purplerain85

[purplerain85]

stockholm sanctum part i: SNARE

content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, kidnapping, violence, restraints (cable ties, rope, handcuffs), moderate threats, swearing, dark!ben & dark!butcher, psychological torture, i may have missed some. 8.2k

again: shoutout to @deanspookiebear for giving me permission to run with her moodboard!

The alley stank of piss and blood. Old copper and asphalt rot, cut with something sweeter—like syrup turned sour. Maybe vomit. Maybe wine. You didn’t know anymore. Didn’t care. The stink curled into the back of your throat and sat there like guilt.

You’d been waiting for forty minutes. Forty fucking minutes.

The sundress you’d been told to wear—soft blue, delicate embroidery at the hem—hung limp against your thighs. Pretty. Innocuous. Chosen for effect. Not warmth. Wind licked cold fingers up your bare legs, gnawed at your arms until goosebumps bloomed, but you didn’t shiver. Didn’t move.

Statue-still. Back pressed to crumbling brick. Phone clenched in your palm, screen black. No signal. No messages. No backup.

Only silence. And it stretched so long it stopped feeling like silence at all—it had started feeling like something alive.

You didn’t hear the truck. Not at first. You felt it—deep, guttural—like the alley itself was about to vomit it up. The rumble started in the soles of your shoes, rolled up your spine. A prehistoric thing, metal and menace, slinking slow and sure into the mouth of the alley. Not a cab. Not your contact. Not a coincidence.

You knew it before you saw the headlights. They swung wide, too bright for the narrow dark—like eyes opening. Hungry ones. The engine snarled low, like it was waiting to be fed. The door opened slow. Heavy. Hinges groaned. And then boots hit pavement. Big. Deliberate. Unhurried.

You turned your head just enough to see the shape step into the dull glow of a flickering streetlight.

William Butcher. Black coat flaring like some villain from a fever dream. Shadow clinging to him like he paid it to stay close.

"Well, well," he said, voice low and British and bone-dry. "Ain’t you a fuckin’ sight."

You didn’t even get a moment to react before the second door slammed shut. And then there he was.

Soldier Boy. Leather stretching tight across his chest, that smug fucking grin already blooming like a bruise. One hand casually adjusting the waistband of his suit like he was gearing up for something rough.

"She really wore the dress," he drawled. "Fuckin' adorable."

Your heart stuttered. Your feet didn’t move. You stood your ground, fingers curling tighter around your useless phone.

"...You're not supposed to be here," you said. It came out flatter than you meant. "You're not part of this."

Butcher tilted his head, eyes glittering like broken glass.

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," he said. "That’s the fuckin’ point."

Then they moved.

Fast. Too fast. Butcher’s hand snapped out and grabbed your wrist like a viper striking, yanking you away from the wall and into the side of the truck so hard your shoulder cracked against the metal.

You screamed. Your body kicked into overdrive. You thrashed—kicked, clawed, bit. Your teeth sank into his hand and you tasted blood, hot and metallic. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even grunt, just slammed you harder.

"Christ on a fuckin’ bike," he hissed. "She’s a scrappy little cunt."

"She’s fun," Soldier Boy murmured behind you, amused. You felt him before you saw him—radiating heat, like a sun about to go supernova. "You sure we can't keep her?"

"You wanna house-train her, be my fuckin' guest," Butcher snapped. "But first—shut her up."

Ben chuckled. Low and warm like he was flirting. Then—

Crack.

You didn’t register the pain right away. Only the sound. Like wet leather meeting concrete. Then came the flash—white stars exploding behind your eyes. Heat flared across your face. The burn of it registered seconds later.

Ben’s hand hovered mid-air. Fingers splayed. Deliberate. He wanted you to see it. See him. Remember.

“There. All better,” he said with a grin.

The world tilted. Your knees folded. Darkness came in fast and thick, curling at the edges of your vision.

You barely felt the blood at your lip. Didn’t see the way Butcher popped the trunk open, bored. Didn’t hear the muttered “Get her in.” Didn’t feel Soldier Boy’s arms hook under your shoulders like he was lifting groceries.

You only knew the dark. And the cold. And the soft rustle of your pretty sundress as it rode up your thighs.

You woke to darkness.

Not the soft, familiar kind that lives behind closed eyes. This was the heavy sort—thick and velvet, rank with sweat and rust and something sharp, like something left to rot in a crawlspace. It clung to your skin, pressed into your lungs, curled into your nose and mouth like it wanted to choke you slow.

Your head throbbed. A slow, awful pulse behind your eyes. Your cheek burned where skin had split, and something sticky had dried into the corner of your mouth. Blood, maybe. Or spit. You didn’t know. Didn’t care. Every inch of you ached, but when you tried to move—just shift, just stretch—your body disobeyed.

Rope bit deep into your ankles, taut enough to pulse. Your wrists were zip-tied behind you, plastic cinched so tight it made your fingers tingle. The angle was wrong. The plastic burned. Each movement scraped hot.

You were in the trunk.

The realisation landed like a brick to the face.

Above you—somewhere beyond the thin metal skin of the truck, muffled by motion and engine growl—voices leaked in. Distant. Warped by steel and road hum. But familiar.

One: low and rough, all bite and bitterness. The other: louder, looser, too pleased with himself.

Butcher and Soldier Boy.

You couldn’t catch every word, not at first. Just the shape of them. Laughter bleeding through, something about squirming. Something about a look.

“—fuckin’ moved like a cat in a sack—”

“Told you she had that vibe. Bratty little thing.”

“Christ. Would you shut the fuck up for five seconds?”

The truck jolted. Potholes cracked through your spine. Pain shot up like lightning. You gasped, short and sharp, breath punching out of you in shallow bursts. Your body was trying to catch up with your mind—trying to piece together why you weren’t dead. Why they’d kept you breathing. What they wanted.

And then Ben’s voice, louder now—cutting clean through the haze. Smirking with every syllable.

“I’m just sayin’—if you’re gonna kidnap a girl, might as well enjoy the fuckin’ view, right? Those thighs? Tight as hell. Bet she’d snap a man in half.”

Butcher didn’t miss a beat.

“You lay a single fuckin’ finger on her before I say so, I’ll jam that shield of yours so far up your arse you’ll be whistlin’ the Star-Spangled Banner.”

Ben let out a bark of laughter. “Jesus. Relax. Was jokin’. Can’t make a fuckin’ joke nowadays without someone screamin’ war crimes.”

“You are a war crime.”

Your lip split again under your own teeth. You tasted blood. You swallowed it down. You didn’t make a sound. Not yet. Not while they thought you were still out cold.

But your fingers twitched behind your back, testing the plastic, the angle. You turned your wrists, flexed, pressed, tried to find give. There was none. Just plastic and pain and the bitter reality pressing in:

They’d taken you. They’d won. And they weren’t finished.

And then—before you could stop it—your voice rose, hoarse and cracked, from the dark.

“Go fuck yourselves!”

Silence. Immediate. Heavy as lead. Like a knife dropped point-down on tile.

Then laughter. That same laugh. Soldier Boy’s. Warm with delight.

“Told you I didn’t hit her hard enough.”

“Shoulda done it myself,” Butcher muttered, voice like gravel and acid.

“C’mon. Didn’t wanna ruin that pretty little face too much.” A pause. A grin in the dark. “She’ll need it, once she starts earnin’ her keep.”

Your stomach turned. Your throat closed. Panic flared bright and feral. You bucked against the ropes, snarling something that didn’t even sound human. Your legs kicked, bound and wild. The zip ties bit deeper. You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t shut the images out of your head.

Ben sounded entertained.

“Lively little bitch, ain’t she? Might have to gag her. Or don’t. Screams might be fun.”

You screamed then. Loud. Raw. A single jagged bolt of noise torn from your ribs like a sob set on fire.

The truck jolted. Brakes squealed. Gravel crackled under the tires like bones grinding together. Then the creak of a door. Another. Silence.

You didn’t have time to steel yourself. There was no warning—no shift in air pressure, no shout, no count to three. Just the groan of the trunk lid, hinges screaming open like something dying, and the sudden wash of yellow floodlight pouring down on you from a shattered streetlamp.

It bathed the world in sick gold. Harsh. Exposing.

Soldier Boy’s silhouette loomed above you, all sharp lines and smug satisfaction, grinning like the devil at a buffet.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

You spat at him. It missed. Barely.

He laughed anyway—full-throated and delighted, like you’d just told him the best joke he’d ever heard.

Then his hands were on you. Rough. Fast. Unbothered by your thrashing. You fought like hell—kicking, twisting, screaming—but it didn’t matter. He manhandled you like luggage, hauling you up and slinging you over his shoulder, your ribs braced hard against the unforgiving weight of his armour. His grip around your thighs burned. Then—

Smack.

His palm came down hard on the back of your leg, open-handed and unapologetic. The sound cracked through the alley.

“Told you she’s got meat on her,” he called out, voice thick with amusement. “Bet she runs hot too.”

Behind him, Butcher followed at a distance—casual, like this was just another day on the job. He held a crowbar in one hand and a cigarette in the other, the glow of it flaring each time he inhaled.

“Less talkin’, more movin’.”

The world jostled. Tilted. Concrete swam beneath you. You caught glimpses of chain-link fencing and crumbling warehouse walls, rusted shut. The building ahead looked like it hadn’t been touched since the Cold War—an industrial carcass gutted hollow and left to rot.

Metal doors sagged from their hinges. Windows stared like the vacant eyes of the dead. The air reeked of mildew and smoke and something long-forgotten.

Ben carried you straight through the peeling entrance. The door screamed as it opened, protesting the invasion. Then it slammed shut behind them, and the outside world disappeared.

You were swallowed whole.

Inside, it was worse. The air was thicker. Clammy. Close. Wet concrete underfoot, rust in the walls, the sour stink of rot in every breath. Somewhere above, water dripped into a rusted bucket. Steady. Relentless.

Drip.Drip.Drip.

Ben didn’t loosen his grip. Not once. He carried you through a maze of cracked corridors and flickering fluorescents until finally, at the end of a long hallway, he stopped.

A boiler room. Tile cracked like broken teeth, a single grimy radiator hissing low in the corner. A mattress on the floor—thin, stained, and unspeakably familiar.

He dropped you.

You hit it hard. Your ribs took the brunt, your elbow caught rough fabric, and for a second the room spun sideways. But you didn’t stay down. You forced yourself upright, spitting hair from your mouth, panting, eyes blazing.

Butcher stood in the doorway, bathed in the amber glow of a dying light. He lit another cigarette with the butt of the last, watching you like a butcher eyeing stock.

“Here’s how this is gonna go,” he said, voice low and cruel. “You speak when spoken to. You eat when we say. You piss where we tell you. You try to run—” He exhaled. Smoke curled between his fingers. “—and you’ll wish we’d left you in that fuckin’ alley.”

He took a drag. Held your stare.

“Simple enough for you, love?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t blink. You watched him through swollen eyes, your lip cracked open like a petal torn at the seam. Your wrists burned. Blood had crusted beneath the plastic zip tie cuts, and the throb beneath your skin pulsed like a warning.

Behind you, Soldier Boy prowled the room like a tiger in a cage too small. Restless. Radiating heat.

“You gonna leave her tied up all night?” He asked, almost absently. “Bit stiff, don’t you think?”

“She stays like that,” Butcher said flatly.

But Ben didn’t listen. He crouched in front of you, hands on his knees, close enough for the scent of him to punch into your lungs—smoke, sweat, a ghost of whiskey. You turned your head. He followed it. Locked eyes.

“You won’t get far,” he said, voice lower now. “But hell, might be fun to watch you try.”

Then—silver. A glint. Knife. You flinched on instinct, your heart stuttering in your chest. But the blade didn’t come for your throat. Not yet.

Just your wrists.

He sawed through the zip ties, slow and deliberate, not looking away. Then he moved to the ropes at your ankles. His breath was steady. Patient. Like he was unwrapping something precious.

“I said—”

“She’s not goin’ anywhere,” Ben cut in. “Let her stretch her fuckin’ legs.”

The second the rope dropped, you moved. Fast. Not fast enough. But fast. You shoved yourself off the mattress. Your legs buckled, but adrenaline shoved fire through your veins and you ran. You hit the hallway, walls closing in, air thick with mildew.

You remembered the layout. Barely.

A curve in the corridor. A right turn. Then a left. There—light. Faint, but real. A single crack beneath the door. A line of gold. Your breath wheezed out of you as your hands slammed into the handle—cold, solid, real—

But you didn’t make it.

Your dress caught. Yanked hard. The collar snapped tight around your throat, choking you. Your feet slid on the concrete as your body was hauled backward, ragdoll-fast.

Back into the dark.

“And that’s why I didn’t wanna tie her up,” Ben crowed, laughter blooming hot against your ear. “Told you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You screamed. Kicked. Clawed at the stale air—your fingertips scraped the doorframe, nails catching on rust and old paint, before your body was yanked backward with terrifying force.

Ben spun you around. His grip locked like iron around your waist, dragging you in close with the ease of someone reeling in a fish.

He was laughing. Still. Always. That cruel kind of amusement that lived in the eyes of men who'd never been punished for anything in their lives.

“Shit!” He wheezed, voice bright with delight. “That was cute.”

You thrashed harder. Useless. His arm didn’t budge. You were pinned against him, chest heaving, cheek burning against the scuffed edge of his armour.

“Really,” he went on, hauling you backwards like some misbehaving pet. “You almost had me goin’ there. All that flailing, that look in your eyes... you really believed you were gonna make it out.”

His voice dipped on that last part. Softened. Like a lullaby whispered through a meat grinder.

“She's got bollocks,” Butcher muttered dryly from somewhere behind you as your body was dragged, bruised and breathless, back into the boiler room. “Shame that’s not gonna help her now.”

Then—

Impact. The mattress caught your fall but barely softened it. You landed hard, your breath knocked clean out of your lungs, stars bursting behind your eyes.

No warning. No words. Butcher dropped to one knee like he was fixing a faulty pipe, grabbed your ankle like it belonged to him, and snapped cold steel around it.

A cuff. Thick. Heavy. Unmoving. The chain clinked once as he tugged it tight and locked the other end to the radiator.

“There,” he said simply, standing. “Sorted.”

You twisted, kicked—pointless. The chain held.

Ben crouched in front of you, all wide legs and wide grin, bracing his elbows on his knees. He looked at you like he was watching a lion cub throw itself against a glass wall.

“Still got the dress on, too,” he murmured. “Lucky you.”

You spat at his boots, but it landed short. He laughed anyway. You hated that laugh. Loud and alive and so certain he’d never face consequence.

The chain bit into your ankle as you moved, tested its limits. There was no slack. No give. Just the scrape of iron on concrete and the slow, choking realisation that you were going nowhere.

They knew it. You knew it.

Night in the warehouse bled slow. There were no windows in the boiler room. No clocks. Just the hiss of the radiator and the distant groan of metal, the building settling around you like some great sleeping animal.

Drip.Tick.Creak.Silence.

The mattress beneath you smelled of mildew and old sweat. It was flat, uneven, stained in places you didn’t want to think about. The cotton sheet twisted beneath you, damp at the edges. The radiator rattled every time you shifted. The chain tugged with every breath.

Your wrists throbbed—raw from the zip ties. Your voice had gone hoarse from screaming. The ache in your limbs blurred into the ache in your chest, until you could barely tell the difference.

They didn’t come in much. Not together. But when they did—you fought. You curled your lip. You spat, hissed, growled like a cornered dog.

Ben always laughed.

“Feisty little fuckin’ thing,” he’d say, leaning in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, eyes shining like he was watching something obscene and beautiful. “Bet you’re a scratcher in bed, too.”

Butcher never smiled. He didn’t even blink. He just stared. Dragged his eyes over you like you were a piece of meat left too long in the sun. A nuisance. A task. Something unpleasant he wasn’t quite finished with.

You stayed awake long after their footsteps faded.

Long after the door groaned shut. Long after the silence came back. You counted time by the ache in your bones, the prickle in your legs, the dry rasp of your throat. You couldn’t lie down. Couldn’t stretch out. You curled in tight against the wall like you could vanish into it.

