slightly at the ends from sweat and dirt, catching the light like static.

And then there were his eyes.

Dark blue in the limited lighting. Tired. Fixed on you with an expression you couldn’t name. Not guilt exactly, not regret either. But something knotted and desperate that he had buried within his chest. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Like he had been running for hours with no destination–just the ache of some invisible thing chasing after him.

And now, here he was.

You stood at the top of the steps, arms crossed tight over your chest. Holding yourself together. Making sure you didn’t fold just because he finally showed up. His gaze dropped for a second–at your bare feet, the edge of your robe brushing your thighs, then quickly returned back up to you. His jaw flexed, and he winced at the sharp pain that jolted through the bone, before he spoke.

”Hey…” He rasped. His voice was almost unrecognizable. Dry. Guttural. Like it had been scraped raw from shouting or swallowed down over and over again until it hurt to speak. He gulped, but it didn’t help. You could see it–his Adam’s apple bobbing like his throat was made of sandpaper.

His eyes flicked up to yours again, lingering a second too long, and then dipped to the robe wrapped around your frame like linens from your bed. He felt almost ashamed for noticing, but the thought had already crossed his mind, the burning question of if you were wearing anything under it.

He blinked hard, and chased the thought out of his head like a moth in a room full of candles. But then he saw your face and whatever ghost of want had flickered in his chest was crushed by the look you were giving him. The anger. The rage. The bitterness you’d been holding onto for weeks that had come rising to the surface; from the unanswered questions, to the sleepless nights, born from the silence he had left you in.

And it twisted your expression into something he didn’t have the right to be wounded by…But it hit him anyways.

”What the fuck are you doing here, Rhett?” Your voice came out more levelled than you expected, smooth and tight like a wire pulled taut between two stubborn hands. But it didn’t hide the way your chest rose and fell, too fast, like your lungs were trying to catch up with the sight in front of you. The wind cut low and suddenly through the clearing, curling up the hem of your robe and brushing against your thighs. You shivered, teeth clenching as goosebumps prickled along your skin–but you didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. You just kept your arms locked across yourself, hoping the ache in your sternum wouldn’t be detected.

Rhett’s face immediately twisted into a look of guilt, the kind that came from realizing he might’ve broken something he couldn’t fix. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his boots grinding against the sand and gravel in a nervous rhythm.

“Got into a bar fight,” He muttered, voice cracking halfway through, “Then I walked here.” You stared at him, jaw tense, eyes locking onto his face. Depending on which bar he had this fight at, the walk was definitely more than half an hour. Your trailer wasn’t really near much, so that meant he trekked through the pitch black streets to make it to you, only lit by passing headlights of cars. A part of you hated how much you felt for him in that moment, but you held your ground.

Rhett’s fingers rose to his mouth as a fresh droplet of blood slid from the corner of his lip. He caught it with the pads of them, smearing it absently over his freckled, sun-kissed cheek like it was an afterthought. It stood out against his skin like ink on a page.

”Figured you could put that first aid trainin’ to good use and patch me up,” He added with a weak half-smile–like it might soften the blow. Like the joke could erase the last three weeks.

But you didn’t laugh, nor did you crack a smirk.

Instead, your eyes narrowed, and your arms pressed tighter to your body, the cotton of your robe twisting at your elbows like you needed something to hold onto just to keep from shaking, or from adding to the bruises with a smack.

”What makes you think I want to help you after you’ve been radio silent for weeks and pretending I don’t exist when you pass me in town?” You asked, voice low and sharp. There was venom in your words, the kind that built quietly under your tongue, waiting for the moment it could finally spit itself out. Rhett cleared his throat.

“Because deep down…You still care ‘bout me and my wellbein’. And ‘cause…” He gestured to himself with one battered hand, half-lifting it before grimacing at the pain, “I don’t think I can walk back to the bar in this condition.” You stared at him. That same tight wire of emotion hummed low in your chest–rage, hurt, disbelief–but threaded beneath it, almost painfully, was the truth. Because he was right. Some dark, stubborn part of you still cared. Still ached. Still couldn’t stand the sight of him bleeding. You let out a huff.

”Well. I guess you better get used to sleeping on gravel then,” You snapped, spinning on your heel, “Cause I’m not letting you in.” You grabbed for the doorknob, the cold metal stinging against your fingers–but before you could twist it, his voice came again, quieter this time. Raw and ragged with something close to regret.

”Those three weeks were hard for me too, y’know…” Your spine went rigid, “Not a…” He swallowed hard to try and cure the dryness in his throat, “Not a day went by where I wasn’t thinkin’ of you, Y/N.” You froze. The wind picked up again, slicing through you with cold that had nothing on the heat blooming under your skin. You turned back toward him sharply, your voice trembling–not with weakness, but with pressure. With fury that had been corked too long.

”So why the fuck did you do it then, Rhett?” Your voice rising like the storm you’d been holding back for weeks, “Why did you leave me like that when you knew what I was going through?! When you knew I had no one left?!” Your throat burned. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your heart felt like it was trying to tear free of your ribs. Rhett looked like he’d just been punched again. He winced–not from the pain in his ribs or his split lip, but from you. From your words. From the truth in them. He dropped his gaze, jaw tight, then shook his head slowly. Not to deny you. Not to run again. But because he knew.

”There’s no excuse,” He said finally, voice hoarse, “None.” His eyes lifted again, locking with yours. For the first time all night, they weren’t guarded. They weren’t darting around or shadowed or cast to the floor.

They were bare.

”But I can give you an explanation,” He continued, “It may not fix it…But maybe it’ll make you understand.” He stepped forward once–just one pace closer to your porch, staying outside the boundary–but close enough now that you could see the cracks. Not just the ones on his knuckles or his face. But the ones in him.

”Please just let me in, Y/N,” He said, voice breaking on your name, “I promise, I’ll tell you everythin’.” The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You stared at him. At his ruined hands. The bruises blooming across his cheeks. The blood that was still drying at the corner of his mouth, and that slipped from his busted lip. At the man who disappeared without a word and then showed up like this–wrecked and wrecking you all over again.

Part of you wanted to scream. Part of you wanted to slam the door in his face and let the gravel teach him a lesson. But an even bigger part–the one that had gone quiet lately, the part that missed the sound of his laugh in your trailer and the way his boots used to creak on your floorboards–wanted to drag him inside and hold him until he fucking shattered. To embrace him and his warmth–the thing you truly missed the most.

You inhaled slowly, the cold night air burning the back of your throat.

Then you opened the door again.

Wider this time.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

Because Rhett stepped forward, climbing the steps, slow and careful, like crossing into the threshold of your trailer meant crossing into something holy. Something he didn’t deserve–but was praying he could still touch.

He stepped inside, bloodied and broken, and the door closed softly behind him.

The warmth of your trailer wrapped around Rhett the second he entered, soft and heavy like a wool blanket that was left too long by the heater. It clung to him with a quiet intimacy, starkly different from the sharp night wind he had dragged in on his shoulders. His body sagged the moment the tension began to bleed from it–boots thudding as he kicked them off, one after the other, using the faded paneling of your wall for balance. He leaned his weight there for a second, just to breathe.