And somewhere near dawn—when your muscles were screaming for movement and your skin felt too tight—you cracked.

The words came out raw, scraped up from your ribs like broken glass.

“What the fuck is going on?”

It echoed. Loud and ragged. It bounced off concrete and metal and silence. A beat. Then—footsteps. Measured. Familiar.

Butcher entered like he’d been expecting it. Cigarette already lit, sleeves rolled to the elbow. That same look on his face—like he was headed to the kitchen, not the cage. He didn’t speak. Not at first. Didn’t rush. He exhaled smoke and watched it curl upward like it mattered more than your question.

He moved like someone who didn’t owe you answers.

“You wanna keep screamin’, or you wanna hear the fuckin’ truth?”

The words cut through the boiler room like a bullet—sharp and sudden, punching the air out of the space.

You stared at him.

Butcher stood just inside the doorway, framed by peeling paint and low amber light. His silhouette looked carved from steel, unmoved by the sound of your voice still echoing off the walls.

Your hair clung to your forehead, slick with sweat and grime. Your dress stuck to your back, damp and wrinkled, smeared with dirt where you'd hit the floor—twice. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out, so he kept going. No pause. No mercy.

“Got word from someone deep inside Vought,” he said, tone flat. Deadly in its restraint. “Said you were meetin’ up with Sage, the Deep, and A-Train in that alley. Had somethin’ to give ’em. Somethin’ about us.”

Your stomach dropped. The floor disappeared. A strange, empty cold settled into your limbs, crawling up the inside of your spine like frostbite.

“No,” you whispered. “No—I had to. They were blackmailing me. I didn’t have a choice—”

“Don’t fuckin’ matter,” Butcher snapped. His voice rose—not loud, but sharp, like he was cutting through bone. “They’d have got the intel. And if they did? We’d all be dead. Me. Frenchie. Hughie. MM. Kimiko. All of us. That’s if they didn’t string up our corpses and march ’em through the streets like a fucking warning.”

You shook your head. Hard. Like it might shake the lie loose. Like it might make it stop.

“I wasn’t going to tell them anything that could hurt you—”

“Don’t matter what you meant, love.” He drew the word like a curse. Not soft. Not sweet. Cold and clipped and venom-laced. “You’re not goin’ anywhere until we’ve taken Homelander and Vought off the fuckin’ map. Maybe not even then.”

The silence that followed was so thick you felt it settle on your skin like soot. You opened your mouth—rage and disbelief boiling to the surface—but he didn’t give you the chance.

“Ben, mate,” he called over his shoulder, already turning. “You’re up.”

You slumped against the mattress, fury carving itself into your spine. The chain at your ankle clinked as you shifted, and you sank deeper into the thin, sweat-damp cotton beneath you, willing it to swallow you whole.

Then you heard him. Boots. That slow, lazy stride. That little pause in the door like he was waiting for applause.

Ben.

He walked in like the room belonged to him—like you did. Hair disheveled, beard unkempt, sleeves shoved to his elbows, and that damn smirk already carved across his face like it had been waiting there all night.

He gave you a once-over. No rush. No shame.

“Morning, sunshine,” he drawled. “You sleep okay? Mattress a little firm?”

You didn’t answer. Just narrowed your eyes, every muscle coiled tight.

He crouched beside the mattress, hands braced on his knees, then pulled something from behind his back. He tossed it casually onto the edge of the blanket with a flick of his wrist.

A shirt. Faded white. Soft. Loose. Still warm from wherever he’d stashed it. It smelled like him—smoke, salt, steel, and something darker beneath it. Something animal. Not even pants. No underwear. Just that. A shirt. His.

“Figured you might wanna get outta that little dress,” he said, voice low and laced with something you couldn’t name. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, but hey—might as well be comfortable.”

You stared at it. Then at him.

“Fuck you.”

His grin split wider. Eyes glinting like headlights in the dark.

“Maybe later.”

You hated how soft the shirt looked. How warm it felt in your hands. You hated the smell of it—so deeply, maddeningly him. You hated the way it curled around your fingers like bait.

He leaned back against the doorframe, arms folded, watching you like a man watching a fire he lit just to see how long it’d burn.

“Well?” He asked. “You want help?”

Your glare could’ve split concrete. Could’ve melted bone.

“I’d rather fucking rot.”

Ben let out a low whistle. Slow. Mocking. Delighted. His grin turned wolfish.

“I mean,” he said, tilting his head, “you say that now.” A pause, a beat, like he was waiting to see if you'd give him even an inch. When you didn't, he continued. “Suit yourself,” Ben said, his voice curling lazily around the dim edges of the room. “Just figured you might wanna change outta that little dress before it starts stickin’.”

His eyes fell, slow and indulgent, dragging over you with all the subtlety of a man who had never once been denied something he wanted. The look wasn’t just lewd—it was studied, as if he were cataloguing every inch of your discomfort for later use.

“Not that I’m complainin’,” he added, lips tugging into a smirk. “That hem’s got a mind of its own. Keeps ridin’ up when you squirm.”

You didn’t bother answering. You turned from him, slowly, the chain at your ankle rasping against the concrete as you shifted on the thin mattress. The air inside the boiler room was thick and wet, clinging to your skin like hands, and your dress had fused itself to the sweat-slick lines of your body. It was a struggle to sit upright—your arms moved with aching resistance, wrists still lined with the angry red marks left behind by the zip ties—but you managed to hook your fingers into the straps of the dress and begin the difficult task of pulling them down without giving him the full show he so clearly wanted.

Behind you, the room settled into a silence that wasn’t silence at all. You could hear his breath, faint and amused, and the shifting creak of his boots as he leaned against the doorframe, perfectly still, perfectly at ease.

“Oh, c’mon,” he murmured, his tone softer now, but no less smug. “Don’t be shy. Pretty thing like you?”

You said nothing, teeth clenched, jaw tight with the weight of everything you refused to give him.

The fabric dragged across your back like molasses. It clung to the curve of your waist, the swell of your thighs. Every inch was a battle. You had to shimmy free of it, wriggling inch by inch, until it finally dropped in a crumpled heap beside your knees. The sound it made was soft, but it may as well have been a shot in the quiet. It echoed.

And still—he said nothing.

But you could feel him watching.

It prickled across your skin, crawling down your spine like electricity. You didn’t turn around. Didn’t dare.

Then came the voice. Lower now. Less smug. Something else beneath it. Something slower. Heavier.

“God damn.”

You froze.

There was something different in the way he said it this time. The joke had gone out of his voice. The laughter didn’t follow. It sat low in his chest, slow to unspool, like it was too thick to breathe through.

“Look at that,” he said, quieter now. “Bare ass, cuffed to a fuckin’ radiator, gettin’ into my shirt. That’s—” he paused, and you imagined him shaking his head, smiling like he’d discovered something sacred. “That’s a painting, sweetheart.”

Still, you didn’t turn. But your spine was straight as a rod. Your fingers had gone still at the hem of the shirt, the one he’d thrown you like a bone. It was soft in your hands—too soft. It smelled like him, like smoke and leather and something darker underneath. The heat of it still clung to the cotton, a reminder that he’d held it against his body not long before.

Then you heard it. Boots on concrete. One step. Then another.

The air shifted as he moved, and it pressed against your back like pressure in your lungs.

“I swear to God,” you hissed, voice trembling but loud, slicing through the stillness, “if you come any closer, I’ll fucking bite you, you prick.”

A beat passed. And then he laughed.

But it wasn’t the theatrical, brash bark he usually tossed around so easily. This one came quieter. Lower. Almost reverent. Like you’d said something beautiful.

“Christ on a cross,” he breathed. “You are fuckin’ adorable. You know that?”

You turned then—slowly, sharply—dragging the shirt down over your chest, your arms moving quick and defensive as you tugged the fabric into place. It just barely covered the tops of your thighs. Not enough to feel modest. Not enough to feel safe.

He was standing just out of reach, arms folded again, his body a silhouette against the doorframe. His gaze roamed over you shamelessly, but there was something hungrier in it now. Something less playful.

“You ever bite someone before?” He asked, his voice a murmur, head tilted slightly. “’Cause I’m into that. Little teethmarks? That shit’s hot.”

You stared at him with all the loathing you could gather in one body.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you,” he said, his grin deepening, “are fuckin’ gorgeous when you’re mad.”

He stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately. He didn’t touch you. But he didn’t have to.

The heat of him reached you before his shadow did. He crouched in front of you, elbows resting on his knees, eyes level with yours now. And for the first time, he didn’t speak right away. He just watched. Drank you in.

“They’ll come looking for me,” you said after a long pause, voice softer now. Frayed. “Vought. They’ll find out what you’ve done. You won’t get away with this.”

His smile sharpened, and it chilled you more than if he’d sneered.

“Sweetheart,” he said, gentle as a hand on your throat, “you think I give a shit about gettin’ away with anything?”

He reached out—not to touch you—but to brush two fingers along the chain bolted to the radiator. Just a tug. Light. Symbolic.

“You’re mine until Butcher says otherwise,” he said. “Could be days. Could be weeks.” He paused, eyes glittering. “Could be longer.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

His head tipped back, exhaling slow through his nose like he was savouring your resistance.

“You keep sayin’ that like it’s a threat,” he said, straightening to his full height. “But I’m startin’ to think maybe you just like the idea.”

He walked to the door without looking back. Paused there, hand on the handle, that smirk still etched across his mouth.

“Holler if you need anythin’, doll,” he said over his shoulder. “Or don’t. Either way, I’ll be back.”

The door swung shut behind him. The chain stayed tight. The shirt stuck to your damp skin. And the air around you thickened again with silence.

You were still cuffed. Still half-naked. Still seething. Still theirs.

You’d lost count of the days.

Time blurred inside the warehouse. It came in the shape of cold concrete and the rhythmic hiss of the radiator. In the groan of steel beams shifting as the wind bit through their cracks. In the way the light changed—barely—from the thin seam beneath the door, from grey to gold to grey again.

There were no clocks, small meals, and footfalls, voices, stares. And the chain.

Always the chain.

It dragged against the floor with every movement you made, every failed attempt to stretch your legs or shift the stiffness out of your back. It had become part of your body now. An extension of breath and bone. You could hear it even when it wasn’t moving.

Butcher came in alone that afternoon.

No announcement. No words at first. Just the creak of the boiler room door, the dull thud of boots, the scent of old tobacco and motor oil and something metallic behind it.

You didn’t look up right away. You were sitting on the mattress, knees drawn loosely to your chest, one hand idly rubbing the bruise that had blossomed on the inside of your thigh like an oil stain. The oversized shirt hung off your shoulders, wrinkled and damp at the collar, the hem riding high from the heat and the way you shifted in your sleep. You hadn't worn anything else since that first night. There was nothing else to wear.

But you felt his eyes on you.

So you looked.

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were watching your legs. Not in the way Ben did. Not openly. Not loud. But sharp. Measured. Cold. Like he was assessing damage. Or calculating risk.

Or something worse.

You shifted. Just a little. The chain at your ankle scraped softly as you moved your knee to block the view.

“Somethin’ wrong with your fuckin’ leg?” He asked, his voice as dry as the air. He didn’t blink.

“Thought you were the type to knock,” you muttered, not bothering to hide the venom in your tone.

He took another drag. Didn’t move. Smoke unfurled from his nostrils in two slow streams. He exhaled like he had all the time in the world.

“Don’t recall you payin’ rent,” he said flatly. “This ain’t a hotel.”

You glared. He stared.

And then—his eyes dropped. Barely. Just a flick. From your face to the dip of your thighs. You were sitting with your knees parted, unconsciously, and the shirt had ridden high again. Your underwear was visible in the low light. Simple. Cotton. Nothing remarkable.

But his gaze lingered.

You saw it.

His jaw twitched. Like he might speak. Or grit his teeth. Or bite back something he hadn’t meant to think.

“You want somethin’?” You asked, sharp, folding your arms tighter over your chest. “Or you just gonna keep gawking like a fucking creep?”

His eyes met yours. Unapologetic.

“Keep talkin’ like that and you’ll find out just how fuckin’ patient I’m not,” he said, voice low and controlled. “You think this is hard time? This ain’t even the warm-up.”

You sneered. He stepped further into the room.

The air shifted with him—cooler somehow. He crossed the distance slowly, cigarette trailing smoke behind him like a tail. He didn’t look at your face as he passed. Just at your legs. The shirt. The chain.

He knelt, without warning, and checked the cuff at your ankle.

No words.

His fingers were rough, impersonal, quick—but you still felt them. His skin brushed yours where he adjusted the metal, where he re-tightened something that didn’t need adjusting at all. You didn’t flinch. But you felt your stomach turn, just once, sharp and tight.

Then—he stood. Back straight. Shoulders squared.

And he looked down at you like he always did. Like a man sizing up a problem. Like a man who didn’t like what he saw, but wasn’t sure he wanted to stop looking.

“You keep twitchin’ like that,” he muttered, voice quiet now, “Ben’s gonna start thinkin’ it’s an invitation.”

You didn’t blink.

“Let him think what he wants,” you said.

That was the closest thing to power you’d had in days. And it hung between you like a crack in the wall.

Butcher left without another word. The door closed behind him. The scent of smoke stayed.

And still—you sat there. Cuffed. Staring at the spot where he’d been. And the way his eyes had dipped. The way his fingers had lingered.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to scream or laugh. Or worse—if part of you wanted him to come back.

It was sometime past dusk when you heard someone again—the heavy scrape of boots down the hall, the familiar rhythm of swagger in every step. You didn’t look up at first. You were curled in the corner of the mattress, one leg tucked beneath you, the other stretched out, chain slack where it spilled across the floor in a lazy arc. Your stomach had begun to ache. Hollow and gnawing.

They never fed you regularly. Another way to remind you who was in control.

The door opened with a creak, metal against metal, and the scent of salt and soy hit you before you saw the carton.

“Dinner’s served,” Ben announced.

His voice was bright. Too bright. The kind of cheerfulness that made your skin itch.

You sat up slowly, wiping your palms down the front of your thighs, trying not to betray the way your stomach clenched at the sight of food.

He stepped in like he owned the place. Like he owned you. A familiar takeout container in one hand, wooden chopsticks in the other. No utensils for you. No plate. Just the cartoon panda on the side of the box and the smell of grease clinging to the steam.

He crouched beside you, balancing on his heels. Smiling like the devil.

“What, no thank you?” He said, breaking the chopsticks apart with a snap. “Didn’t even spit in it. Aren’t I generous?”

You didn’t answer.

He pulled a slick tangle of noodles from the carton and held them up, letting them drip—mockingly slow—before guiding them toward your mouth.

You blinked.

“Where’s the fork?” You asked flatly.

He grinned. “Oh, sweetheart. You think I’m lettin’ you handle sharp objects?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Smart.”

“Right?” He beamed, pleased with himself. “You’d take my fuckin’ eye out the first chance you got.”

You smiled, slow and venomous. “Exactly.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, and twirled the chopsticks once before lifting another bite. “See? You’re honest. I like that.”

You didn’t want to open your mouth. But hunger won out. You leaned forward, lips parting just enough to slurp the noodles in. The taste was familiar—oily, salty, vaguely sweet—and it made you feel human for the first time all day. A luxury you hated him for giving.

He kept feeding you. Slowly. Leisurely. Watching you like he was testing something. Each time you took a bite, his eyes dropped—tracking your throat as you swallowed, your tongue as you licked sauce from your lips.

And then—deliberately—he slipped.

A single noodle dropped from his chopsticks and landed on your bare thigh.

You flinched.

The room went still.

The noodle sat there like a line drawn in the sand—glistening with sauce, curling against your skin. You looked down at it. Then back at him.

He was already leaning in.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

You felt his breath before you felt his mouth. Warm. Damp. A ghost just above your skin. Then his lips touched the inside of your thigh���open-mouthed and slow—and the air left your lungs in one sharp gasp.

He didn’t pull away.

He lingered. Let his tongue flick out, tasting the sauce, lapping it from your skin like he’d done it a hundred times before. His mouth moved with lazy precision, a slick glide across your leg, and when he finally pulled back, he looked up at you like he was waiting for applause.

His chin still hovered close. His breath still fanned your thigh.

You were trembling. Only slightly. Enough for him to notice.

“Jesus,” he muttered, licking his bottom lip. “Fuckin’ delicious.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not yet.

He sat back on his heels and tilted the carton toward you like a peace offering.

“So,” he said casually, like he hadn’t just sucked a noodle off your body, “you wanna finish your dinner? Or call it a night?”

You stared at him. Still breathless. Still furious. Still burning.

“Sleep,” you said at last.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He stood, smoothing his hand down the front of his jeans, tossing the chopsticks back into the carton with a clatter. He didn’t look at you again. Just walked to the door, slow and easy, like nothing at all had happened.

“Holler if you get hungry again,” he called over his shoulder. “Or if you just want another taste.”

The door closed behind him with a metallic groan.

You sat there, thigh still damp, breath still uneven, the taste of soy sauce still clinging to your tongue—and you hated how loud your heartbeat sounded in the silence that followed.

The next morning, you heard them enter before the door even opened.

Ben's boots always dragged just a little when he was tired—he walked like someone who expected the world to move out of his way. And Butcher? You could always tell by the cough, the scrape of a lighter, the muttered curse under his breath as he flicked ash off his sleeve.

You didn’t bother pretending to be asleep.

They came in talking, just loud enough for you to hear, and that was the point. The table groaned under Butcher’s weight as he dropped into the chair, a mug in one hand, a manila folder in the other.

Ben followed, slower, slumped into the opposite chair with all the elegance of a wolf flopping into sun-warmed dirt. There was takeout on the table again—something greasy, something steaming—but the scent barely touched you anymore. You’d trained yourself not to react.

Butcher didn’t look at you. Not yet.

Instead, he flipped the folder open, thumbing through its contents with the lazy confidence of someone who already knew what was inside.

“A-Train came to me,” he said.

Ben grunted, already halfway into his breakfast. “Yeah?”

“Two weeks ago. Said he had somethin’ important. Somethin’ I’d wanna know. That she—” he gestured toward you without lifting his gaze, “—was meetin’ up with him, Sage, and the fish fucker. Supposed to hand somethin’ off. Files. Names. Dunno if it was real intel or just bait, but he reckoned she was gonna spill.”

Ben’s chewing slowed. He glanced toward you, mouth still full, then back at Butcher. “And you believed him?”

“I didn’t,” Butcher said. “Not at first. But then I saw her.”

Finally, his eyes lifted to yours.

“In that alley. Wearing that little dress like it meant somethin’. Twitchy. Shifty. Like she was about to bolt. And then I did believe him.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Maybe because they were quiet. Measured. Like a conclusion he’d come to long before this moment.

You sat up, slowly. The chain rattled at your ankle.

“I wasn’t giving them anything that could hurt you,” you said. “They were pressuring me. It was blackmail.”

Ben let out a soft whistle and leaned back in his chair, arms folding behind his head.

“Blackmail,” he echoed. “Classic.”

“They said they’d expose what I’d been doing. That they’d go after the people I’d helped.”

“You mean us?” Butcher asked, deadpan.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. They waited. Watching you like vultures waiting for the twitch that signalled death. Ben’s gaze slid down your legs, bare beneath the hem of his shirt. He didn’t hide it. He never did. His tongue dragged slowly across his bottom lip as he watched the way your knees shifted.

“I dunno, man,” he said. “She still looks like she’s got somethin’ to say. All that silence? Makes me wonder if she’s startin’ to like bein’ gagged.”

Your glare was slow to rise, but when it hit him, it was ice-cold.

“Easy,” Butcher muttered, but there was no real rebuke in it.

Ben smiled wider.

“Relax,” he said. “I’m just sayin’. She plays the role well, y’know? Tied up. Hair all fucked. That dazed little stare. Wakes up every day with nothin’ but a shirt on and her legs spread—what am I supposed to think?”

You looked away.

“Still not takin’ the bait,” Butcher observed, and there was something almost... impressed in his tone. “Look at that. Maybe she’s learnin’.”

Ben leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes never leaving your legs.

“Or maybe she’s waitin’. Plannin’ something. They get real quiet right before they snap, don’t they?”

Butcher snorted. “She reminds me of Kimiko.”

Ben raised a brow.

“Back when we found her,” Butcher clarified. “Didn’t speak. Just sat in the dark and twitched. Feral little thing. Looked like she’d never seen a shower. Blood all over her. Hair stiff with dirt. Just like her.” He nodded toward you. “Greasy. Filthy. Eyes full of hate.”

Ben exhaled slowly, grinning like it was Christmas.

“Difference is,” he said, voice lower now, thicker, “I like this one filthy.”

That was the moment you stood.

You didn’t say a word. You rose from the mattress, slow and steady, chain clinking as it stretched taut, and you walked the full length of it to the edge of the wall—far enough to turn your back on them, far enough to claim a few inches of space that weren’t drowning in their breath.

You sat down, knees drawn to your chest, cheek resting against your arm. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t give them anything. And still, you felt Ben’s eyes on your thighs. Still, you felt Butcher watching your spine curl inward. Still, you heard the scrape of a chair against the floor.

Then silence.

And when the door finally creaked shut behind them, the quiet that remained didn’t feel like relief. It felt like the calm between cracks in a foundation. The stillness right before something gives way.

It was late when they entered the room again, long after the building had settled into its bones and the boiler hissed in low, sleepy bursts. The air was thick with the kind of heat that didn’t comfort—it stuck to the skin, settled in your lungs, made your shirt cling to every bend of your spine. You lay on your side with your back to the door, one knee curled to your chest, your other leg stretched just far enough to let the chain rest slack at your ankle. The weight of it had long since become a part of you. You no longer flinched when it moved. You no longer dreamt of undoing it.

The radiator ticked beside your shoulder, casting a low warmth through the corner of the room, and your eyes, though heavy, remained open. Sleep hovered but didn’t claim you.

They didn’t speak at first. You heard the door creak open, the sound soft and strangely careful. Butcher entered with his usual scuffed tread and a muttered breath, as if even his exhaustion had grown bored of itself. A chair scraped against concrete. He dropped into it with a quiet exhale, lighter already out, the scrape of flint followed by the soft bloom of fire. Smoke bloomed with it, curling in lazy ribbons toward the ceiling.

Ben followed behind him, slower, more languid in the way he moved, one hand swinging a bottle of something amber and burning, his shirt half-undone, skin gleaming faintly at his chest. He didn’t look at you. Not right away. He turned a chair backward with a low scrape and straddled it, arms resting on the spine, the bottle dangling loosely from two fingers like an afterthought.

You stayed still. Not because of fear. Not out of rebellion. Just tiredness. Bone-deep. Slow-moving. It was easier not to shift. Easier to pretend your body was not your own. The shirt you wore had twisted around your ribs, bunching at your side, and your thigh was bare where the hem had ridden up. You didn’t bother tugging it down. Not tonight.

“She’s quiet tonight,” Butcher said, his voice coated in smoke, not looking at you.

Ben didn’t answer immediately. His gaze had drifted, and when it landed on you—soft limbs, heavy lids, hair sticking damp to your cheek—it didn’t carry its usual sneer.

“Soft,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Kinda nice.”

There was no mockery in his tone. Just something warm and slow, and that, somehow, made it worse. You felt the comment more than you heard it, the way it hung in the heat, heavy and uninvited.

Butcher took a slow drag and exhaled through his nose. “Maybe she’s finally figured it out,” he said, watching the smoke rise. “Fightin’ only gets you tired.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Your heart beat quietly beneath your ribs, steady as rain.

Ben leaned forward just slightly, one arm resting over the chair back, the bottle still dangling. His voice came quieter this time, almost soft.

“You warm enough?”

The question sliced through the room like a sigh. It hit something inside you you hadn’t prepared to feel. Not concern. Not care. But the echo of a human voice asking about your comfort when everything else in the world had stopped asking. You didn’t answer, but something in you shifted. Just slightly. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t spit. And he didn’t push.

Butcher grunted in disapproval, not at you—at Ben. “Don’t go tuckin’ her in.”

Ben smirked faintly, not taking his eyes off you. “Didn’t say I would,” he said. “Just askin’. S’not a crime.”

His gaze drifted lower, slow and lazy, tracing the shape of your leg where it bent, the strip of thigh visible beneath the hem. He didn’t lick his lips, didn’t leer, but something in the tilt of his head said he was already memorising the way the chain pressed against your ankle, the way your breathing deepened when you thought no one was watching. He shifted in his seat, lifting the bottle to his mouth before adding, almost idly, “You look cute like this. All sleepy. Sweet. Not tryin’ to rip someone’s throat out.”

Butcher let out a slow, dry breath, eyes flicking to you with less hunger, more curiosity. “Might keep her like this.”

The words weren’t meant as comfort, but they settled into the silence like the corner of a blanket tucked under your chin. Still cruel. Still calculated. But quieter. Less sharp. The threat had been replaced with routine, and routine was always more dangerous than rage. You were no longer the enemy. You were becoming the environment. Something that existed in the space between them. Something to be observed. Kept. Used.

You didn’t bite. Didn’t roll your eyes. You only closed them, gently, not to sleep, but to rest. It was the first time in days that it felt like rest was something you were allowed. And they didn’t stop you.

They stayed for a few more minutes. You heard the soft glug of Ben’s bottle tipping, the scratch of Butcher’s boot against the floor. No laughter. No jokes. Just two men sitting in a room with a girl chained to a radiator like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, in this moment, it was.

The chairs scraped back. The door creaked. Cold air drifted in as they stepped through it, and for a moment, you felt it on your skin like a memory you couldn’t hold onto.

They didn’t say goodnight. They didn’t have to. The silence they left behind was warm.

And when you rolled back onto your side, curling gently in the heat, the chain at your ankle shifted with you—soft, slow, a single clink like a lullaby.

That sound didn’t startle you anymore.

It sounded like permanence.

Like metal hands closing around velvet wrists. Like a snare. Not springing shut—but holding. Tight. Sweet. Final.

And in that quiet… you let your eyes fall closed.

author note/s: guys, i haven't felt motivated to write anything for a while now, but this?? oh boy. (i promise i'll get back to cruel summer at some point, but for now, i need to work on some darker stuff.) okay, enough yapping bs from smin. i hope y'all like this. ahhhhhh. all the love.

ben/soldier boy taglist: @deansbeer @ambiguous-avery @angrydragon90 @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @tinas111 @angelicjackles @lunaleah. @mostlymarvelgirl @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @ohgodimgoungtodie @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @adoredawn @sunnyfuffly @deansbbyx @kamisobsessed @artemys-ackles @prettywhenipanic @sunnyteume <3

butcher taglist: @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @losers-clvb @drakulana @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @love2liz @angelicjackles @tinas111 @lunaleah @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 <3

[purplerain85]

passion project

bucky barnes x reader

summary: based on this request — as bucky’s best friend, you had the honor of being subjected to his constant teasing and charms, none of which you thought were truthful. it all comes to a head when he starts distancing himself from you after a night out.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, piv, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, pull out game is very strong, praise, pet names (sweetheart, baby, doll, pretty girl, handsome), alcohol consumption, language, bucky big flirt in this fic, reader is a little dramatic, jealous bucky, you and bucky have an? argument?, no use of y/n

word count: 11.6k

a/n: YIPPPEEE my first request finished <3 (everyone disregard that it took me like two weeks to finish this i got stuck at the argument scene and didn't know how to progress bc i didnt wanna make bucky an asshole)

masterlist

Distance is not something that you know when it comes to Bucky. In fact, your first meeting with him was him pretending to be your boyfriend.

You had a particularly rough day at work. You weren’t with your friends or anyone else– you just wanted to spend a night alone at the bar near your apartment before going home for the night. However, men in New York just didn’t enjoy giving you a chance of peace.

You leaned away from the man that was giving you advances that you didn’t want, trying to deny drinks that you were sure he had tampered with. You gave dry responses to the man that you don’t even remember anymore, but you supposed you have to thank him.

A scent of cedarwood and clean soap filled your nostrils as a warm arm gently slipped over your shoulders. A body was beside yours, standing protectively. Someone that you didn’t know. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small smile. His words were spoken loud, as if he was giving a performance. “Thanks for waiting for me. Who’s your friend?”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. Then, you saw the look in his eyes. He was giving you an out. In a matter of a few seconds, you weighed your options. It was either this man with dangerously striking blue eyes that smelled good, or the drunkard that smelled like throw up and shit. So, you leaned into this stranger’s embrace, gave him a pretty smile, and hummed.

“Didn’t wait for too long, baby,” you sighed. “Missed you.”

You didn’t even answer the question about your “friend,” and the two of you just ignored him until he took the hint, and walked away. Except the hint was your savior glaring at him with murderous intent in his eyes. You didn’t know it at the time, but Bucky was fully capable of committing those kinds of crimes for you. 

When the drunkard was far enough away, his arm slid off your shoulders, his hand moving down your back, but not low enough to make you uncomfortable.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you asked him, grateful. “You kinda saved me back there, handsome.”

He laughed at your words. “I was going to ask you if you wanted a drink since you just went through something traumatizing, pretty girl.” 

“I’ll pay for yours, you pay for mine?” you offered. 

“Deal,” he grinned. 

The two of you introduced yourselves to each other not too long afterwards, toasted, and found out that you were both alone that night. Bucky spent the rest of the night by your side at the bar, the two of you just chatting. 

It was the start of a friendship that you weren’t looking for, but welcomed easily with open arms. Bucky was easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and he was comfortable for you to be around. 

Around the beginning of your friendship, you noticed he would sometimes come to hang out with you with a busted lip or a cut on his face. You were sure there was another injury somewhere under the layers of clothes he was wearing, too. When you finally asked– when you finally felt ready to ask, he was honest with you when he told you what he did for work. At first, you thought he was shitting with you. Then, he told you to look up his name online. 

“You’re ancient,” you said, your eyes falling on the birthdate of the man titled as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry Unit in World War II. Then, the name of the Winter Soldier came next on the articles you were reading. 

“Yes, because every man wants a beautiful woman to call them old, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his eyes at you.

“You look good for being over a century old though, handsome,” you grinned.

“I’m like, ninety-something. Don’t age me up.”

Bucky showed you his metal arm that night. He took off the gloves he wore, and took off the jacket that seemed to be glued to his body. You inspected the dark metal in awe– asked if you could touch it.

He was patient with you. Answered all of your questions. You learned that he could feel sensations on the prosthetic– that his friends in Wakanda made sure of it. He told you it was made of vibranium, which was the same material made of Captain America’s shield– his best friend.

You learned a lot about Bucky that night. That night, you became more than just his friend. You became someone important to him. He didn’t know it, but he was already important to you before the confessions of his past. 

He asked you if you were scared of him. If you wanted him to leave. 

“Where would you go if you left?” you asked, frowning at him. “We’re supposed to watch those shitty reality shows tonight. Are you going to leave me to watch them by myself?”

You’ve never felt more relieved to see that smile come back to his face, to watch the tension leave his shoulders. Bucky shifted on the couch, assuming the same position that you two always did. 

Distance was not something that you two were familiar with from the start of your friendship together. Whenever you waited for him at your meeting spots, he would come up behind you like some sort of ghost. You started to get used to it– being randomly held by him.

“Sweetheart,” he would greet you, an arm slipping over your shoulders. “Missed me?”

“Take a lap, Sarge,” you’d tell him, shoving his arm off of you only to loop your arm through his. “Who would miss your face around here?”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, shaking his head at you. “And here I thought– I believed you when you said I was handsome.”

“Oh, you are,” you hummed, tugging him along to get in line for the aquarium– Bucky’s choice for your hangout that day. “I’m trying to keep you humble.”

Most of your time would be spent hanging out in your apartment. The two of you would talk about anything and everything. Well– you were talking. Bucky was listening to you. 