The trailer wasn’t big, but it held you in every crevice. That was the first thing Rhett felt again, because you lived in the details of everything: the pair of worn cowboy boots by the door, the chipped enamel mug by the sink, the crooked magnet with the Wabang Rodeo Logo on the fridge, all your photos with your mother and father, and with his family as well. The linoleum was peeling near the corners, but the space was warm, scented faintly of the peppermint and chamomile tea that Rhett always made for you when he came over, fabric softener, and something so distinctly you it almost knocked him over–the smell of strawberry fields, or sweet summer air when the ground cooled down after a long day of burning beneath the sun.

The overhead light flickered when you stepped into the kitchen, casting a soft amber glow across the space. It was one of those old, yellowed incandescents that made everything look like a memory. The bulb buzzed slightly, just under the hum of the refrigerator.

Rhett watched you move.

You didn’t say a word when you reached for the first aid kit beneath the sink. You just placed it on the scarred wood of the kitchen table and pulled out one of the mismatched chairs–old, dark-stained, and creaking with use. You motioned to it, not looking at him.

”Sit down,” You muttered, voice low, “Let me get you a bag of peas for your face.” He nodded once, sheepish and sore, and crossed the trailer in stiff steps. His back curved slightly as he lowered himself onto the chair, hissing quietly when the pain lit up his spine–like hot embers sizzling on an open flame. The kitchen table groaned under his weight, and his hands braced the edge for a moment, knuckles raw and trembling.

You bent toward the old freezer chest in the corner–one of those blocky white ones that had probably been here since the early 2000s–and popped it open with your hip. The cold air fogged around your thighs as you reached inside. Rhett’s eyes followed the curve of your robe, the tension in your shoulders as you grabbed the first thing you touched. The bag of frozen green peas.

The lid shut with a soft thud.

You turned and walked back over, pressing the bag into his calloused hand. His fingers curled around it on instinct.

“Ice it,” You instructed, your tone clipped, motioning to his face. You dropped into the chair beside him at the head of the table, close–but not close enough for comfort. Your arms crossed again over your chest. Your jaw locked tight. You didn’t look at him right away. Just watched the grain of the wood.

He brought the frozen bag to his cheek, the coldness kissing the heat that bloomed on his skin. It made him flinch, and a sharp reluctant hiss slipped past his teeth as the chill sank into the swelling. You didn’t say anything, you just watched him from the corner of your eye, the muscles in his face flinching when he adjusted the bag to try and cover more surface area. He noticed, and felt your stare like a wire tightening across his neck.

“I don’t know where to start…” You finally said, “I have a lot of questions.” Rhett lowered the bag an inch and turned his head, blue eyes glancing toward yours. They were a little glassy now. Not from pain. From the weight of what was coming.

“Maybe we start simple,” He muttered, voice hoarse, but steady for once. “Then go from there.” You gave a small nod, bouncing your leg beneath the table out of nervousness, the fridge rattling from how fast it was moving.

”Why did you stop talking to me?” You asked, flat and simple, keeping your voice in check, making sure it was sturdy. You could see the way Rhett clenched his jaw. He inhaled deeply, slow and steady, and shifted the bag of peas from one cheek to the other. The muscles in his arm tensed when the cold made contact again, and he closed his eyes tightly for a moment, breathing through the ache. When they opened again, they landed on you–and they didn’t waver this time.

“I stopped talkin’ to you,” He began, voice gravel-soft, “Because I saw you at the bar…With David Fairvale.” The name landed like a stone in your gut. You blinked, your brows furrowing slightly as your throat dried. You hadn’t expected that.

Your brain reeled at the mentioning of his name, automatically being taken to the night in question. You had deliberately chosen a different bar than the usual ones Rhett frequented, thinking it was safer that way. It had been a one-off. A maybe-date. A shot in the dark you hadn’t even mentioned to your best friend because you didn’t want to jinx it. Because deep down, even then, it hadn’t felt real. David was someone you met at your store, a regular your father always used to mention in good spirits, continuously hinting that he would be a great guy for you, a perfect match–even though he was oftentimes gunning for Rhett. You never batted an eye at him until he asked you to have a drink with him at a bar of your choice, and because all you had was your fathers voice in your head, you wanted to give it a try–do something that you hadn’t done for him when he was still alive…

“I saw you laughing with him,” Rhett continued, quieter now, eyes lowered to the table like he couldn’t bear to meet yours, “You were holdin’ his arm. You looked…Happy.” There was something agonizing in the way he said that last word. Like it wounded him just to recall it, “Happier than you’d been in a while. And I didn’t wanna ruin that for you. Didn’t wanna be the reason you couldn’t have that.” You didn’t say anything, and you stayed frozen in your spot. But your heart cracked, right down the center. Rhett turned his face to the side, almost ashamed.

“Every time you’ve gotten yourself a boyfriend, it always ends with you breakin’ up because of me. And I thought maybe this time–maybe you’d finally get somethin’ good. Somethin’ easy. Somethin’ I couldn’t fuck up just by bein’ in your life…” Your hands curled tightly into the fabric of your robe in your lap. He wasn’t wrong. You had ended more than one relationship over him. But not because of anything he did–not directly. Your partners hated him, resented him, didn’t understand why you always dropped things to go see Rhett when he called, didn’t get why you let him into your trailer at one in the morning, or why you laughed harder with him than with anyone else. They didn’t get that Rhett wasn’t just another guy. He was…Everything.

He had always been your person. Even when he wasn’t yours in the way you wanted him to be.

”I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t think it would even become something,” You explained, “And evidently it didn’t cause I only went on one other date with him and ended it…But you didn’t even give me a chance to explain that. You just left without a word and ignored me.” You added, voice trembling out of hurt.

“I know.” He dropped the bag of peas onto the table with a soft thud and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. His hands were curled in front of him, raw and trembling from the tension the bruises created. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I saw you smilin’ like that and I just…Panicked. I felt like I’d overstayed my welcome in your life. Like maybe I’d been selfish for holdin’ onto you for so long and bein’ dead weight.” You shook your head slowly, heart hammering in your chest

”Rhett…” You started, voice cracking on his name, “You’re not dead weight. Christ–you’re not even close to that. You’ve been there for me through thick and thin, and you’ve seen me at my rock bottom. How could you possibly think that way?” He shifted in the chair, looking small for the first time in his life. His shoulders slumped like the words landed heavier than any punch he’d taken earlier. His voice came quieter this time, raw and vulnerable.

“I…I don’t know. It was just a feelin’ I got…” You bit the inside of your cheek and looked down at your lap, blinking away the sting in your eyes.

“Well…Your feelings were wrong,” You whispered. “And you ended up hurting me in the process of your overthinking.” He nodded, slow and solemn, his head bowing until he was staring at the blood-streaked denim of his jeans. You could see the tension still working along the curve of his neck, the same one you used to rest your head against during late-night movies and slow drives down country roads. Now it just looked heavy–like his shame had sunk into his spine.

”And I’m sorry for that, Y/N,” He said, “And I’m going to be tryin’ to make it up to you for a long time…” Your lashes fluttered. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone anywhere, but it had shifted. Softened slightly. Just enough to let breath in. You glanced down at his hands, at the trembling fingers and busted knuckles, bruises blooming dark along the ridge of each bone like flowers in rot.