“Sounds a little stressful,” he said, patting his lap once you were finished with your long winded tirade about how your girl friends were horrible on night outs, and you weren’t looking forward to next Saturday night.

“Very,” you agreed, and dropped your head on his thigh, just as he was indicating for you to do.

You closed your eyes, sighing deeply as he started to card his hands through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. To comfort you, maybe. You were certain that he had no idea how to navigate the struggles of a friend group of five women– your four friends– that were trying to get laid, while you were desperately trying to make sure none of them ended up kidnapped or dead by the end of the night. 

“You gonna find someone to spend the night with on Saturday, too?” he murmured to you, and you opened your eyes. 

You raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled teasingly. “Why? You want me to include you in the same girl talk debrief that the other girls get on Sunday mornings?”

“Gross,” he scoffed, clasping his entire hand over your face, making your entire body jolt with surprise. 

“You’re the one that asked,” you huffed. You grabbed his wrist, pulling it away from your face and raising it up in the air. Bucky let you, his limb being pliant under your touch as he allowed you to flail it around like it was made of nothing at all. You watched as his fingers moved like noodles in the air, mildly amused for a few moments. “I’d tell you if you’re really interested, y’know.”

“I’m just asking so I know where you’ll be, doll. You’re stressin’ about your friends, so let me stress about you,” he said, his voice going softer for just a moment. 

You stopped thrashing his hand around the air, and looked at him. He was looking down at you, eyes never leaving your face. There was something unreadable in his gaze that made you pause. Your lips parted, closed, then you gave him a smile. 

“I’ll text you if I go home with someone, handsome. I don’t think I will, but I’ll let you know if I do,” you promised him, dropping his hand to your stomach. 

Bucky hummed, a little noncommittally as he patted your abdomen a few times before resting completely. His other hand continued to run through your hair, sending shivers down your spine. 

“I’m sure it won’t be difficult for you if you do decide for it,” Bucky said. “Guys flirt with you all the time.”

“That was one time, and I was alone at the worst bar on the street, Buck. It wasn’t even flirting. That was harassment,” you corrected him, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re a little oblivious when people flirt with you, pretty girl.”

The rest of the night was spent arguing over the fact that you were not oblivious towards men flirting with you. Bucky was very adamant that you were. You denied all accusations like a politician that had something to hide. 

Neither of you managed to find common ground, and you ended up falling asleep on his lap. Woke up the next morning to find that Bucky didn’t leave. In fact, he didn’t even move you off his lap. He fell asleep, sitting upright, and refused to move in fear of waking you up. He refused to accept any apology from you and swore your couch was comfortable. You disagreed, but quickly shut up when he said that it was better than the hard dirt grounds of World War II. 

You hated it when Bucky pulled that shit on you. Bucky loved doing it. He always had a smug grin on his face.

Other times would include quieter moments. Where you both ended up in your bed. By this point in your friendship, Bucky had a drawer in your dresser of spare, comfortable clothes. He would get changed in pajamas for the night, and you two would be laying in bed. Bucky would be reading one of your more raunchy fantasy novels with confusion all over his face as to why you read these books, but still continued to turn the page. He’d have his head against your shoulder, and you’d scroll through your phone watching videos before falling asleep.

Flirting and touching was his default, you believed. Your assumption was only strengthened when he told you stories about the forties, and how he used to try to get Steve to go out on dates with girls that he set him up with. You managed to get him to admit that he was quite the charmer back in the forties. 

The only time there wasn’t any flirting was when he opened up about himself– when the conversation went serious on both of your ends. Then, the banter would stop and you both would give each other your undivided attention.

The touching wouldn’t stop, though. Even if he was the one leading the conversation, exposing you to the depths of his mind, he would play with your fingers. Touch your hair. You figured it was to busy himself from the fact that he was being so vulnerable with you. You never brought attention to it, allowed him to do what he needed to get through the words that he was forcing out of his throat– to tell you the things that he wanted you to hear.

You generally assumed that Bucky was just a touch starved man once you learned about his past. Coupled with him returning to the world and coming back to his personality, you figured he was just returning to his roots as a charismatic guy. You never thought anything of it, if you were being honest. Until you did. 

You should’ve realized it when you started taking pictures of him during your outings together. Your camera that only shot still life or animals gravitated towards him without even noticing. Your very first photo of him was a candid shot.

Bucky wasn’t looking at you. He was smiling at the cat that you both had taken interest in, that was at the park that you two were strolling through. He had crouched down, holding a hand out for the cat to come to him if it wanted to. And it did. Came and sniffed his palm, then nuzzled the warmth of his hand. Bucky smiled. A soft, gentle smile that took your breath away– and you took the picture without thinking.

It started your collection of photos of Bucky.

Bucky, the only person you had ever taken pictures of. The only person you wanted to take pictures of. He became your subject matter overnight. Your phone camera roll was filled with photos of him from your apartment— pictures of him on your couch, in your kitchen cooking, asleep in your bed. 

Your favorite picture of him right now was when the two of you went out to a bookstore together. He was walking down the aisles in front of you, and you meant to take a picture of his back. Another candid photo, another photo where he was unknowing. Except, he turned around. He was going to point out something to you, but stopped when he saw you had your camera in hand. You were caught. 

“What are you doing, pretty girl?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Smile. You’re looking exceptionally handsome right now,” you said, lifting your camera to your eye, so you could see him through the viewfinder. 

Bucky let out a small laugh, shaking his head at your words. However, he didn’t argue. Didn’t fight back. His hands found their way naturally into his pockets. He tilted his head at you in a kind of boyish way that reminded you of the old photos you saw at the Smithsonian when the two of you went together. 

And just like you asked him to, he smiled. Not at your camera, but at you. Your heart stuttered for a few moments, your finger froze over the button, and you had to remind yourself to take the picture. 

You were forever glad that you did. 

You stared at the photo for a long time, smiling to yourself– smiling back at Bucky’s face caught in time. You had the picture printed out on a mini Polaroid printer, and attached it to the back of your phone, but turned around so only you would know what was there. That was enough for you. You simply wanted to carry his smile with you wherever you went.

“What does it mean when your closest guy friend is always touching you, but doesn’t seem to like… make a move?” you brought up one day during a Sunday brunch with the girls. 

Your friends looked up at you, raising an eyebrow. It was only the three out of the five of your group– you’d known the two of them since the beginning of high school. The three of you were generally closer since the other two had joined your little circle during the last couple years of university. 

“Is this about your mysterious best friend that you won’t tell us anything about?” Leah teased you, a fat grin on her face. “What was his name again? Jamie?”

“James,” you corrected, clearing your throat. “And there’s nothing to tell about him. Just answer the question.”

“Well,” Mel hummed, picking up her mimosa. “What kind of touches are we talking about? Like just accidental hand brushing or…?”

You were thankful that Mel was taking you seriously at least. 

“Like… Cuddling on the couch during movies. Head on each other’s lap when we talk. He has a drawer at my place because he sleeps over sometimes– not intentionally. It just gets late, and I tell him it’s fine and to just stay over. So I told him to just bring a change of clothes, and I just wash his stuff whenever he uses them.”

“He sleeps… on your couch?” Leah asked slowly.

“No, we sleep in my bed together. Like when you guys come over…” you trailed off, voice dying down, looking down at your breakfast. 

“Like when we— when all of us cuddle in your fucking bed? Like when we were in college cramped onto a twin bed?” Leah demanded, eyebrows shooting to her hairline.

You don’t answer her. You stab a fork into your pancakes, and poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue awkwardly. You can’t look at either of them in the eyes right now. They’re a little too judgmental for your taste.

“How does he talk to you? Like sweetly or?” Mel asked, frowning at you.

“I mean– he calls me all these pet names. All the time. Calls me pretty and beautiful.”

“So you sleep next to the guy in the same bed, he’s always touching you, calls you all these sweet and cute things– never popped a boner or anything? Never tried to get a little handsy with you?” Leah asked.

“Leah!” you hissed, looking around at the other patrons in the restaurant to see if anyone heard her. “We are in public. Can you keep your voice down?”

“No, but she’s right though,” Mel said quickly, placing a hand down on the table. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she leans in, “Is he gay?”

You’re taken aback for a moment. “Uh– I… I don’t know. It never came up. I don’t think so? He’s had girlfriends before.”

You’re suddenly brought back to memories of your conversations with Bucky where he talks about Steve and Sam very fondly. 

He has plenty of memories with Steve that he speaks of with nostalgia. There are times when he talks about not Captain America, but Steve Rogers with so much pride in his voice that you can’t help but smile. At this point, you were certain that you could meet Steve on the street at any time, and you would know him like he was your own childhood friend.

Then there’s Sam. Bucky swears he hates the man, but you can hear the smile trying to crack through his words. Like he’s trying to hide how he really feels for a long winded bit that he’s doing. Despite all his sharp words, Bucky still talks about Sam. That has to count for something. 

“He might swing both ways, maybe leaning towards men,” Leah hummed, leaning back in her seat like the code was just cracked. “I mean, has to be, right? You’ve known him for almost what, an entire year now and nothing’s happened? Men don’t just befriend women at this age just to be friends.”

“I disagree with that last statement, but I do think that you’re reading too much into him,” Mel quickly said, nodding. “Men and women can definitely be friends without expecting anything from each other.”

You drown out the rest of their talk– the debate of whether or not men and women can just be friends. You’re spiraling. The polaroid hidden in the back of your phone case is weighing your purse down exponentially as the realization hits you. 

You were in the perpetual friendzone. Bucky didn’t bat an eye at you. He flirted with you, touched you without flinching, and laid down next to you in your own bed without his gaze lingering.

This was a man that was raised in the forties, and if you were correct in the little that you knew about that time period, anything premarital was some sort of sin. People were shamed. Disowned. Stoned. Excommunicated from the church.

And here Bucky was– doing just that. Doing all that and much more.

Yeah.

You were fucked. 

A light buzz within your purse caught your attention. You reached for your phone, eyes falling onto the notification of the man you were just talking about. 

You read the message over and over again, unable to believe what you were seeing for a few moments. 

Handsome [11:32am]: Stark’s throwing a party next Friday night. Do you want to come meet everyone?

The jet landed down, and the sound of the decompressors of the jet doors opening signaled the end of a successful mission. 

While the others clambered off with ease, good moods, and joy, Bucky couldn’t help but feel a wave of irritation wash through his body. The mission wasn’t difficult by any means, but the load of missions was what pissed him off. 

It’d been two weeks since he last saw you.

Bucky was simply surviving off of stupid images that he learned were called ‘memes’ that you sent him every day. That, and your cute good morning! and sleep well :) text messages which never failed to truly make him have a great morning and a well rested sleep.

Sometimes, if he got lucky, you sent him a picture of yourself. The first time that you did, he had to Google how to save images to his camera roll. After that, it was over for you. It didn’t matter what kind of picture that you sent. Even if you weren’t the full subject, he saved it. 

There was a picture where you were only partially in it, and you were trying to show off the matcha lavender drink that you bought. Another photo where your face was cut off at the top because you were cuddling with Mel’s puppy at her house. Some more stupidly angled photos of just your eyes— Bucky learned those ones being sent to him meant you wanted his attention. 

He also had pictures that he took of you. None of which, you were aware that he took. It was easy to hide. You often walked ahead of him when you were together, or your attention was focused on something else. It wasn’t difficult for a trained assassin to steal a photo or two.

Besides that, you slept like the dead next to him. Slept on his shoulder, and his lap like you owned the space. Bucky had a collection of you sleeping, though he wouldn’t admit it. It sounds creepy, but he found it endearing. 

The first time he was in your bed, and you sleeping beside him— he couldn’t fucking close his eyes. 

Were you stupid? That oblivious?

Bucky knew that you were comfortable with him, but to invite him into your bed without assuming anything? Yes, he was your friend, yes he was respectful, but he’d also been flirting with you for months on end waiting for you to pick up on the hints. 

Obviously, he wasn’t going to do anything. With each repeated time, it got a little bit easier. He found himself being able to take a small nap beside you in your bed. 

It was a comforting feeling— the warmth radiating off of your body. He was surrounded by the smell of your clean sheets, the scent of the laundry detergent that you used mixing with the shampoo you washed your hair with, and the perfume that stuck to your skin.

You moved in your sleep. Towards him. He would wake up to find you curled up beside him, like you would be if the two of you were cuddling on the couch and watching something. Bucky never pushed you away during these moments, but he never pulled you closer. 

Part of him felt guilty, if he really thought about it. 

You were normal. Someone that trusted him outside of the heroics. You treated him like any other guy on the street. You didn’t expect him to be anything else other than your friend. 

And Bucky was. He was a damn good friend to you, and he considered you one of his closest friends, too.

Simply, somewhere along the way… it shifted. He couldn’t tell when. There was no epiphany. Just a quiet realization one day. When he looked at you… he saw peace. A possible future with him, as something more than just a weapon.

Beside you, he felt different. As if the years and the war hadn’t affected him, hadn’t altered his brain in some sort of way that made him headstrong and tough around the edges the way he acted with the rest of his friends. 

With you, he felt softer. As if the walls were broken down without any fanfare or gracious ending. There wasn’t anything special that you needed to do or say to him. You just existed, and made breathing easier for him. 

Bucky quietly decided that even if you never looked his way, that it was okay. He would stay by your side, simply as another friend of yours if that’s all you’d ever want from him. Your presence alone was all he needed. You, without even realizing it, gave him something that he didn’t know was possible anymore. 

You gave him hope.

“We’re gonna meet your so-called friend that you always bail on us tonight?” Sam asked as Bucky came out into the common areas. 

The mission was finally showered off of him, and Bucky felt a bit lighter now. He just needed to change into that semi-formal attire that Stark shoved into his hands— the same clothes that were tied with a threat if Bucky didn’t wear it. 

“She said she would,” Bucky replied.

“Are we sure she’s even real?” Natasha asked, walking by to grab an apple from the fruit bowl. “Pretty sure Barnes is just strolling through New York getting fresh air by himself these days.”

“Sure,” Bucky shrugged, ignoring the chuckles of laughter at Natasha’s half-hearted jab. 

Bucky fished his phone out of his pocket, turning it back on. There should be some texts from you, waiting for him after his mission. And he was right. 

Pretty Girl [12:03pm]: what do the other girls wear 

Pretty Girl [12:05pm]: i googled iron man parties and they look rly fucking fancy sarge WHAT DOES BLACK WIDOW WEAR 

Pretty Girl [12:27pm]: i think ur saving the world… save my outfit when ur free pls </3

Bucky couldn’t help the smile that came onto his face, trying to imagine the panicked look on yours as you floated through your closet. 

Bucky [6:42pm]: Natasha and Wanda wear dresses. 

Your reply comes instantaneously. Bucky still can’t understand how you text so quickly.

Pretty Girl [6:42pm]: like?? floor length??? 

Bucky [6:45pm]: No. I’m wearing just a button up and slacks, if that makes you feel better. 

Pretty Girl [6:45pm]: what color

Bucky [6:46pm]: Black

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: mmm.. very nice. brings out your eyes

Pretty Girl [6:47pm]: i’ll see you in a couple hours :) 

Bucky hated Stark’s parties with a passion. Despised them. This time? He couldn’t wait for it to come any sooner. 

In fact, he turned straight back to his room and got ready like a teenager waiting for his very first date to come. And he sat there, on the edge of his bed, waiting for the time to come. 

When the sounds of the party started, he went outside. Slowly but surely, guests started filtering in. Tony put on his best facade, greeting everyone with much vigor. Bucky didn’t understand how he could do it every single time. 

“Why are you hanging by the door for?” Sam asked, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’ll come when she comes— and she’ll find you when she does.”

“Just… making sure she gets in safe,” Bucky grunted.

“Ugh. Just drink, dude,” Sam groaned, pushing a glass of amber liquid into his hands as he guided him towards a group of them— Natasha, Clint, and Rhodey. All three of them were sitting together at the conversation pit, chatting together. 

Bucky supposed he could wait here. You would text him if you didn’t find him right away, too. He relaxed beside Sam, though he was still on edge. 