There was a silence, intimate and pulsing, before you let out a breath and leaned forward. You opened your first aid kit with practiced hands, snapping the latch and lifting the lid. The contents were familiar–cotton swabs, gauze rolls, butterfly closures, antiseptic spray, tape, a dull pair of scissors, a tube of numbing cream tucked into the corner. You looked back at Rhett.

”Let me see them.” His head rose slightly, blinking like he didn’t expect the shift in the tone in your voice. You motioned towards his hands, “I’ve got some numbing cream that might help ease the pain a bit…First I gotta clean them though.” He hesitated, then offered you his right hand first, stiff and slow like lifting it hurt. His fingers were curled slightly inward, the joints swollen, the skin cracked and bloodied. You took it carefully, turning it palm up in your own hands, cradling it like something fragile.

The calluses were still there, still solid beneath the bruises–ranch boy hands. Familiar hands. You ran your thumb gently over his wrist, just to steady him before you reached for the antiseptic.

“This might sting,” You warned.

“I think I can take it,” He rasped.

You met his eyes, and something flickered there–just a spark of the old Rhett, stubborn and proud. It made your heart twist.

You soaked a cotton pad and began to dab the worst of the cuts. He flinched at first, then relaxed beneath your touch, exhaling slowly as your fingers worked with gentle care. The trailer was quiet save for the rustle of gauze, and Rhett’s quiet breaths. Each touch lingered longer than necessary–your thumb smoothing down the side of his wrist, the back of your fingers brushing his palm as you adjusted the angle.

When you finished cleaning the worst of the wounds, you reached for the numbing cream and unscrewed the cap. The scent was faintly medicinal, clean and cool, minty even. You squeezed a small dollop onto your fingers and gently began to work it into his knuckles, rubbing in slow, circular motions.

His breath hitched. Not in pain.

In something else…Something close to relief.

“So…Are you going to tell me how this all happened?” Rhett hummed low in his throat, leaning back slightly as you took his other hand into yours. It was just as bad–if not worse. The knuckles looked more raw, and there was a patch of gravel embedded near the base of his thumb that would need careful attention. You reached for a fresh cotton pad, letting your thumb brush over the ridge of his palm, grounding him.

“It’s…A very long story,” He muttered, eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion.

You looked up at him through your lashes, your voice steady despite the tremor it carried. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon…So enlighten me.” He let out a sigh.

”Okay…” He whispered.

————————

Rhett had gone to The Hollow looking to take his mind off of you. This had been a normal occurrence for the past three weeks since he had stopped talking to you.

Alcohol gave him a way to fill the emptiness–the gaping hole that your absence left within him. Three weeks of drowning in silence, in guilt, in the ache of not knowing if he had done the right thing by stepping back and knowing it was a stupid decision.

When he arrived he wasn’t looking for trouble. Just something to make the night pass easier. A few quiet drinks. Maybe some polite small talk with the waitress, maybe not. He was planning to people-watch from a corner booth until closing time, then he would call Perry to come haul his sorry ass home.

But then he walked up to the bar, and he saw him.

David Fairvale.

The face he wasn’t expecting to see. He was posted up with two of his friends, leaning against the bar like he owned the place. His dark brown hair was slicked back under a sweat-stained ball cap, a scruffy beard patching his jaw unevenly. His nose was sharp and a little crooked–probably broken once and left to set wrong–and his cheekbones jutted out under tanned, leather like skin. His eyes were a deep rich brown, but there was something behind them, behind the fake kindness. And when he smiled, a few crooked teeth peeked out.

He was all bark. All ignorance. And an absolute fraud, because his true personality was out tonight.

Rhett kept his head low, ordered his beer in a little muttered voice, and tried to pretend that David wasn’t three stools down from him.

But then he heard it.

That voice. Too loud. Too sure of itself. Laced with drunken confidence and ugly cruelty.

”A bitch in grief is also a bitch in heat. She lost her Daddy, meanin’ she was in search of a replacement, am I right?’ Rhett stopped breathing and time seemed to stretch and warp around him, the buzzing lights of the bar dimming behind a white-hot haze of rage. Because he knew that David was talking about you.

Almost instantly, Rhett made his way over to where he sat, and grabbed him by the collar, yanking him off balance so hard that the barstool clattered to the floor behind him. The room jerked with sudden energy–pool cues stilled mid-stroke, conversation fizzled like a flame snuffed out, and all that remained was the sharp scrape of boots across old wood and the low growl that left Rhett’s throat as he slammed David’s back into the edge of the bar.

The impact echoed. A hollow, painful sound that reverberated off the walls and quieted even the jukebox in the back.

David’s friends flinched, eyes wide, half-stepping forward like they might intervene–then immediately backed off when Rhett turned his glare on them. There was something in his eyes, in the feral tightness of his jaw, that made them hesitate. He was burning. Rage smoldering through him like kindling had been soaked in gasoline and struck with a match.

David, to his credit–or maybe to his idiocy–smirked.

“Abbott,” he croaked, lips curling around the blood already blooming at the corner of his mouth, from where his teeth had sunk into his own skin when he was slammed into the edge of the bar, “Fancy seein’ you here.” He shifted slightly in Rhett’s grip, boots barely touching the floor, body pinned tight between him and the bar.

“Seems like you wanna stand up for your little fuckin’ Buckle Bunny now, huh?” His voice was slick with venom, a taunt coiled in every syllable. “You wasted her time stringin’ her along like some sad bastard and she got sick and tired of waitin’ around for your sorry ass and came to little old me.”

Rhett’s grip tightened.

David grinned wider, even as his windpipe strained against the pressure.

“And now you wanna be all macho?” he rasped. “Now you give a shit? It’s too fuckin’ late, cowboy. Fuckin’ pussy.”Rhett’s lips peeled back from his teeth, his nose practically brushing David’s. His voice came low. Lethal. Unmoving.

“You say one more fuckin’ thing about her,” He snarled, “and I will break your fuckin’ face, Fairvale. I’ll catch a charge. You just say the words.”

David laughed. Short. Nasty. Blood and whiskey already staining his breath.

“She came cryin’ to me,” He spat. “When you ghosted her like a coward. Beggin’ for my attention on her hands and knees like a fuckin’ dog…” He smirked, slow and mean. “You trained her well, Abbott.”

And that’s when Rhett snapped.

He slammed David into the bar again, hard enough to make the bottles behind it rattle like a warning. Then his fist reared back and crashed into David’s jaw—once, twice—knuckles splitting open against bone. Blood sprayed from David’s mouth as his head snapped back, but Rhett didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

He wasn’t thinking anymore. He was just fury. Just instinct.

David threw a wild punch in return, but it glanced off Rhett’s ribs, barely phasing him. Rhett hit him again, lower this time, right in the stomach, and David doubled over with a grunt, breath punched out of him.

That’s when his friends stepped in.

One of them grabbed Rhett by the shoulders from behind, trying to yank him off. Another took a swing at his ribs–a hard, blind hit that made Rhett stumble for half a second, breath catching sharp in his lungs, getting a few additional punches in. But even then, even surrounded and bleeding, he didn’t let up. Adrenaline was burning hot through his bloodstream, hotter than rage. It drowned out the pain. The ache in his knuckles. The splitting fire in his lip. The bruises that were forming somewhere in his side, and on his face.

All he could hear were those words. That voice. That smug, cruel smirk behind every syllable David had spit out.

So Rhett kept swinging.