He couldn’t focus too much on the conversation in front of him. They were talking about Rhodey’s most recent date, if he was correct. A disaster, by the sounds of it. Bucky let out a chuckle when they all laughed, just to sound like he was absorbed into the conversation just like the rest of them. 

“Speaking of dating— looks like Cap’s found someone he’s finally interested in,” Natasha said, a smirk on her face. “She’s cute. Anyone know who she is?”

Bucky’s eyebrows raised. “No way. Steve?”

“Turn around,” Natasha said, pointing behind him. “They’ve been chatting for the past ten minutes.”

Both Bucky and Sam turned to look, only for a pit to form in Bucky’s stomach.

You were there. Absolutely beautiful— dressed so effortlessly stunningly in a way that made the breath get caught in his throat. Then again, you could be in pajamas and an old hoodie, and Bucky would be a fool for you. 

You sat at the bar counter, absolutely flushed. Not from drinking too much alcohol, no, the drink in your hand was completely full. The skin of your cheeks are tinted a shade of red from embarrassment and shyness in a way that Bucky had never been able to see before. Your eyelashes are fluttering against your cheeks as you struggle to maintain eye contact with Bucky’s oldest and longest friend. 

Steve stood beside you, so fucking close. He leaned onto the bar counter with an elbow, a small smile on his face as he talked to you. His eyes never left your face, even when you couldn’t look him in the eyes. 

The conversation between you two is never ending. You’re both responding in quick succession despite the fluttering party around you, ignoring the noise and the chatter. You two are completely absorbed in each other’s words. It’s like nothing else matters. 

You say something that makes Steve chuckle. His head hangs low just for a moment, and he shakes his head. You have a shy smile on your face as you trace the rim of your glass, speaking to him softly. You’re nervous. You’re shy. You look almost a little scared of what he’ll say next. 

When he does respond, you let out a soft laugh, pulling your lip between your teeth before shaking your head shyly. Your cheeks are getting redder by the second.

Then, Steve leans in— whispers something in your ear. 

You freeze for a second, your lips part, and you stare at Steve. You’re flustered. Steve’s grin goes even wider as he pulls back to look at you, and he finishes the rest of his drink. 

Steve looks quite satisfied with himself for your reaction, the pure flushed and embarrassed look on your face. You’re unable to react for a few moments before you’re turning away from him quickly, unable to look him in the eyes— and Steve is laughing at you while you’re fanning your face with your hands. 

“Since when has Steve had moves like that?” Sam asked, eyebrows raised. “She’s like butter for him.”

Bucky has never seen you like this before. There’s never been a moment where you have ever acted like this for him before. Not once, not ever. 

Despite the fact you’re so embarrassed at whatever he had to say to you, you’re still talking to him. You can’t even look him in the eyes, but you’re responding to each and every single thing he’s saying to you. Just like Sam said— you’re melting for his words. 

Bucky has a pit of despair in his gut. He has to look away. He can’t watch the scene in front of him anymore. A long breath enters and exits his chest as he slowly tries to think rationally. 

Rationality fully leaves when Sam’s voice breaks his meditation. 

“There he is!” Sam exclaimed, standing. “Introduce us to your friend, Steve!”

Steve’s walking over, with you. Steve’s hand is on your back, leading you over to the group of them. You look relaxed, the blush is mostly gone from your cheeks, but Bucky can’t focus on anything except for the fact you’re extremely close to Steve. 

Sam moves to greet Steve, and two hands clap together before chests hit in a brother hug, their other hands hitting each other’s back. 

“Well, I’m not the one who should introduce her,” Steve chuckled, shaking his head.

You give Sam a polite smile before sidestepping both men, going around them, dropping onto the couch beside Bucky. Immediately, he shifted over to give you space. You notice, and Bucky tries not to react to your gaze. 

As you settle, you give a nod to Natasha and Rhodey on the opposite couch. Natasha gives you a smile in return, but she looks a bit confused. 

You introduce yourself as Bucky’s friend— the one that Bucky goes to see all the time. 

“The one that’s not real?” Sam asked, surprised. 

“You tell them I’m not real?” you asked, looking at Bucky as you lean back into the cushions.

“They say it on their own,” Bucky muttered. You stared at him for a few moments. You heard the edge to his voice, and he cursed in his head for being so blatant with his irritation. 

“Are you okay?” you whispered, your voice softer, only for him to hear. He wanted to scream. Not at you, but at himself. 

Bucky doesn’t look at you. Instead, he gets up, handing you his drink before walking away without another word. He can feel your eyes on him, feel the way you straightened on the couch in panic as he left without warning. 

He fucking hates this. 

Only two tells. He only needed to do one thing, say one thing, and you immediately could tell something was off about him. He hates even more that he just walked away from you without even saying a word, but he needs a second to collect his thoughts. 

For the rest of the party, Bucky avoided you like the plague. He felt your eyes on him. He refused to look at you. Even when the crowd thinned out, and the party dwindled down to just the team and you, Bucky avoided you. 

Eventually, you took your leave. 

It was Steve who saw you to the door. Steve offered to give you a ride home. You rejected, giving him a smile and saying you’ll just call an Uber or something, and wait in the lobby. Steve wasn’t having it. Something about it being too late at night, and he was right. 

Bucky could see, out of the corner of his eye, you looking at him. He didn’t look back. 

So, you left with Steve, Steve’s jacket on your shoulders to keep you warm for when the night air hit you. 

Shortly after, Bucky excused himself to his room, and his phone went off in his pocket. He re-read your text, feeling more and more like a fucking asshole with each read. 

He tossed his phone to the side, dragging a hand down his face. Bucky couldn’t answer you. Not tonight. 

Pretty Girl [1:32am]: is everything okay?

Just like you thought, you and Steve became extremely good friends right away. You practically knew him and everything about him right away from the very beginning, thanks to Bucky. 

You didn’t even mean to approach him first, but your eyes found him when you were looking in the crowd when you arrived. He was attempting to get a drink when you dropped in on the bar, and opened up with—

“Is Bucky gay and not telling me?”

Steve choked on the water he originally had in his hands before looking at you. You belatedly introduced yourself to him, telling him who exactly you were to Bucky before repeating yourself, asking him if he and Bucky were dating or if Bucky and Sam were dating or if all three of them were in some… throuple… situation. 

Thankfully, Steve took it like a champ. He laughed so loud it made you grin before he shook his head and confirmed that Bucky is indeed single, and has been since the forties. 

Then, he asked you why you even assumed. 

Your next question—

“How the hell do I get your dumbass friend to like me then?”

Steve looked intrigued at that point. Leaned against the bar, hooked on your every word. You told him about your situation with him— how touchy Bucky was with you. The cute names he called you. How he was always at your place.

You told him how your friends thought he must not like girls, which is why you even had to ask Steve in the first place. 

Then he whispers to you, in your ear for only you to hear—

“I’m certain he’s already in love with you if he’s doing all of that.”

Steve had such a big grin on his face after saying it— and he couldn’t stop telling you how happy he was to meet you. How he’d noticed how Bucky was just a generally brighter guy these days, but wouldn’t say much about you, as if he wanted to keep you to himself. 

Steve said he understood why Bucky fell for you, from how you were talking about him.

“My words don’t mean much,” Steve said, smiling at you, “but thank you for looking at Bucky like this. Like he’s a man.”

That first half of the party was almost like a blur for you. You had practically reached enlightenment just by speaking to Captain America. All of your world’s issues had been solved by your conversation with the man, and you could only remember bits and pieces from how scrambled your brain was.

You were so embarrassed from admitting all of it to Bucky’s friend. Your feelings about having to ask for advice on how to get Bucky to look your way to Steve telling you that you already had Bucky wrapped around your finger. All of it had you on a euphoric level that you had never experienced before.

Yet, if Steve’s so fucking certain, then why is Bucky ignoring you? 

You remembered the second half of the party better than the first. Bucky moving away from you on the couch. At first, you thought it was because his friends were around. You tried not to let it bother you– the way that he created distance between the both of you. 

Despite the fact your heart was racing because you received verbal confirmation from Bucky’s best friend that Bucky had feelings for you, you tried acting normal. The same way that you always acted with him. Touchy. Casual. The same flirting routine that you two always use.

Yet, you don’t think he looked your way once the entire night. You tried. You desperately tried to corner him, to talk to him. You should’ve known better to try to get the former Winter Soldier alone.

Bucky doesn’t know this because you’ve never told him, but he has read receipts on. You know he’s seen every single one of your text messages. You know he’s read every single one of them the second you’ve sent them, which means there’s no mission.

You’ve gone over a week without contact with him. You’ve gone longer without seeing him, but never without any form of communication. There was always some sort of text or call, something to connect the two of you together. 

You didn’t have the clearance to go in and out of the Avengers compound. You couldn’t just waltz in there. All you could do was text and attempt to call him, and wait for him to text you back. 

But you don’t want to bother him if he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore. You’re better than that— you’re not going to chase attention from someone who clearly didn’t want yours. You’re still not sure what you did to offend him, but you’d try one last time. 

Feelings aside, you valued him deeply as your friend. You thought he felt the same way. You weren’t sure if you were hurt from feeling a friend breakup, or having to get over your crush over him. Either option fucking sucked.

You call him one more time during your lunch break, only for the phone to go immediately to voicemail. You let out a deep sigh, and wait for the prompt to allow you to record your message. 

“I’ll stop calling and texting you now,” you said, your heart beating so wildly in your chest you’re certain that your phone’s microphone can pick it up. “I don’t know what I did, but… Yeah. I’ll leave you alone now. I wish you the best, I guess. Stay safe, handsome.”

You hang up, sending the message. You turn your phone off next. You don’t want to know if he’s texted you or called you back, and you don’t trust yourself by just simply turning on the do not disturb feature on your phone. You’re the type to still look at notifications to see if you were disturbed. 

You try to power through the rest of your day on autopilot. 

Your plan is to complete your menial work tasks. Tasks that should have been so easy to complete without a single bat of an eye, but no. The universe wanted to make your life harder. As if to just laugh at you, add onto your plate, and make you feel even more miserable.

The emails you received from your team were full of dumpster fires that you needed to put out for your clients. You were pulled into emergency meetings that you didn’t have time for. Those same clients were calling you, frantic and fucking pissed that your company wasn’t delivering what you had promised them. 

All at the same time, your upper management was cracking down on your boss, who was then taking it out on all of you— and you had no time to deal with his tantrum. You were one fucking person, dealing with your own meltdown in your own personal life, but expected to deal with everyone else’s. 

You didn’t get out of work on time. You couldn’t. It was impossible. You had a mountain of tasks that had no end in sight. You didn’t take your final break at the end of the day. Honestly, your head was pounding. 

Still, you didn’t go home right away. Didn’t turn your phone back on. You went to the grocery store instead. You couldn’t handle the thought of sitting in your lonely home, by yourself with your own thoughts. 

You should’ve just gone home. 

You roamed up and down aisles that you didn’t need to go down, only for a rambunctious child to slam into you with an open container of fruit juice in his hands, spilling all over your clothes before falling backwards. The kid’s parent had the audacity to yell at you.

You barely had half the mind to walk away before breaking down in tears yourself because why is your kid drinking unbought juice in the store and running around unsupervised? while the kid’s mom screamed at you to pay for the juice. 

You didn’t even buy anything at the store. Just dropped your basket off at the register and left before you ended up exploding. Apologized to the cashier for the inconvenience before making the walk home. 

A soft curse fell from your lips as you shoved your key into the door— it was fucking jammed again. You shook the door, tears prickling in your eyes. You were sticky, uncomfortable, angry, overstimulated, and so fucking sad. You’re about to slam your fist into the door in utter rage and frustration when it opens.

“You really need to tell your landlord to fix your door, doll,” Bucky murmured to you, “Even I had trouble getting in earlier.”

You’re staring at him, like a deer caught in headlights. He looks sheepish, eyes trained on the ground at your feet. For a moment, you wonder how the fuck he’s in your apartment. Then you remember you gave him a key a long time ago for emergencies.

Your silence must’ve alerted him. His eyes finally drag upwards, and widen when he sees the state you’re in. His eyebrows furrowed. He’s quiet, for just a moment. Then, his inner thoughts come forth.

“You look like shit.”

“Yeah. Because that’s exactly what I want to fucking hear from you after uncalled for radio silence,” you said dryly, coming to your senses. You watch him cringe at your tone before you push past him, walking into your apartment. 

Your work bag is unceremoniously dropped onto the nearest chair, and you shrug off your cardigan next. You can hear Bucky shuffling behind you as you make your way to your bedroom for another change of clothes before you drown yourself in hot water. 

By the time you come out of the bathroom, no longer sticky, muscles slightly relaxed from the spray of the water, you find that Bucky had made dinner for the two of you. It’s nothing fancy or extreme– just some pasta and chicken that you definitely didn’t have in your fridge before. You vaguely wondered if he had gone shopping before he even came over. 

You want to press him. Tell him to get the fuck out of your house. But God, the food smells good, he looks good in his stupid fucking sweatshirt and jeans that screams boyfriend material, and you’re so tired. 

You can feel his eyes on you, cautious. The tension in the air is thick. You could probably eat it for dessert, if you wanted to. For now, you take your time stabbing into the pasta in front of you and bringing it to your lips. You fill your stomach, ignore his stare, and ignore the way that he doesn’t eat his own share of food. 

“I got your message,” Bucky finally spoke.

“Great. Why are you here then?” you replied, dropping your fork onto the plate. It clattered loudly against the ceramic, and you finally sat back in your seat. Your arms crossed over your chest as you finally looked at him.

Bucky was still looking at you. His lips were parted, as if he was trying to come up with the words to speak. His fists were clenched on either side of his plate, and then his mouth shut. He took in a deep breath from his nostrils, and shook his head, lowering it as he did.

“Are you here to return my apartment key? Didn’t have to make me dinner to do that. You could’ve slipped it through the mail slot, but whatever. Hand it over,” you said, holding out your hand to him.

His head immediately snapped up, and a crease formed between his eyebrows. He looked hurt– but not in a kicked puppy kind of way. Almost scandalized, like he was offended that you even suggested that to begin with. 

“I’m not returning your fuckin’ key,” he responded, voice a little tight. 

You frowned, raising your eyebrows at him. You lowered your hand back down, and tilted your head at him as you observed him for a few moments. You were both in a quiet standoff, one that you didn’t fully get. 

 “I’m sorry, did I misunderstand something between us?” you finally asked, tone clipped. “I’ve texted you. Called you– like an obsessive fucking girlfriend for nearly two weeks now. I can’t even say that you ghosted me because ghosting is a term that you use for people in relationships or people in talking stages, and we clearly aren’t in either of those–”

“What the fuck is ghosting?” he cut you off, exasperated. 

“I just fucking told you!” you shouted back, throwing your hands into the air. 

Then, you looked at him. Really looked at him. Despite his tone, he was genuine. Confused. He wanted to know, and you were going off on a tangent on him. It wouldn’t be fair to him or you to keep going if he had no clue what you were saying. So, you took in a slow breath of air before you explained. 

“It means you ignored me. Fell off the face of the Earth without any explanation– no rhyme or reason. I had no clue what happened to you, or if I did something to hurt you. There was no closure, no understanding. I don’t know what I did to piss you off, so now I’m pissed off at you,” you said, trying to keep your voice as even as possible. “And now, you come into my fucking apartment, make me dinner, and try to act like everything is okay? That’s just a load of bullshit, James. I have to get texts from Steve to make sure that you’re alive, and not dead in some random country!”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, and he sat back in his own seat. You watched as he sucked on his teeth, and slowly exhaled. 

“You and Steve text? How often does that happen?” he asked, his voice low.

“Are you for real?” you asked, a laugh escaping your lips. You couldn’t even try to mask the confusion that was on your face now. You stared at him, blinking. “Out of everything I just said– that’s what you’re going to take away from that? Not that I’m mad– you’re not even going to apologize?”

“Just answer the question, please,” he murmured, his shoulders rising as he took in another, small breath.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stared at him. You couldn’t read his face. There was something distant in his eyes. He was guarded, far away, and not the Bucky that you knew. 

“I’ve texted him more than you’ve texted me these past couple weeks,” you answered, clenching your jaw. “Which, by the way– you texted me absolutely nothing. So you can guess how often me and Steve text.”

“So you two really hit it off then, huh?” Bucky said, though it sounds more to himself than to you. He’s looking down at this full plate of food now, avoiding your gaze as his tongue is poking at his cheek. He almost looks pissed off. 

“What the hell are you even talking about?” 

His eyes flickered up. “You and Steve. At the party. That’s where you met, right? He brought you home, didn’t he?”

“He did, since the person that I assumed was going to be my ride home avoided me all night,” you shot back. You could feel your already thinning patience dissolving into nothing at all. “How is this relevant to the conversation that we’re having?”

Silence settled like a stone wall as you stared at each other. The two of you met another dead end to your conversation, with nowhere to go. This was the first time you had ever argued with Bucky like this, and you could feel your relationship with him slipping through your fingertips. You don’t know this side of Bucky. Your agitation was already through the roof, and Bucky was mad about something that you didn’t even understand, but you could see it in his eyes. 

Then, you watch his anger dissipate. It cracks, like he’s conceding. Like he doesn’t want to be mad. He’s fighting an internal battle, struggling with himself in his mind. You don’t know which part of him is winning yet.

Bucky scrubs a hand down his face as he slouches in his seat, and rests his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands for a few moments. He takes two, slow, deep breaths as he tries to compose himself. 

“Steve’s a good guy,” he finally spoke through a clenched jaw. “A great guy even. I’m glad you two seem to be getting along.”

Your temper freezes in its place as you stare at him. What?

Bucky lifts his head, lacing his fingers together in front of his mouth. He’s still not looking at you, eyes trained somewhere behind your head. 

“I– I haven’t seen someone make him laugh like that in so damn long, and I know you really well, so I don’t doubt that you’ll make him happy either. And I’ve never seen you act so fucking shy in front of guy before, and I’m glad it’s Steve that made you act like that–”

The words are spilling out of Bucky’s mouth faster than you can comprehend. Your mind is trying to keep up with the clusterfuck of information that you’re suddenly receiving from him. You’re doing your best to decipher what he’s saying to you, while sitting in front of you, looking like a sad, lonely, kicked fucking puppy. He looks like you’ve just abandoned him. 

“–and God I just wish that it was me that you looked at like that because I’ve been with you this entire time for over a year now, and I’ve been flirting with you every single fucking day that I’m with you and you never seem to notice–”

“You’re jealous?” you finally cut him off, your mind finally catching up with his words. “You’ve been ignoring me because you’re jealous that I was talking to Steve at the party?”

You watch as Bucky’s lips part, and he slowly falls backwards into his seat. His chest rises and falls rapidly as he attempts to catch his breath from the long winded, incoherent rant. He clenches his jaw like he’s about to break his teeth into pieces. Then, he nods once, swallows thickly, and looks you in the eyes. Nervously.

You can't believe what you're hearing. He's jealous. The guy you've been ripping your hair out over, the one you've embarrassed yourself in front of Captain America over is jealous.

You got up from your chair, and went over to your bookshelf. You could feel him watching you as you pulled out one of your photo albums– a black binder. Sleek, inconspicuous, unassuming. You brought it back to the table, dropping it down in front of him before sitting back in your seat, taking a slow breath. 

Silently, you gestured for him to open it, looking down at it before looking back at him. You watched as he slowly reached for it, moving his plate away to make more space. 

Then, he saw it. 

Your possession of candid photos, spanning over the last five months. Just Bucky, and Bucky alone. In nearly all of them, Bucky wasn’t looking at you. You thought that he would have been aware that you were taking the photos, with his assassin senses, but Steve told you otherwise– he trusts you, he said. 

You watched as Bucky continued flipping through the photo album, page by page, confusion riddling his features with each turn, each new photo that he saw. There were photos from your excursions together.

The photos taken on your DSLR camera were the ones where he wasn’t facing you. Where he had no clue that you were even pointing the camera at him. These photos were taken outdoors, when you were outside doing something else in the world. At an aquarium. At the park. At a nice cafe that you saw online that you dragged him to. You had made sure the flash was turned off on your camera, made sure that he wouldn’t be able to see you sneaking photos. You always tried to be sure there was something near him that you could pretend to be taking a photo of instead, too. 

In some of the recent photos, his face was clearly shown. At some point throughout your process of sneaking photos of him, you realized that he thought you were just tapping away at your screen. It was one of the many benefits that you had from the fact that Bucky didn’t use his phone often, other than to contact you. 

These were photos of him in your kitchen when he made dinner or of him on your couch, your legs on his lap. Some photos were of him sleeping on the other side of your bed, completely unaware that you had put your camera to his face

“You don’t take pictures of people,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the photos. “You told me you think people become the fakest version of themselves on camera.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I fucking hate it,” you answered with a shrug. “And they do.”

“Then what’s all this?”

“Photos of you through my eyes– exactly how I see you. An entire collection of it, actually. I hoard those photos. I have more of them that I need to go get developed, and add to that album, actually,” you admitted. 

“Why?” 

You could only stare at him for a few moments, your heart thumping wildly in your chest, threatening to crawl up your esophagus and show itself to Bucky. He looked like he was putting together the pieces, just as you had done yourself. But he needed the confirmation.  

“I asked Steve if you two were dating. That’s what we were talking about at the party.”

You watched as Bucky’s head snapped up towards you, eyebrows raised up to his hairline. You’re certain that if he had water, he would’ve choked like Steve did. 

“Sweetheart, what the fuck–”

“And then we kept talking about you,” you cut him off, looking away from him, clearing your throat. “And I asked Steve how I could get you to like me– to notice me– and stop just flirting with me like a friend. He told me that if you were flirting with me at all, there’s a pretty good chance that you already like me. Which is why I got shy.”

You can feel heat crawling up your neck, blossoming under your cheeks, and on either side of your head to your ears. It was your turn to avoid his gaze. You kept your eyes down on your hands, which were folded onto your lap. You could hear your heart in your ears. Your stomach flipped over in your body in unnatural ways, and you wish you didn’t eat any of the food Bucky made. 

Then, you saw Bucky’s metal hand on top of yours. You didn’t even hear him stand or get out of his chair. It was moments like this that you forgot how quiet he could be– how he made himself loud for you, how he made his presence known for your own comfort. It was one of the many things that he did for you without you even realizing it. 

Your breath hitched as you turned, finding him on one knee beside your chair, looking up at you. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, gently, comfortingly, sweetly, in a way that made your heart stutter in your chest. 

You met his eyes. They were soft. Just like how he had looked at you that day in the bookstore, when you told him to smile for you. A small smile was on his lips as he looked up at you, unguarded and raw. 

“I’m really sorry, doll,” he whispered, and you released a soft breath. “I didn’t– I should’ve just talked to you instead of running from you. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I… didn’t want to be rejected by you.”

“So you thought pushing me away completely would be better?” you shot back with a frown, but there was no real anger to your words, and Bucky could tell.

“Can I make it up to you?” he asked. “Take you on a date? An actual date– maybe one where we can take a photo together instead of you taking ones of me like a creep hiding something.”

A laugh fell from your lips as Bucky squeezed your hands. His smile only grows at the sound of your laughter, and you can’t find it in you to be a brat to him. Not when he’s kneeling beside you, holding your hands, and asking so nicely. Then again, you were always soft for him. 

Then, you reached for him. You grabbed him by the collar of his sweatshirt, pulling him up as you leaned down, meeting him somewhere in the middle. His lips are on yours within seconds, and they’re as soft as you had imagined– as you know they are because you’ve put your lip masks on his lips with your fingers more times than you can count. But God, feeling them directly on yours is a different sense of euphoria that you never would’ve known until now. 

You slowly slink out of your chair for comfort, until you’re on the floor with Bucky, body pressed against his. Your hands are on his shoulders, his wrapped around your back to hold you tight against him. You’re breathless against his lips, slotted against him perfectly like he was made for you. You could probably stay like this forever. Kissing him slowly in the dining area of your apartment. 

When you finally parted, his forehead pressed against yours. Your breaths mingle, fanning against each other’s faces as you look at each other. The tension is back, but different. You both react at the same time.

Bucky dives back in for another kiss, a hand coming to cradle the back of your neck to support you. You can feel his tongue swipe the seam of your lips, requesting entry that you would never deny him. He immediately takes the chance to explore, while your hands explore underneath his clothes, searching for skin.  

A low, guttural groan escapes his throat. “This is backwards, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “We should be going on dates first before all of this.”

“Are you complaining?” you asked, hands moving up his abdomen, and resting on his sides. 

“No, but I wanna be a gentleman for you, make it up to you for the bullshit I put you through–”

“Technically, we have been going on dates this entire time,” you reassured, peppering a series of kisses along his jaw and down his neck. Bucky lets out a soft sigh, moving his head to the side to allow you space to keep pressing your lips to his skin. “Since we both liked each other, we just never said it out loud.”

You can feel his resolve of being a gentleman breaking with each kiss. His hands tighten around you, and you can feel his pulse quicken under your lips. Gently, you nip onto a soft spot, listening to him let out another groan before you placate the ache with your tongue. 

Then, you’re being hoisted off the floor with a shriek falling from your lips. You grab onto Bucky’s shoulders quickly, and you look at his face– there’s determination all over his features as he makes his way down the hall to your bedroom. The resolve has shattered. You’ve broken him. 

Bucky’s been in your bedroom before. He’s been in your bed before, been under your sheets, slept comfortably through the night with him on the other side of the bed– but God, this is so much better.

Clothes are thrown off, damn near ripped at the seams, littered all over your floor, and Bucky’s hands are all over you. He’s laid you down onto your pillows, and his head is between your legs before you can come to your senses– and you feel the warmth of his tongue flattening against your aching core.

You both moan into the room at the same time, almost in harmony. You weakly push yourself onto your elbows to look at him, to watch him, and he’s hooking your thighs over his shoulders, pulling you deeper into him to lock you in place. Then, you meet his eyes as he takes another pass. 

Bucky doesn’t need to say a single word for you to understand that he’s been waiting to taste you on his tongue for months. He eats like a man that’s been starved, like a man that had spent years in the desert, and you were the first drop of water that he’s had. 

You can only fall back against the pillows, reaching for him, grabbing onto his hair– which makes him groan against you. The vibrations alone make your body tremble against him. He’s enjoying every single moment, eyes falling shut. His hand shifts, thumb moving to press against your clit, and your body reacts instantly, thighs clenching around him. 

“Bucky– fuck–” you gasped out, and you fall apart instantly. He groans into you, almost in approval as he licks up all of your arousal and juices until there’s nothing left. You’re twitching, sensitive, and pushing on his head– damn near sobbing for him to give you a break. 

Reluctantly, he does get up. And he looks like he’s the one who just came. He’s breathless, chest rising and falling, expression fucked out and beautiful. Bucky licks his lips, then wipes the area surrounding his mouth before he slots himself between your legs, lowering himself down to you.

“So good for me, baby,” he praised softly, kissing your forehead as his elbows rested on either side of your head. His kisses moved further down your face until his lips met yours again in a slow, gentle kiss. “So, so good for me. Can you keep going?”

“God, if you don’t fuck me I might kill you.”

You could feel him grin against you as he slowly shifted, and you felt him slowly drag the length of his cock against your folds, coating himself in your slick. A soft gasp fell from your lips as he moaned out your name. He dropped his head into your shoulder, trying to ground himself as he lined himself up with your aching hole, and pushed in.

You can feel him deep– every ridge and vein, pulsing inside of you. He’s thick and girthy, long, stretching you out more than you’d ever been before, and it’s too much, and not enough at the same time. You need him painting the inside of you, staining you, claiming you– you can’t tell him that right now. Not yet. You just got the man. 

You know that you’re not much better. You’re wet around him, walls twitching and crying at the feel of him. Your legs are trembling around his hips, fingernails clawing at his shoulders and digging deep as you try to catch your breath. You’re impossibly full, but you need him to move.

And he does.

The first pull back has you seeing the gates of heaven. When he sinks all the way back in, you’re sent straight to hell. 

Bucky fucks you into the bed like a man on a mission, full of sin and no regrets. His hands are all over you, grabbing at your waist to hold you in place while his lips are busy marking your chest in places where only you and he will know. When your back arches off the bed, his lips close around a stiff nipple, tongue lapping around the hardened peak and sucking. 

You’re sensitive, breaths erratic, and he’s too good. 

“I can’t– I can’t–” you whimpered, fingers digging into his chest. 

“Oh, but you’re doing so well, baby,” Bucky praised softly. 

You can barely open your eyes to look at him, but when you do? There’s a light sheen of sweat that’s coating his skin, and his eyes are on you, watching every single part of you, burning you into his memory– the way you look under him as he fucks you– how your breasts move in correspondence with each thrust of his hips, how fucked out and cock drunk you look, how your body spasms and twitches under his ministrations. He’s compartmentalizing every single detail of you. 

“Bucky, please,” you moaned out, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

“Gimme one more, doll– Can you do that for me?” he groaned, his hips picking up speed, “Need you to cum on my cock, pretty thing.”

There’s a neediness in his voice that makes your walls flutter around him, that shoves you off the edge a second time that night– just like he wanted you to. A curse falls from his lips as his hips stutter against you, and he rides out your orgasm as long as possible before he’s pulling out of you, his own release spilling all over your stomach and chest. Bucky catches himself on his elbows before he collapses on top of you, breathing heavily.

Part of you wants to tell him what a waste. You keep it to yourself for now. 

“Kiss, Bucky,” you muttered instead, reaching for his face.

He chuckles, almost breathy, and leans back down to you. He’s careful to avoid the hot, sticky mess that he’s left behind on your body, but he kisses you regardless. A sigh escapes your throat as he meets your lips.

Before long, he’s completely leaving you, muttering something about needing to clean you up. You stay there, boneless and sated, drifting off to sleep. You don’t even realize he’d come back until you feel a warm washcloth on your skin, wiping away the remnants of misdeed that you two had committed just moments prior. 

Then, you’re being hoisted into his arms again, and the sheets are pulled over your bodies. His lips press against your forehead as his arms wrap around you, tugging you closer to his chest. Once again, Bucky is in your bed. Like he’s been countless times before, but this is different. It’s changed. You like it better this way.

You’re listening to the steady beat of his heart, allowing it to be your lullaby for the night when he breaks the silence. 

“Is this a yes to the date?” Bucky whispered.

A grin breaks out on your face, and you press a kiss to his bare chest. “Yes, handsome. You can take me out on a date.”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian

[purplerain85]

I will have a new Happy fic coming soon….. *shocker* it’s heartbreak again 🤣🤣 not as sad as my previous ones.

Based on this song

@withmyteeth @jvalentinesworld-cokes-hyna @darqchilddaydreamz @darklydeliciousdesires @drabbles-mc @yourwonkywriter @redwood-orginals @reyeswritesmc @samcro-saint99 @happysoldlady @chibsytelford @twistnet @nessamc @talesofanarchy @ravennaortiz @raewritesfiction

[purplerain85]

Lewis being nervous before proposing is everything 😍

ECHOES OF DESIRE

Lewis Pullman x reader

Summary: After a romantic marriage proposal at a cozy restaurant, the couple heads home planning to just sleep. But an unexpected power outage changes everything—Lewis has a better idea. What follows is a night full of passion, love, and a bittersweet goodbye.

⚠️ Content Warning: Explicit sexual content. For mature audiences only (18+).

Author’s Note: Hi, English is not my first language, so please be kind if you spot any grammar slips or awkward phrasing. I poured my heart into this story, and I hope the emotion reaches you regardless of the language barrier. Thank you so much for reading.

━━━━━━✧♛✧━━━━━━

The city seemed to have conspired in their favor. Quiet streets, a warm breeze, lights flickering behind open curtains.