His fist caught one of the friends square in the jaw–sent him stumbling back into a table that screeched across the floor. Another came at him from the side, but Rhett threw an elbow without looking, catching the guy in the shoulder. It was chaos. An eruption. Bottles falling, chairs scraping, voices shouting in the blur of fists and bodies.

He wasn’t sure how long it lasted.

All he remembered was the weight. The pressure of bodies pushing into him. The taste of blood at the back of his tongue. The way every muscle screamed but still moved. His body was bruising with every second, but his fists didn’t stop–not until someone finally grabbed him in a chokehold from behind and dragged him off David, arms locked around his throat like a vice.

That’s when it all broke apart.

Voices yelling. Hands hauling him toward the exit. The barkeep shouting over the chaos. Other patrons finally stepping in, trying to separate the mess of limbs and blood and broken glass.

Rhett’s boots scraped the floor as they threw him out.

He landed hard on the steps outside, stumbling to his knees in the dirt. His ribs lit up in pain. His palms scraped against the gravel. He tasted blood, and his head was ringing, but none of that mattered.

Because the second he was on his feet, limping and disoriented, he knew exactly where he needed to go, and who he needed to see…

And that was you.

He didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t care that it was late. That it was past midnight. That his face was a mess and his shirt was ruined and his hands were shaking with adrenaline and shame and something far deeper, darker.

He just started walking.

Down long, quiet roads. Past gas stations and shuttered storefronts and flickering signs. The cold pressed into the sweat on his skin, soaked through the blood staining his shirt. His whole body ached, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The thought of you sitting alone in your trailer, thinking he didn’t care, thinking he had just left and didn’t want you anymore–he couldn’t take it.

He needed to explain.

He needed to see your face, even if it meant seeing the hurt in your eyes.

He needed to tell you everything–even if you never forgave him.

Because you were his person.

———————

Once the story was laid out in front of you, all you could possibly do was sit in your seat in absolute shock. Your hand was still wrapped around Rhett’s as he finished, your fingertips resting against his bruised knuckles, but you’d long since stopped tending to the wound. The antiseptic pad had gone limp in your other hand, forgotten. The moment he mentioned David’s voice in that bar–those words about your father, about you on your knees, begging–your pulse had spiked so violently it made your ears ring.

Your chest was burning.

But not from grief. Not just from rage.

It was something else entirely.

Some kind of heat you couldn’t name–a bloom of blistering vindication and raw, bone-deep affection that tangled itself around the pain in your throat and wouldn’t let go.

You stared at Rhett, his words still echoing in the low hum of the trailer. Your eyes flicked down to his hand again, to the split skin across his knuckles, the torn edge of a callus that hadn’t had time to heal, the slight tremor still running through his fingers. Your thumb brushed gently across the ridge of a bruise.

”Thank you for defending me…” You whispered, Rhett’s hand flinched in yours like instinct–like he might lace your fingers together if he didn’t stop himself first. He hesitated halfway through the motion, then let his hand settle against your palm again, the tremble still there. Like a heartbeat. His eyes flicked to yours–deep, bruised blue beneath lashes darker than usual from dried blood and shadow. Rhett’s throat bobbed with a swallow.

”You don’t have to thank me,” He murmured, voice thick and worn, “You know I’d do anythin’ for you…” The air in the kitchen shifted, warm and unbearably still. That simple truth lingered between you like smoke. Like something half-buried in ash and memory that could still catch fire if you so much as breathed too close. You held his stare for a moment too long. Long enough to feel the heat creep up your neck. Long enough to feel his hand twitch again…So you pulled back gently, clearing your throat.

”Let me get a cloth so we can wash your face…” Rhett nodded, his jaw tense, his lips parted just slightly as though he’d say something else–but didn’t.

You stood and walked to the kitchen sink, opening the drawer beside it to grab a clean cloth. The faucet creaked when you turned it on, the pipes clanking faintly behind the walls. The trailer always sounded louder in the quiet. You let the water run warm before soaking the cloth, wringing it out until it was damp but not dripping. The warmth settled into the fabric, steaming faintly as you carried it back to the table. You pulled your chair closer to his this time–closer than you had before. Not out of necessity. Just because.

You could hear his breath catch for a moment, before he slowly exhaled.

You were in his space now. His knee brushed yours and he didn’t move it. Didn’t flinch. The moment you leaned in, your scent hit him–vanilla and maple, the lotion you always used. Familiar. Soft. It wrapped around him like the comfort of old memories and things he thought he’d lost when he decided to stop speaking to you.

He didn’t look away. Not once.

Your eyes were focused on his face as you lifted the cloth. Carefully, you dabbed at the blood dried along his jaw. You worked your way upward, across the gash near his temple, down the bridge of his nose. You were gentle, even when the cloth brushed the cut on his lip that made him wince, even when your hand trembled ever so slightly.

“I still have some of your clothes in my room…” You said, voice soft but steady as you lowered the cloth, “If you want to get changed.”He blinked, as if pulled from a trance, nodding.

”That’d be nice…Don’t really want to be in these anymore.” You set the cloth down on the table and stood again, reaching out without thinking–both hands offered, palms up. Rhett looked down at them, then slowly slid his fingers into yours. His grip was weak, awkward with the bruises, but the warmth of his hands still felt like the same old Rhett.

You helped him to his feet, his balance faltering for a moment. His body leaned into yours slightly, a faint grunt of pain escaping him as he stood too fast. You let him steady himself, your hands still on his. Your fingers were hooked around the inside of his wrists now, grounding him. Your eyes met his again, closer now than they had been at the table. His breath hitched faintly.

“Come on,” You said gently. “I’ll help you.”

And with his hands tucked in yours, you led him down the narrow hallway of your trailer, toward your bedroom.

You slowly pushed open the door, the familiar creak of the hinges followed by the soft click of your thumb brushing the dresser light to life. A low, red glow washed across the space–warm and dusky like a sunset caught in a bottle. The bulb in that little salt lamp had always tinted the room like this, casting a sleepy haze across the walls and deepening every shadow. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough to see well in.

Your room looked exactly the same as the last time Rhett had been here.

The bed was still made in that haphazard way you always left it after rushing through the morning–one side neat, the other just a little more lived-in. Your pillow slightly flatter than the rest, the top comforter kicked askew at the corner. The window above your headboard had a scarf draped over the curtain rod to dim the early sun when you wanted to sleep in. It fluttered slightly now in the breeze from the cracked pane, casting soft patterns of lacework shadows on the floorboards.

Across from the bed, your dresser bore the clutter of memories. A small frame with a picture of you and your father leaning against his old truck at the county fair–his arm slung proudly around your shoulders. Another with you and Rhett at the Wabang Rodeo, your cheeks smudged with dirt, his arm hooked around your waist, a crooked grin tugging at his lips as you held up the buckle he had just won. The same buckle that now sat atop your bookshelf, nestled between dusty paperbacks and a small collection of rodeo souvenirs–frayed wristbands, old drink tokens, a cracked clay horse figurine you’d bought on a whim together.

You crossed the room slowly, bare feet soft against the worn rug beside your bed. Your robe shifted as you moved, brushing the backs of your thighs and rising just a fraction when you reached up to open your closet door. Inside, the scent of cedar and lavender sachets wafted out, and you reached to the top shelf without thinking–fingers brushing over the folded fabric until you found what you were looking for.

A soft pair of plaid pajama pants and the old faded t-shirt Rhett had left behind months ago. It still smelled faintly of him. Of salt and dust and leathery cologne. You set the bundle carefully at the edge of the bed, your hands resting on your hips as you turned toward him again.

“You need me to help you?”

Rhett had been standing just inside the doorway, quiet and still, but the second your voice cut through the hush, he looked up. His jaw clenched softly–maybe from pain, maybe from the intimacy of it all. He gave you a sheepish, lopsided little smile.

“Maybe just…Stay in the room? I don't want to fall over and make more of a damn mess of myself.” A small smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“Fair enough.”

Rhett nodded and stepped toward the bed, slow and careful, fingers fumbling with his torn flannel shirt–he winced as he peeled it off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor with a rustle. The white long sleeve beneath clung to his torso, stained and damp, torn slightly at the hem where someone must have grabbed him during the fight. He moved his hands up, grimacing as he reached for the collar.

“Here,” You murmured, stepping in without hesitation. “I’ll help you with this.”

He froze. Then slowly turned to face you, his body inches from yours in the low red light. Your hands reached out, fingers brushing lightly over the hem of the shirt. He was warm. Too warm. Like every inch of him was radiating with something just beneath the surface–heat, pain, adrenaline, grief.

You began to lift the shirt carefully, inching it up his lean torso, careful not to catch the edges on any of his bruises. His skin revealed itself slowly–flush with color, mottled in places with dark bruises already forming across his ribs and beneath his arms. You heard him exhale through gritted teeth when you reached the midpoint, the faintest groan slipping from his lips as you helped tug the shirt over his head.

His hair fell in front of his face, framing it slightly, as you let the top fall to the floor beside the flannel.

Your eyes roamed over his body. The bruises and the strength etched into his chest. The way his shoulders curved and flexed with every breath. The fine, sun-warmed freckles scattered across his collarbones. The inked shape of the bull rider tattoo over his chest–something about it still looked defiant even now, surrounded by the aftermath of violence. Bruised, yes, but not broken.

You lifted your eyes again, only to find his already on you. Unmoving. Steady. Oddly clear in the red-tinted glow of the room. There was something raw there. Unspoken. The kind of look that landed heavy between your ribs and stayed there.

For a moment, neither of you said a word.

You weren’t sure who was going to break the silence first. You weren’t even sure if you wanted it broken.

Because the air between you had grown thick–thick with all the things you hadn’t said, with all the time you’d spent apart, with the weight of him standing here in your room again, shirtless and bruised and looking at you like maybe you were the only steady thing in his whole damn world.

Rhett’s lips parted slightly as he let out a shaky breath, the air between you trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. His fingers moved slowly–tentative, trembling–as he reached up and cupped your cheeks, rough knuckles brushing along your jaw with the care of someone holding a memory. His thumbs traced the delicate skin beneath your eyes, and your lashes fluttered closed at the contact–unable to stop the way your body leaned into it, into him.

His palms were warm and his touch was featherlight.

You exhaled softly, and your hands rose without thinking–wrapping gently around his wrists. The beat of his pulse was strong beneath your fingertips, thudding in a frantic rhythm, fast and anxious and alive. You held him there, as if grounding him in your touch would calm the way his pulse bounded.

Then you opened your eyes again.

His gaze was already on your–dilated, molten blue in the glow of the salt lamp. And when you took a step closer, your chest brushed against his. Bare skin to cotton. Warmth seeped through the thin fabric of your robe, and his breath caught audibly between you.

Neither of you spoke.

You could feel it. His body coiled like a wire beneath your hands, but steadying. Waiting. Wanting.

He tilted your chin up just slightly, the pad of his thumb brushing along the edge of your jaw, and leaned in–just enough for his lips to ghost over yours. Barely there. Soft as the breath between two heartbeats. He was gauging you, giving you an out. His mouth hovered, trembling.

But you didn’t move away.

Instead, you gave the tiniest smile–crooked and knowing–and whispered, “You gonna kiss me or just breathe on me all night?”

That did it.

Rhett let out a low, broken exhale–half laugh, half moan–and finally leaned forward, closing the sliver of space between you. His lips met yours with aching tenderness. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was everything you wanted and needed it to be.

It was a kiss that tasted like an apology. Like longing. Like everything he had been trying to bury for so long and couldn’t anymore.

You could taste blood on his lips–the faint copper that lined the gash on his lip–but you didn't care. You kissed him like it didn’t matter. Like nothing did except for the way his mouth moved against yours, slow and careful, his breath warm against your cheek. Your hands slid from his wrists and ghosted over his bare sides, fingers splaying gently across his torso, careful not to brush too hard against the bruises that bloomed at his ribs.

His body trembled under your touch.

Your lips parted slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make his breath catch again. His hands slipped back along your jaw, fingers grabbing your hair at the base of your neck, pulling you infinitesimally closer. You pressed into him, soft and slow, your heart thundering against your chest.

He pulled back a fraction, breathless, his forehead resting against yours, the heat of his breath mingling with your own in the quiet, charged space between. His hands–still trembling from adrenaline, exhaustion, and something deeper–held the base of your neck like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, just one heartbeat of stillness, and when he opened them again, they were softer than you’d ever seen. Vulnerable in a way that reached somewhere deeper than bone. Somewhere sacred.

“You’ve been in my head since we met during my first circuit…And Every damn time I tried to push it down, to pretend I didn’t feel what I felt, it just got worse. Louder. Meaner. I’d see you smile and it’d ruin me, because I knew I’d never deserve that smile, but God, I still wanted it more than breath.” Your throat burned with the weight of it. He shook his head softly, eyes glossy but bright.

“I missed you so much it made me sick. I kept tryin’ to convince myself that you’d be better off…But I realized that I ain’t better off without you. I’m a fuckin’ mess without you.” A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. Rhett’s thumb brushed it away like he’d done it a thousand times before. So gentle it made your ribs ache.

“I-I love you, Y/N…” He whispered, “I’ve loved you for so long I don’t remember what it’s like not to.” You felt your lip tremble.

“I love you too, Rhett…” You breathed, eyes locked to his, “I think I always have. I just didn’t know how to say it…” His breath hitched. A sound so soft, so wrecked, it cut through you like silk tearing.

He kissed you again.

This time it wasn’t cautious or tentative. It was tender but full of heat, the desperation tangible and absolutely palpable in that moment. His lips moved against yours with more urgency, more pressure. Still slow, still careful with your mouth like it was something he cherished, but now his hands were moving too–sliding from your jaw to your hips, pulling you closer. You felt him everywhere. His warmth. His ache.

And when he broke the kiss, gasping softly against your mouth, his hands lowered to your waist, and he guided you gently backward, easing you down until you were sitting on the edge of your bed.

The mattress dipped beneath your weight. The hem of your robe brushed your thighs. Rhett’s eyes lingered on you for a moment, his lips parted, chest heaving with the weight of everything he was feeling.

And then you reached forward.

Your fingers moved to the worn leather of his belt, unbuckling it with slow, deliberate care. His jeans were already riding low on his hips, stained and battered from the night–but you took your time with the button, the zipper. You watched his expression the whole time. He didn’t look away, didn’t stop you. His breathing grew heavier, his hands flexed at his sides.