The restaurant felt like a dream: soft music in the background, exposed brick walls, candles flickering on every table, and a subtle scent of lavender floating in the air. Everything was wrapped in an almost magical calm, a kind of romantic bubble where time seemed to pause. Their glances were gentle, full of history and promises stitched into shared silences.

Lewis had been especially clumsy all night. He dropped his napkin twice, nearly spilled the wine, and his answers were shorter than usual. She noticed, of course. But she said nothing. She just watched him with a restrained smile, as if she already knew something was brewing beneath the surface.

"Are you okay?" she asked sweetly as he nervously twisted the rim of his glass.

"Me? Yeah, sure... it's just... this pasta has a strong personality," he tried to joke, and they both laughed, though his hands kept trembling slightly.When dessert arrived—a perfectly golden crème brûlée—Lewis seemed to hold his breath. He rose from his seat with rehearsed slowness, walked toward her, and knelt beside her chair. She blinked, confused for a second.

"It's not because the food is good," he began, voice shaky. "It's because you make everything taste better—even the grayest days. And I don’t want more days without you… Will you marry me?"

She was speechless, her eyes shining brighter than the candles. Emotion rose like heat up her throat, and when she could finally speak, all she said was:

"Yes. Of course, yes."

The restaurant blurred for a moment. Everything was him. His arms around her, the ring sliding onto her finger, the kiss they shared: trembling, sincere, perfect.

Everything was perfect. Until they got home.The door clicked softly shut, the lights came on dim.

The city’s echo faded behind the windows. They were full of wine, food, and restrained desire. They kissed in the kitchen, between the cold marble and warm breath. She leaned against the counter, he bent over her neck.

“Lewis… no,” she murmured, breathless, trying to speak as he kissed her gently.

“Tomorrow… work.”Lewis stopped, smiling against her skin, then pulled back reluctantly. His fingers brushed her waist one last time before he nodded slowly.

"Okay. Just sleep," he agreed with a sigh and a half-smile. “Promise.”

They meant to sleep.

But just as the sheets embraced them, the power surrendered. A soft click, and everything went dark. She laughed, murmuring something about the unannounced storm. Lewis sighed dramatically.

“Great… no white noise,” he muttered, dragging his back across the sheets.

She knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He needed that low hum, that steady vibration like an invisible blanket. But instead, there was silence. And heat. And the scent of her skin, inches from his mouth.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” she whispered, barely audible, turning toward him.

Lewis turned too, raising an eyebrow.

“A sign of what, exactly?”

“That the whole ‘just sleep’ thing was a terrible idea.”

He smiled. He leaned in and brushed her neck with his lips, soft, barely there.

“I have a better idea…” he whispered, no longer sleepy—his voice low and ragged, pulled by desire.

His lips found her neck and started tracing an unrelenting map. There was no rush, but no hesitation either. His hands, both skilled and impatient, searched for the edge of her shirt and pulled it up without asking. The heat of his fingers on her back made her catch her breath—but only for a second. Then came the first moan, soft, rising from deep in her belly. And he smiled.

"Yeah… that… just like that," he murmured against her collarbone.

He slid his lips over her breasts, savoring them like forbidden fruit. He played with them, his tongue drawing circles that made her arch her back, her thighs tremble, the entire room shudder. She clung to his hair, tugged it with that blend of pleading and need that drove him wild.

Desire grew like a fever, a slow-burning fire that couldn't be put out. Lewis moved down her body, kissing every inch of skin like he was worshiping a temple. When he reached the center of her need, he settled between her thighs and looked up at her with raw devotion, his eyes shining in the darkness.

Without breaking eye contact, he lowered his head and kissed her there, softly at first, like he was speaking a different language. His tongue found rhythm, sparking involuntary spasms that made her moan, tremble, unravel.

Lewis devoured her with hunger and tenderness, savoring her slowly, delighting in every quiver. She arched beneath him, thighs tightening around his shoulders, her fingers tangled in his hair, gasping in broken moans.

When he felt her beginning to crack open, her hips lifting in search of more, her breath a sob, he paused, kissing the inside of her thighs as he moved back up her body, leaving a trembling, wet trail across her skin.

“I want to hear you all night,” he murmured between kisses, his tongue sparking spasms that made her beg without words. “You’ll be my white noise, baby.”

He slid over her, their bodies aligning like puzzle pieces. He looked at her one second longer, as if needing to confirm the desire was mutual—and when she arched her hips toward him, Lewis entered her with devastating slowness.

"I'm going to push so deep your body will miss me more than your heart."

He thrust deep. She fell apart with a hoarse cry, arching her back, her legs trembling like every fiber in her body was unraveling. He gritted his teeth, trying not to come too fast, feeling her clench around him with an involuntary force that nearly broke him.He stilled for a moment, buried inside her, biting his lip, panting against her neck. Her scent drove him wild. He couldn’t stop. He pulled back slightly and thrust again, harder, making her cry out loud, pushing her closer to delirium.

“Fuck, you’re so tight…” he growled, feeling how she took him in, hungry, back arched, thighs open without resistance.He leaned into her ear, whispering low and dirty:

“I’m going to make you shake until you forget your name… you’ll beg me to stop… and I won’t…”

And she did. She broke beneath him, drunk on love, on desire, on everything he gave without restraint. Lewis held her by the hips, lifting her so she could feel him even deeper, like he wanted to carve himself inside her. Every thrust was a promise, a sentence. The room filled with the sounds of their union—wet, soft, undeniable.

Her legs were pure tremor, her body an open canvas to his desire. Lewis caressed her thighs, her breasts, her back like he was painting a masterpiece with his fingertips. She answered with choked moans, ragged gasps, trembling whispers of his name.He thrust into her harder, deeper, an unstoppable rhythm. He took her face in his hands, forced her to meet his gaze while he drove into her with an intensity that made her scream."

Look at me," he commanded with brutal tenderness. "Look at me while I make you mine. I want to see you break for me."

She tried to keep his gaze. Her eyelids fluttered. The pleasure overflowed. Her lips parted, but only a stuttering moan escaped, melting with her trembling breath. A moment later, a whisper—barely a “yes”—like an involuntary prayer. Her body said everything: arching into him, hands clinging to his shoulders, eyes wet with bliss. She trembled, whispering his name.

Lewis held her tight, his grip firm on her waist, his hips thrusting with a rhythm that made her quake with every stroke. And in that moment, with her eyes locked on his, she shattered. Completely. She screamed his name as her body came undone again, surrendered, conquered, his.

When they collapsed together, panting, soaked in sweat and interlaced sighs, Lewis held her tight. Rested his cheek against her chest, listening for her heartbeat.

“Perfect…” he whispered.

Finally, the white noise he needed. Made of flesh, love, and pleasure. And he slept soundly. As if she were his only cure for the world’s insomnia.

A couple of hours later, she felt movement. Lewis was getting up, hair tousled, eyes still heavy.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice husky, skin still warm from sleep.

“Early flight, remember?” he replied with a tender smile, picking his clothes up from the floor.

She stretched, half-covered by the sheets, and gently took his wrist.

“I don’t want you to go yet,” she whispered.

Lewis leaned in and kissed her softly—but when she slid a leg between his, when her touch became an unspoken invitation, his resolve crumbled.

He climbed back into bed without thinking. And though she didn’t say another word, her eyes held his with that quiet intensity. The sheets were no longer a blanket—they were witnesses to a desire that knew no fatigue. Lewis moved over her, his lips finding hers with slow hunger, as if he wanted to keep her etched in memory.

The tension, which had never really left, sparked again like a match in the dark. It was as if her body was trying to memorize everything—his breath, the feel of his back, the heartbeat in his ribs. Lewis slid a hand down her bare thigh and knew: goodbyes couldn’t be silent.

They moved with a slowness that bordered on reverence. No rush, only that emotional urgency that comes when you know something has to end—but you can still make it last a little longer. Every kiss was a plea. Every thrust a way of saying: “I’m going to miss you.”

Lewis made her his again, eyes closed, heart pounding as if being ripped from his chest. She welcomed him with open arms, arched back, and sighs turned into sweet moans.

“This is how I want to remember you the whole flight,” he murmured in her ear, thrusting deep and slow. “Shaking… with my name on your lips…”

She didn’t answer with words. Her body spoke for her. And it was enough.

When they finally stilled, exhausted, tangled in rumpled sheets and early morning light creeping through the windows, Lewis said nothing. He just held her tight, as if trying to imprint that moment into his skin.

“I’m going to miss you so much. I haven’t even left and I already crave you on top of me.”

She kissed him. She felt him smile as he stroked her face—but still, he had to go.

The soft dawn light caressed her bare skin, casting shadows over her back, tracing the curve of her hip. Every step she took toward the bathroom, so unaware of her own grace, left him breathless. He bit his lip, no shame at all, with a smile heavy with desire not yet dimmed.

She was his. Entirely his.

And yet, seeing him leave like that—so calm, so beautiful—made her sink back into the sheets, wrapped in a blend of satisfaction and aching anticipation.Hours later, waking up alone in still-warm sheets, she felt his absence like a hollow silence in the room. Beside her, the phone buzzed with a notification. A voice message.She played it with a single tap, still wrapped in his scent and the dampness left by the night.

“Hey, beautiful,” his voice rasped—low, still half-asleep. “I’m heading out, but I can’t stop thinking about you… the way you moaned this morning when I made you mine. You know what I want? I don’t want you to shower yet. I want you to keep smelling like me. Like what we did. I want you to touch yourself thinking about my mouth, my tongue. I want you to open up for me, even if I’m not there…” he paused, a sigh vibrating through the line. “Next time, I won’t let you leave the bed. I swear. I want to see you tremble again. I want to taste you so slow you’ll hate me for it… and yeah, I want every moan of yours to be mine. I love you, damn it, but I also want you like sin—the best kind. Don’t forget that.”

The message ended. She stared at the screen, thighs clenching instinctively as the fire ignited all over again.Her hand slowly slid to her chest, where his warmth still lingered, then she looked at her left hand. There, the ring caught the tender morning light. She twisted it gently, touching the promise it held. Her whole body still pulsed with him, with his voice, with the memory of his lips and his touch. That ring wasn’t just a symbol anymore—it was an echo of everything they’d been that night. A shining confirmation that she was his… and he, undeniably, hers too.

[purplerain85]

I loved this so much

1) them having a baby in secret

2) Kevin figuring it out “no. He has YOUR eyes”

3) Her getting taken (I legit felt her fear)

4) I could feel Harry’s fear and anger radiating off of him.

5) Fucking Kevin being so scared he spills the beans “Not my sister. The mother of your child” 🥺🥺

6) Harry dealing with it and getting her back

7) And as always the sex 😘😘😘

Hi 😊 so happy your requests are open. You don’t have to but I was wanting to request a Harry x younger Harrigan smut angst imagine, where she is seraphina’s sister, her and Harry fell in love(u can decide when) and they slept together and still do , even though he is married. They’d do anything for the other,(no one knows ) she has a son who is 8 and Harry is the father ☺️ , only harrigan who knows is Kevin. they find out their having another child and are so happy even tho they hide it (mainly from Jan) she is the one who is held hostage with Ritchie, and Harry is with the family in the kitchen watching the stream, (that we saw in episode) and he’s terrified she won’t make it , you can decide how it ends. Just angsty and smut when they reunite. Sorry if hardly makes sense the idea has been in my head for a while 🧡 I hope it’s okay, I’m sorry x

“Help me forget”

Harry Da Souza x Harrigan!Reader

Harry’s Masterlist  

Summary: What if it had been you. Not just anyone, but you—Harry’s secret love and the mother of his child, kidnapped alongside Brendan. Seconds away from death. While Harry could only watch through a screen.

WC: 5.4k

Warnings/Tags: smut, minors DNI, angst with comfort, unprotected piv, fingering, established relationship, infidelity, character death (brendan), blood, kidnapping, pregnancy, trauma, happy (kind of) ending.

February 2017

You were sitting on your bed, elbows on your knees, face buried in your hands, the silence of the room pressing in around you like a weight. You kept thinking how one little slip, just one mistake, could shift the course of everything.

Harry had his family, he’d made it clear from the beginning.

Crystal clear. When this between the two of you started, when he first kissed you, when he first laid you down and whispered your name like a confession—he told you the truth.

“I love you,” he said, breathless and sincere, “but I’m not leaving them.”

You didn’t mind, you still got everything you wanted. Because Harry—your Harry—never made you feel like a secret, never treated you like second-best, and you didn’t ask for more. You never begged, never made any demands, you just felt content with what he could give you, and what he gave you… felt like everything.

Harry always made time for you, no matter how messy life got. He called, he showed up, he kissed you like it hurt to stop, and when he touched you, when he looked at you, it felt like you were the only thing in the world.

His hands never wandered, his eyes never drifted, they were always for you. You were the woman of his life.

So what if he went home to someone else? So what if he had another life, with photos on the mantle and birthdays you didn’t attend?

He was still your Harry. He still held you like he needed you to breathe, he still whispered “love you, love you, love you” into the curve of your neck when he was deep inside you, when your bodies were tangled and his guard was finally down.

And when he touched you, when he looked at you, when he said your name like it was the only word that mattered, it didn’t feel like you were the other woman. You were his, you were the one he craved, the one he protected, the one he loved. The one he couldn’t stay away from, no matter how many vows he made.

For you it was enough, because how could you not love a man who made you feel chosen… even if only in secret?

And so you knew Harry wouldn’t scream when you told him the news, that wasn’t his style. But there was that look, the one where his jaw clenched and his eyes went flat, that was worse than shouting. That look cut.

The door opened around midnight and you didn’t even lift your head. He came into your room past midnight, the way he always had, quiet, careful, like a secret only you were allowed to keep. Everyone else was asleep, or too wrapped up in their own shit to even notice. You hadn’t even heard the door open, just the soft drag of his boots over your floor.

“Alright,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Got your text. Said you needed to talk.”

His voice was gruff, like it had gravel in it, like it was already tired of the weight of the world. It didn’t soothe you at all.

“Harry, I… I fucked,” you said, staring down at the floor, trying not to let him see your face, because you knew he could read you too easily, you knew he’d see everything right away.

“Alright,” he said again, a little quieter. “Just tell me what happened.”

“I—I think I’m pregnant.” You hated how small your voice sounded.

But he heard it. He always heard everything.

He sat down next to you, hands on his thighs, rubbing at the edge of his stubble like he was trying to think his way out of his body.

“…Alright.”

“Please don’t just say that.” You finally turned to him, eyes red, throat burning. “Don’t go quiet on me. You always do that shit, Harry. You go quiet and then I start thinking the worst.”

You truly did hate when he did that, go quiet, disappear behind those piercing blue eyes, lost in whatever mess he was trying to untangle in his own head.

“You sure?”

“Took three tests. They’re all positive.”

He bit his lip, nodded softly. You watched the tension creep into his shoulders.

“I uh… I thought you said you were on the pill.”

“I am. I just…” Your voice cracked. “I went out with some friends last month and got really drunk, and I threw up, and I didn’t know that—that it loses effectiveness if you throw up. I didn’t even think—those things have like a twenty-page leaflet, Harry.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply, he wasn’t mad, you knew that, but he was scared, and Harry didn’t know how to wear fear, it looked wrong on him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I know it’s my fault. I’ll… I’ll schedule an appointment. I’ll take care of it.”

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel him turn toward you. The air shifted. Heavy. Charged.

Tears spilled down before you could stop them, you tried to turn your face away so he wouldn't notice them, and that’s when he finally touched you, his hand slid around your back, rubbing soft, slow circles. He looked at you fully now—not like you’d broken something, but like you were the broken thing, and he wanted to fix it.

“It’s not your fault, love. This kind of thing happens, alright? Doesn’t mean anyone fucked up. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna disappear.”

He wrapped those big arms around you and held you there, cheek to your temple, and for the first time that night, you let yourself cry quietly into his shirt.

“I know you don’t want this. I know you wouldn’t want to have a kid with me—”

“I want you,” he cut in softly, breath warm against your hair. “And I’ll be here. Whatever you decide. You’re not alone in this. Not for a second. You don’t have to decide right now,” he murmured. “Just know I’m here. Every step.”