You pulled the jeans down over his hips and thighs, easing them past his legs until they pooled at his feet. He stepped out of them, now left in only a pair of snug black boxer briefs that clung to his frame like a second skin.

Your gaze flicked down–he was hard already, tenting the front of the briefs–but what made your pulse spike was the look on his face when you looked back up at him through hooded lashes, the scorching want that burned through him.

He reached forward.

Slow, steady fingers found the knot of your robe, and with a quiet exhale, he tugged the sash loose. The fabric parted softly around you, fluttering open.

You weren’t wearing a bra. Just a pair of black underwear, simple and soft–but Rhett’s breath caught in his throat like it was the most devastating thing he’d ever seen.

His eyes trailed down your body with aching slowness. Over your bare collarbones. Your breasts. The curve of your waist. Every inch of exposed skin lit by the red hush of your lamp.

And then he sank to his knees in front of you.

Like gravity pulled him there.

His hands rose carefully, and cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing lightly across your nipples. You gasped at the contact, your back arching slightly, hips shifting toward the edge of the bed. Rhett leaned in without a word, his lips brushing over your sternum, your collarbone, then lower.

He kissed the curve of one breast first. Just a soft, wet kiss. Then another. His breath ghosted across your skin before his mouth opened fully, tongue sliding out to lick a stripe slowly over your nipple. You whimpered. He groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut as he wrapped his lips around you, sucking gently. The sensation sent a wave of heat through your entire body.

You tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged lightly. He moaned against your chest, the vibrations shooting straight through you. You shifted again, scooting forward until your thighs framed his hips, until your breasts were fully pressed to his face and he welcomed it, burying himself in you.

His tongue circled, then flattened, then flicked–slow and sensual, like he was learning you by taste alone. His free hand massaged your other breast, palm warm and solid, fingers curling and squeezing as his mouth continued its worship.

You gasped again, clutching his hair tighter, and he growled–a low, broken sound–as if the pressure, the closeness, undid him.

He pulled back for just a second, lips slick with spit, and looked up at you, his eyes shimmering, glistening with lust, with pure desire.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” He whispered, voice cracking. “About you like this. About bein’ here. Touched you in my sleep more times than I can count, thinkin’ it’d never happen for real.” Rhett’s eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and hazy, pupils blown wide with want as his breath ghosted hot across your chest. He kissed the slope of your breast again, tongue flicking against the swell, and then he leaned in–slowly, deliberately–and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

He moaned against it like it was the first real taste of you he’d been starving for.

His tongue lapped at the sensitive peak, slow at first, then deeper, wetter. The suction was gentle but persistent, his mouth working in rhythmic pulses, the scrape of his stubble igniting every nerve it brushed. You gasped, head falling back, spine arching as your fingers clenched tighter in his hair.

“Rhett…” You whimpered, breath catching in your throat.

He pulled back, lips glistening, then leaned toward the other breast, kissing a wet trail between them before taking the second nipple into his mouth. This one he sucked harder, tongue swirling in steady circles, teasing you until your thighs shifted around him restlessly. The warmth of his palm covered the breast he’d just left, squeezing softly in tandem with the slow pull of his mouth.

“I’ve thought of you doing this to me for so long…” You whispered, voice barely audible through your breathless panting. “I should’ve told you…Sooner.”

Rhett let out a throaty moan around your nipple before pulling off with a soft pop, his lips swollen, jaw slack, breath hot. He nuzzled against your breast, the tip of his nose brushing tenderly along the curve.

“Love hearin’ that,” He rasped. “Love hearin’ that you were thinkin’ about me like this…While I was layin’ in my bed, picturin’ this exact moment with my hand down my boxers.” He kissed the underside of both breasts now–one, then the other–his stubble brushing across the sensitive skin, trailing fire behind it. Then he pressed his palm flat between them, against the thud of your heartbeat.

“Lay back for me,” He murmured, voice low and heavy, his thumb stroking just above your sternum. “Want to fulfill another one of my fantasies.”

You obeyed without a word.

Your back met the mattress, shoulders sinking into the sheets, and the robe pooled around your sides like a fallen curtain. The air felt thicker now, scented with your arousal and his breath, heat rolling off your skin as Rhett’s hands trailed slowly down your sides–fingertips grazing your ribs, your waist, the dip of your hips. He reached the waistband of your underwear and hooked his fingers beneath the soft fabric.

Then he paused–just long enough to look you in the eye again.

You nodded.

That was all he needed.

He tugged them down, watching every inch of skin reveal itself with a kind of hunger that bordered on reverence. The underwear slid down your thighs, past your knees, your ankles, and then they were gone—tossed somewhere off to the side, forgotten. He exhaled shakily, eyes dragging back up your now-bare body, and when his gaze landed between your thighs, his lips parted in awe.

“Jesus Christ…” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re perfect.”

He reached forward and gently pushed your knees apart, spreading you open with careful hands until your legs were draped over either side of his shoulders. He adjusted his position on the floor, kneeling at the edge of the bed like a worshipper at an altar.

Then he dove in.

His tongue was hot and slick the moment it touched you, licking a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance up to your clit. You cried out, hands flying to his hair, back arching. He groaned into you, burying his face even deeper, nose nuzzling your clit as his tongue lapped again, slow and filthy.

It was messy.

Obscene.

His spit mixed with your arousal, coating his chin as he devoured you with the kind of hunger that came from too many nights left wanting. His arms curled around your hips and over your stomach, pinning you down as you started to grind against his mouth. The motion sent his nose bumping your clit again and again, the friction enough to make your thighs quake.

“Fuck…Rhett…” You gasped, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clawing at his forearm. “You feel so fucking good…Don’t stop–”

He didn’t.

His tongue circled your clit, then flicked it, then flattened against it with slow, dragging pressure. He moaned again–loud this time–and the vibrations sent a jolt through your core.

“Could eat this sweet pussy all damn night,” he growled against you, breath ragged, lips glossy. “You taste better than anythin’ I ever put in my mouth.” You whimpered, legs trembling around his shoulders. The pressure in your belly coiled tighter, sharp and white-hot, and you couldn’t stop the way you moved–grinding into his face like your life depended on it. Rhett loved it. You could feel it in the way he groaned, in the way he held you firmer, as if he didn’t want to miss a single second of it.

“Used to jerk off in my truck thinkin’ about spreadin’ you open just like this–watchin’ you come undone on my tongue…” Then one of his arms slipped off your waist. You didn’t have time to ask why before you felt his hand between your legs, two fingers sliding through your slick folds, circling your entrance. And then slowly he pushed them in.

You cried out, hips jerking.

His mouth stayed on your clit, lips sucking, tongue flicking, while his fingers curled inside you, working in tandem with every grind of your hips. The heel of his hand pressed to your mound, anchoring you while he pumped into you, slick and strong and hot.

“You’re so tight,” He panted against you, voice strained, “so wet for me—fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me already.”

Your head rolled back. You were gone. Completely lost in the rhythm, in the way his nose nudged your clit every time you rocked forward, in the way his fingers stroked deep inside you, hitting every spot that made your legs tremble.

“You gonna cum for me, sweetheart?” He asked, voice rough, desperate. “Gonna soak my fuckin’ face? Want you to–wanna taste all of you. Want it messy. Wanna see what I’ve been missin’…Want my first fix so I can become addicted to you.”

You let out a strangled cry, fingers tightening in his hair as the pressure inside you finally snapped. Your whole body seized and shuddered, thighs clenching around his head as your orgasm ripped through you like a wave, sharp and blinding and wet. Rhett groaned deep in his throat, licking through it, his fingers slowing as you pulsed around them. He didn’t stop until you whimpered from the sensitivity, hips twitching from overstimulation. Only then did he finally ease back, dragging his mouth away with one final slow lick, his lips and chin completely soaked, hair wild between your fingers.

He looked up at you from between your thighs–wrecked, panting, and pupils fully blown out and dilated. His mouth lingered where your climax had soaked his skin, his lips brushing reverent, open-mouthed kisses along the trembling insides of your thighs. His breath was still ragged, warm and uneven against the slick sheen of your skin, and every time he pressed another kiss to your flesh–soft, tender, almost worshipful–the heat inside you only swelled higher. Like you hadn’t just come undone. Like your body was still chasing more.

The wetness on his lips smeared faintly along your skin as he mouthed at the soft skin of your legs–slow and indulgent, as if he wanted to mark you with it, wanted to brand every inch of you in the scent of your own pleasure. Your breath caught when he sucked at the skin just above your knee, then dragged the flat of his tongue along the crease where your thigh met your hip. His eyes flicked up to yours as he moved, dark and hazy, pupils blown wide and locked on your face.

And then, with a slow exhale, he finally let his fingers slip free from inside you. Your body twitched at the absence–empty and aching already. But you barely had time to process the loss before Rhett was rising, pushing himself up to his full height. He loomed above you, a silhouette of bruised muscle and heat, the red glow from your salt lamp casting flickering shadows along his bare torso. The muscles in his stomach flexed with each breath, and for a moment, he just stood there, watching you. Drinking you in.

Then he brought his soaked fingers to your mouth.

His hand moved slowly, almost trembling. Two fingers, slick and glistening with your arousal, hovered near your lips. The scent of antiseptic clung faintly beneath the raw sweetness of your release, and when he traced them gently across your bottom lip, your breath hitched.

“Open for me,” He whispered.

You did.

Without a word, you let your lips part, tongue flicking out to meet him. Rhett’s pupils dilated even further, a groan catching low in his throat as you sucked his fingers into your mouth. The taste was strange–clean and sharp, tinged with the tang of latex antiseptic, and copper–but underneath it all, unmistakably you. Sweet and earthy and intoxicating.

You hollowed your cheeks around them, letting your tongue swirl and press along each digit. He watched every second like it was the most sinful thing he’d ever witnessed. Like it might kill him to see it again, but he’d beg for the honor.

“Fuck…” He hissed, voice ragged. “You got no idea what that does to me.”

You moaned around his fingers just to drive him mad.

He slipped them out slowly, wet and glistening with your saliva now, and trailed them down your chin, letting the mix of fluids smear slightly across your skin. He followed the line with his mouth, licking and kissing down your jaw, then finally caught your lips in another kiss–hot, open, tongue sliding against yours without restraint. You tasted yourself on him. He groaned against your mouth, his hand slipping into your hair again, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, to take more.

The kiss turned feverish.

Sloppy.

Messy.

Your lips moved against his with a kind of shared desperation, mouths parting and meeting again in a wet, gasping rhythm. His teeth grazed your bottom lip. Your nails scratched along his hips. And then–just as the friction between your thighs returned like fire licking up your spine–he shifted.

Still kissing you, Rhett moved one hand to your side and gently pushed, easing you further back on the bed. You went willingly, lips breaking just long enough for a shared breath, then he followed you onto the mattress, crawling on with that same predatory reverence.

He settled between your legs, then slowly sat back on his haunches, your thighs draped across either side of his narrow waist. His rough hands slid up your legs, holding you open, palms flat to your skin as he took in the sight of you again–your flushed chest, your damp skin, your glistening folds still twitching from the aftermath of his mouth.

And then…he reached for the waistband of his boxer briefs.

The fabric strained against the hard outline beneath, the front soaked through with precum. His cock was aching against the cotton–thick and hard and heavy–and when he hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband, he did it slowly. Like he knew the moment he revealed himself would change everything.

He pushed the briefs down.

And your breath caught.

Rhett’s cock sprang free, long and flushed, the tip angry red and glistening with precum. A thick vein traced along the underside, curving up toward the broad head. He was already fully hard, his length bobbing slightly as it met the open air, thick and gorgeous and absolutely dripping for you. His skin was mottled with heat, dusky at the tip, his shaft thick enough that your mouth watered at the mere sight of it.

You felt your cunt pulse at the visual–tight and aching again, already greedy for him. Rhett wrapped a hand around the base of himself and stroked once, slow and languid, letting his thumb brush over the slick head.

“You see what you do to me, sweetheart?” He asked, voice hoarse, “Haven’t even been inside you yet and I’m already about to fuckin’ lose it.”

You whimpered.

Your back arched faintly every time he rocked forward, the base of his cock rubbing against your slick folds, teasing you with just enough friction to make your breath catch, but not enough to ease the ache. He was grinding into you with slow, delicious pressure, the tip of him catching against your clit every few strokes, making your thighs twitch and your hands fist the sheets beside you.

Rhett braced himself above you again, arms planted beside your head, the length of his body warm and strong against yours. His cock pressed between your thighs, trapped against your folds, grinding slow and steady as his mouth found yours again in another searing kiss. The drag of him was maddening. It was everything.

“Feel that?” He asked against your mouth. “That’s how bad I want you. That’s how fuckin’ long I’ve been dreamin’ of this.”

You nodded, gasping, your hips lifting into him.

“I need you inside me,” You whispered, voice cracked with need. “Please, Rhett…”

He groaned, deep and wrecked, grinding into you harder now, his cock sliding slick against your entrance. You could feel how wet you were. How close you already were again, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet.

“I got you, darlin’,” He rasped, “I’m gonna give it to you…Gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel me for days. Just keep lookin’ at me, alright?” And with that, he adjusted his hips–lined himself up at your entrance–and began to press inside.

The head of his cock slipped past the slight resistance at your core with a stretch so perfect it made your mouth fall open on a soundless gasp. Your back arched immediately, breath caught between your ribs like it was snagged on barbed wire.

“God—Rhett…” you whimpered, eyes fluttering.

His gaze was locked to yours, unwavering, dark and wide and burning with something that felt older than your bones. He paused halfway in, jaw clenched, his arms trembling slightly from the restraint it took not to rut into you all at once.

“Shh, baby,” He murmured, voice cracked and reverent. “I know… I know it’s a lot. You’re so tight–fuck, but you’re takin’ me so damn good already…” His hands framed your hips, holding them steady, thumbs brushing your skin as he gave you time to adjust. You blinked at him, your mouth parted, chest heaving as he began to sink deeper–inch by inch–until he was fully buried inside you.

The stretch was dizzying. He filled you in a way no one else ever had, thick and hard and perfect, the weight of him pressing right against every place you needed. The sensation made you dig your nails into his thighs without thinking, clawing gently into the muscle like it might help you hold on to sanity.

“You’re soaked…And so fuckin’ warm. You’re heavenly.” He groaned, feeling you shift under him as your legs slowly wrapped around his waist.

”Can’t believe you’re inside me….It feels…So fucking good Rhett.” He looked down at you, completely wrecked by the sight–his cock sheathed to the hilt inside your dripping core, your lips parted, your body open and trembling for him.

”I know…And You’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight, so fucking good.” And then he began to move. Slow at first. Controlled. Deep, shallow thrusts that let you feel every drag of his cock inside you. His hips pressed low, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. Each stroke made your mouth fall open wider, your hands skimming up his bruised ribs and onto his chest, fingers splaying over the heat of his skin like you were trying to memorize it.

“You so fuckin’ good baby…” Rhett groaned, voice cracking at the end. “Better than I imagined–better than every fuckin’ fantasy, every late-night dream…Everythin’.” He leaned down, bracing his forearms beside your head, and started to kiss your neck. Wet, open-mouthed kisses that dragged along your pulse point, trailing down to the hollow between your collarbones. He nipped at your skin gently, moaning every time you clenched around him. His thrusts became a little faster. A little more desperate.

“Can’t believe I almost let this go,” He rasped. “Can’t believe I walked away from the best fuckin’ thing in my life…”

You felt your own eyes burning now. The pleasure was too much. Too intense. You tugged at his hair, fingers sliding through the sweaty strands and pulling hard, just to hear the sound he made.

It worked.

He groaned–loud and ragged–thrusting harder as his body chased the friction, the rhythm of your hips matching his perfectly. Your other hand slid down his back, nails dragging hard enough to leave raised lines in his skin. He gasped at the sensation, his whole body jerking.

“Fuuuck–yeah, scratch me, sweetheart… Mark me up… I want it–I want every part of you on me…” The sound of skin slapping filled the room, wet and filthy, mingled with your cries and his ragged moans. Your bed creaked beneath you, rocking with every deep thrust. Rhett buried his face in your neck again, groaning so loudly you could feel it in your chest.

“Gonna cum…” You whimpered, the words a broken sound from the back of your throat. “Rhett…I’m gonna…”

“I’m right behind you, baby…” He groaned, voice raw with strain. “Keep lookin’ at me–wanna see your face when you fall apart on my cock…”

You barely made it.

Your orgasm hit you like a wave crashing to shore–sharp, hot, and overwhelming. You cried out his name as your entire body clenched around him, legs locking tight around his waist as your back arched off the bed.

“Fuck…Fuck, I’m cumming.” You sobbed, nails digging into his flesh. Rhett growled–deep and hoarse–and with one final thrust, he spilled inside you, hips jerking as he moaned loud and unfiltered against your skin.

And before you knew it, you felt the heat of his release flood inside you–warm and thick, dripping already from how hard he had slammed into you. But even through the sensitivity, even as your body trembled from overstimulation, he didn’t stop.

He kept moving.

Slow, dragging thrusts as he fucked his cum deeper into you, moaning softly with every pass of his cock through your twitching walls.

“That’s it…” He whispered, dazed and reverent. “Take it all–let me give you everything, sweetheart…”Your body trembled beneath him, overstimulated and wet and gasping for breath as another orgasm began to build–too fast, too much, but so goddamn perfect you didn’t care.

You whimpered, legs shaking, and he grabbed your hand.

His bruised, battered hand found yours, and he laced your fingers together.

“Come with me again, darlin’,” He whispered against your mouth. “Wanna feel you cum on me one more time–show me how good I make you feel…” Your bodies shuddered together, and when you came again–harder, messier, wetter than before–you clutched his hand like a lifeline, sobbing softly against his neck as he groaned into your shoulder.

Your name left his lips like a prayer, like something sacred.

And then finally, finally, he stilled. Breathing hard. Face buried in your neck. His whole body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline and something deeper than both.

You stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together. Slick with sweat. Rhett slowly, gently, lowered himself onto your chest. His arms curled beneath you, and you wrapped your limbs around him in return–legs still draped around his waist, your fingers finding his hair again, soothing now instead of tugging.

“You are so good, Rhett…” You whispered, voice hoarse and thick with emotion. “Just fucking amazing…”He turned his face to your throat and kissed it softly. Once. Twice. Then nibbled gently, like he couldn’t help himself. He pulled back just far enough to whisper against your skin.

“Well…Now I’m truly addicted…” He said, voice low and thick with reverence. “And I couldn’t have wished for anything better than that.” Rhett stayed inside you as long as he could–so long it started to ache in the best way, a deep throb softened only by the slow drag of his cock against your oversensitive walls. Every twitch of his hips sent another aftershock rolling through you, your body limp beneath his, breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

Eventually, he softened just enough to slip free, and the moment he did, you whimpered at the sudden emptiness.

“Shhh,” He whispered, brushing sweat-damp hair away from your face. His voice was thick, low, still raw from all the moaning and gasping. “I got you. Just breathe, baby. You did so good…”

You didn’t have the words to answer. You could only nod as he pressed a slow kiss to your jaw–then your cheekbone–then your forehead. Each one grounding. Each one full of something wordless and tender.

Your thighs were sticky, soaked, your inner muscles still fluttering with aftershocks. Cum leaked slowly from your entrance, warm and thick and messy between your legs. Rhett sat up slightly to look, biting his lower lip at the sight of it, the gash on it stinging from the sharpness of his teeth.

“Shit…Look at you…” He admired, brushed two fingers through the slick that glistened between your thighs, collecting the mess he’d left inside you, then slowly brought them to your mouth.

“Wanna taste us?” He asked, gaze dark and heavy-lidded. You opened your mouth for him without a word, and he pressed the fingers gently past your lips. The taste was salt and sweat and something heady–his breath caught watching you suck them clean.

“Jesus,” He rasped, “You’re gonna kill me…”

You smiled faintly, spent and dazed. “Not before I get cleaned up…”

He chuckled softly and leaned down to kiss your mouth again–slow, open, unhurried. It tasted like everything that had just happened, like everything you hadn’t said yet. His tongue flicked yours gently before he pulled back and whispered:

“Stay here. I’ll get a towel.”

You watched him rise from the bed–naked, flushed, the muscles in his back flexing as he moved. His ass was covered in faint scratches from your nails, and his thighs were trembling slightly as he crossed to the bathroom. He left the door open, and you heard the sink running, then the soft patter of a washcloth being wrung out. He returned a minute later, crouching down between your legs with such care it made your chest ache.

“Let me,” He said gently.

And he did.

He cleaned you up with reverent slowness, the warm cloth moving in soft circles. He murmured apologies every time you flinched from sensitivity, but his touch was steady, gentle, and full of quiet devotion. When he was done, he pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, right over a bruise he hadn’t meant to leave.

You reached for him, fingers brushing the side of his face. “Come back to bed,” you whispered.

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

Rhett climbed back beside you, helping you get under the duvet of your bed as he nestled in close to you, One arm slid beneath your shoulders, the other wrapped tight around your waist, his fingers finding the dip of your spine and resting there like he never wanted to let go.

You shifted to face him, tucking your head under his chin, pressing your body along his until there was no space left between you. He smelled like sweat and sex, and a hint of his leathery soap.

For a long time, neither of you said anything.

Your fingertips traced slow patterns on his chest. His heart beat steady beneath your palm, and his breathing had begun to slow, his lashes fluttering low over his flushed cheeks.

But then, quietly–like he’d been holding it in for hours–he whispered:

“Thank you for forgiving me…”

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