⸻

That’s how Aidan came into your lives.

Harry was there. Always. Every step of the way just like he'd promised. He made time for every OB appointment, texted you reminders about your prenatal vitamins, showed up at your door at 2am with peanut butter and pickles when that was all you could stomach. He rubbed your swollen ankles, told you your stretch marks were beautiful, brushed your hair when you were too tired to lift your arms.

You both had decided to keep it a secret, so you told your family it was a one-night stand with some random guy whose name you couldn't even remember, and lucky for you, nobody pressed.

Nobody knew that Harry was Aidan’s father, not even Aidan himself. You and Harry thought it was better that way, at least until he was older. He was just a kid — and kids don’t know how to keep secrets. So you told him the truth you could live with:

Some families have a mom and a dad. Some have two moms, or two dads. Some just have a mom.

But he had love. So much love.

And Harry?

Harry was there for everything. He wasn’t “Dad,” not by name, but he was the one teaching Liam how to ride his bike, crouching beside him during math homework, clapping loudest at his school plays. He read him bedtime stories in that slow, deep voice and sat on the bleachers at football games.

He was a father without ever saying the word.

⸻

“You spend a lot of time with him,” Kevin said one day, offhand, when Harry had just gotten back from taking Aidan to the fair.

Harry just hummed, like it was nothing. “I feel bad for the kid. Growing up without a father.”

Kevin looked at him. Long. Quiet. Measured.

“He’s got your eyes, H.”

“He’s got blue eyes,” Harry shrugged, not meeting Kevin’s gaze.

“No. He has your eyes.”

Harry didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to, Kevin was his best friend and he knew he couldn’t fool him. That was the nature of this thing — quiet understandings, secrets sealed with silence.

Kevin knew. Harry knew he knew. And Kevin knew not to say a word.

Because some truths don’t live in daylight. They live in late-night visits, in unsaid promises, in the way Harry always showed up, never asking for the title, but carrying the weight of it anyway.

Present day

You internally cursed every damn decision, every fucking domino that had to fall to bring you to this moment—tied to a chair in some godforsaken warehouse, your wrists aching, your mouth dry with panic. Brendan, your brother, bound next to you, breathing fast and shallow. And across from you Jaime fucking Lopez, arms crossed, eyes dead.

“My father,” you blurted, too fast, voice shaking. “Conrad Harrigan will pay you double what Richie’s paying you. And—and five million. Cash. Upfront.”

Jaime didn’t blink. “I’ve met people in your position,” he said coldly. “They tend to say anything when it’s their skin on the line.”

“I’m not lying—please,” your voice cracked. “My father trusts me. I speak for him.”

“Your father insulted mine. I was there.” His voice didn’t rise, but the rage in it was ancient. Deep.

“I know—I know about the ‘greasy Mexican cocksucker,’ okay? But that was thirty years ago. I’ll make him apologize. I swear—”

“You can’t apologize to the dead, and even if I were willing to let the insult go—which, under certain circumstances, I would consider—Your father is not the same man that he was. Ten years ago, he was a powerful man. Dangerous But now I only see someone a madman. Old. Chaotic.” A pause. A slow, deliberate look. “The Harrigans are not so big in my world.”

He picked up his phone, calm as anything, no second thoughts.

“Richie…” A brief pause, and a smirk ghosted the corner of his mouth. “…we’re ready.”

That’s when the iPad on the table lit up.

A video call.

You saw your family—your father, your mother, your brother Kevin. And Harry. All of them watching through the screen as a masked man behind you and Brendan revved up a chainsaw, the roar of it sliced through the air.

Harry’s face went pale. He watched you, your face crumpling, fear pouring out of you in panicked, hiccupping sobs, your whole body trembling. He could hear Brendan screaming for your mum, begging, crying, struggling against his ropes.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t fucking move. His whole body locked up, paralyzed by what was playing out on the screen just inches from his face.

Your voice breaking with fear, your eyes darting in every direction like a cornered animal, searching—pleading—for someone to help. And he couldn’t do a goddamn thing, that shattered him, the desperation in your voice was unbearable, he could feel it in his chest like a blade twisting deeper with every second.

You were terrified, and he wasn’t there to hold you, to shield you, to throw himself between you and the fucking chainsaw. He was just watching it unfold like it was a movie, except it wasn’t, it was real, you were really there and you were really suffering.

It broke him into a million fucking pieces. Harry Da Souza, the man who handled blood and betrayal without blinking, was powerless.

And he hated it.

He didn’t know where you were, didn’t know how many miles away, didn’t know how long you had left. All he knew was that you were in danger and he wasn’t there to stop it. He gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, his entire body coiled like a live wire. Fury and terror warred inside him, crawling up his throat like acid.

And then it hit him—the memory. Two months ago in your room, you were waiting on the bed, quiet and glowing and shy in a way that always made him suspicious. The second he walked in, you pounced—wrapped your arms around him, kissed him hard like you were about to burst.

“Mmm… babe—what’s going on?” he laughed, holding you close, grounding you in his chest.

“Need to tell you something.”

“Go on then,” he said, still kissing your neck, hands already under your shirt.

“You’re gonna be a dad again, Harry.”

He froze. Blinked.

“Huh?”

“I said,” you whispered, grinning against his cheek, “you put another baby in me.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, trying to hold back the grin—failing completely.

“Stupid IUD must’ve moved or something.”

“Babe, you’re really the one percent of every fucking birth control, ain’t you?”

“Not my fault I got myself a strong, fertile man.” You joked, chuckling.

His heart thudded so hard he thought it might break through his chest. “Fuck—I’m really gonna be a dad again.”

You smiled at him, all softness and light. “Gonna be parents. Again.”

He sank to his knees in front of you, like he couldn’t stay standing under the weight of it, the miracle, the gravity, the love. His big hands came to rest gently on your hips, and he leaned in, pressing his forehead to your belly like it was something sacred.

Like he was praying, or worshiping. Maybe both.

His lips followed with soft, slow kisses dusted across your still-flat belly. One. Then another. Then another. Like he couldn’t help himself.

You laughed, breath catching at the sight of him like that.

“Haaarry stoooop,” you giggled, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“My baby…” he murmured, voice low, reverent. “My baby’s inside here.”

You felt tears spring to your eyes, stupid and hormonal and full of love. And when he leaned in again, both hands sliding up to cradle your waist like you were breakable, he said it again, just barely above a whisper:

“My baby. My girl. My whole fuckin’ world.”

⸻

The sound of Kevin screaming snapped Harry back to the present.

Back to your horror. Back to the chainsaw. Back to now.

Kevin’s eyes were wide, glassy, pleading. His voice a razor—“H. Please.” That tone. That look. The one that said:

“You need to do something.”

“You need to save her.”

“Not just my sister. The mother of your fucking child.”

Harry’s stomach turned over, in that moment, he wanted to switch places with you, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat, without a second thought, he wished it were him in the chair instead of you, he’d take the pain, he’d take the fear. He’d die a thousand fucking times if it meant you’d live, if it meant you’d stop crying, if it meant you’d never look that scared again, if it meant you didn’t have to suffer even once.

And if the cost of keeping you safe was dealing with Kat McAllister? Then fine, he’d pay that price, he’d pay ten times that price, because you were the only thing that mattered.

Your screams—raw, piercing—shattered through the phone speakers, sliced through the air, too real, too close as Brendan’s cries turned to shrieks when the chainsaw touched his skin, making it buzz louder—meat and metal and madness.

Harry didn’t flinch.

"Harry!" Kevin yelled at him. "Fuckin' do somethin'."

“I’ve got this,” he said to Kevin, voice like gravel. He stood tall, back rigid, already reaching into his pocket.

He pulled out his phone and the screen lit up, his thumb hovered and he dialed a number he swore he’d never call again.

But for you?

There was nothing—not one bloody thing—Harry wouldn’t do.

As soon as they dropped you off on that lonely stretch of road—the woods silent and heavy around you—you didn’t hesitate. You ran, legs weak, lungs burning, heart ready to burst from your chest, but still you ran straight into Harry’s arms.

He caught you like he’d been waiting his whole life to hold you again. His embrace was everything you needed, strong and safe and warm, wrapping around you like armor, like safety, like home. You broke the moment you felt him, fists clutching at his shirt, face buried in the crook of his neck.

You were still covered in Brendan’s blood, it had dried on your clothes, crusted on your face, on your arms. You could still feel it, could still hear his screaming, echoing like a curse in your skull, still see his body, lifeless, ruined, something no one should ever have to witness.

But Harry’s touch… Harry’s touch made it all go quiet. His scent, his voice, his warmth, it dulled the edges of the nightmare, even if just for a moment. He held you like he’d almost lost you, like he still didn’t believe you were real in his arms. His hands gripped your back like he might never let go, one trembling hand burying itself in your hair, the other holding you flush to him.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured into your temple, voice hoarse with emotion. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you’re here.”

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. You just shook, letting him hold you up.

Then he pulled back enough to see your face, his eyes frantic but full of love. “How are you? Are you hurt?” he asked, voice softer now, rough with fear and unshed tears.

You muttered a slow and tired “I’m fine” and his hands drifted urgently to your stomach. “And our baby?” he said, pressing both palms there like he needed to feel the answer.

“Baby’s fine,” you whispered, your voice barely holding together. “Keeps kicking.”

Harry let out a long, broken breath of relief, half a sob, half a prayer, and dropped to his knees like he had done the day he found out about the existence of his baby, forehead pressing softly to your belly like it was the only place on earth that made sense.

He kissed your belly through the stained fabric, again and again.

Then he rose, his arms strong around you once more.

“Come on, babe. Let’s get you back home.” His voice was steady now, the way it gets when he’s ready to do anything, to burn the whole world down if he has to.

⸻

You lay curled up on the bed—your old bed, in your old room, back in the Harrigan house. The scent of that place still clung to the sheets: linen, rosewater, the faint sharpness of wood polish. Familiar, but not safe, not anymore.

You were wrapped tightly in your favorite robe, the plush one Harry got you two Christmases ago, the one you always reached for when you didn’t feel like yourself. You’d showered twice, scrubbed until your skin stung, until the steam fogged the mirror and your tears had mixed with the water. But you still felt the blood, your brother’s blood, the way it had soaked your clothes, dried on your arms. You could still smell it in your hair, no matter how many times you washed it.

And you could still hear the chainsaw, even now, in the stillness, your ears rang with that sound. Loud. Unrelenting. Final.

You didn’t flinch when Harry slipped inside your room. He didn’t knock, didn’t have to. He came in quietly, a cup of tea in his hand, making his way to sit on the edge of the bed, his body turned toward you.

“Brought you somethin’, love.”

You didn’t reach for it, so he gently nudged the warm mug closer.

“Please, babe. It’s fine if you don’t wanna eat yet… but you need to drink something, yeah?”

“I don’t want to.”

“For me,” he said softly. “For the baby.”

That got you, it always did. You sighed, defeated, and finally took the cup, the ceramic was warm between your cold hands. You brought it to your lips and took a small sip—chamomile, with a bit of honey, just how you liked it. You hated how he always knew what to do, how he always convinced you, how he always loved you through your resistance.

His hand reached up, tracing slow, gentle circles on your cheek, his thumb brushing just under your eye, trying to calm the storm.

“How are you—?”

“How do you think?” you interrupted, your voice raw.

He nodded, his throat bobbing. “Right.”

You stared at the tea. “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.” Your voice cracked, and your fingers trembled against the mug. “I was so scared, Harry. I thought… I thought that was it. That was how I died.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen, love. I wouldn’t—”

“But you weren’t there,” you sobbed. “And I don’t mean it to blame you, I swear. You can’t be everywhere. But in that moment… I just realized there will come a time where you won’t be able to save me. And I—”

Your breathing hitched. “I kept thinking about Aidan.” A long pause, your next words came out broken. “How he’d be left alone.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, his eyes glassed over. “Aidan wouldn’t be alone,” he said, his voice shaking. “He has me. He’ll always have me.”

Your shoulders shook harder, making the cup shake in your lap. “And I also kept thinking about you,” you whispered. “About how I wouldn’t get to see you again. About how I haven’t told you how much I love you nearly enough.”

He reached for you then. Took your hands in his, pressed kisses into your palms, holding you like you were slipping away.

“Babe,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I know. I know how much you love me.”

Your lips trembled. “Thank you, Harry. I know you had to call Kat. Thank—”

“No.” He stopped you with a kiss to your knuckles. “Don’t thank me. Don’t you fuckin’ thank me. I'd do anything to keep you safe. I was terrified. I’ve never felt—” He broke off, his voice dropped into a whisper. “You don’t know how bad I wanted it to be me instead. I would’ve taken your place in a second. No questions. I’d do it a thousand times.”

He pulled you into him, chest to chest, wrapping his arms around you like a fortress, like he could block out everything—the blood, the fear, the memory of Brendan’s screams—with just the strength of his love.

“Just tell me what to do,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll do it. Anything.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your voice broke as you said it. “I need to forget. Please, Harry… please help me forget.”

For a moment, he just held you, pressed your body into his, like if he could pull you into his chest deep enough, then he could protect you from everything, past and future. Then he gently pulled back, his hands sliding up your arms, framing your face, his thumbs stroked the wetness from your cheeks.

“Okay, love,” he murmured. “Okay.”

There was no hunger in the way he leaned in to kiss you, only devotion, only grief and need and the desperate ache of having nearly lost you. His lips were soft, reverent, brushing over yours again and again like he couldn’t get enough of the simple fact that you were alive.

When he pulled away slightly, his forehead rested against yours.

“Let me love you tonight.” It wasn’t a question. It was a promise. “Let me remind you you’re still here. Still mine. Still breathing.”

You didn’t answer with words, you reached for him and pulled him back in. Harry undressed you like you might shatter, not the usual way—not with rough hands or greedy fingers, not like the man who loved to fuck you against walls or bend you over bathroom sinks. No, this was different. His touch was slow, reverent. He untied your robe and let it fall open, but didn’t peel it off right away, instead, he just looked at you, at the rise of your chest, your soft breasts, the small curve of your belly. And then he started kissing you, soft, open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the underside of your breast. His mouth was wet, warm, careful, as if every inch of you needed to be memorized. Redeemed.

His kisses followed a path down your body, brushing your sternum, the soft skin of your ribs, until he reached your belly.

“Our baby’s still here,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, forehead resting against the gentle curve. “You’re still here.”

You were trembling already, and your fingers shook as you reached for him, pulling at his shirt. He let you try, until your grip faltered on his belt buckle, and then he caught your hands.

“Let me, love.” His voice was low, it give you the safety you needed.

He stripped the rest of the way, his bare skin revealed slowly, like he didn’t want to overwhelm you, and when he crawled back over you, naked and warm and solid as stone, it felt like shelter, like being draped in home. Your legs parted for him automatically, and he settled between them, his cock heavy and hot against your thigh, but he didn’t rush, he didn’t even reach for himself.

Instead, his fingers found you first, sliding down between your thighs, slow, confident, unshakable, even while you trembled beneath him. Your pussy was already soaked, slick with need, despite the grief coiled like barbed wire in your chest, your body remembered him, even if your mind was still fractured, still floating somewhere behind the terror, the blood, the screaming.

Harry exhaled softly, like the sight of you undone and open for him was both holy and heartbreaking.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice thick, thumb parting your folds to expose the swollen, glistening slick beneath. He dragged his knuckles through your wetness, slow and deliberate, spreading it up to your clit in lazy circles. “Still so fuckin' perfect.”

You gasped, your back arching when his touch passed over your clit, so tender, so precise it made your thighs twitch. Your breath hitched as he rubbed slow figure-eights, his fingers stroking you with a kind of focused reverence, like he was learning your body all over again just to worship it properly., every stroke of hus thumb, every press against your clit was aching mercy, making your hips stutter.

“That’s it, love,” Harry murmured, his voice like gravel and honey in your ear. “Just feel it. You don’t have to do anything. Just let go.”

His fingers dipped lower again, gathering more of your slick and spreading it up to coat your clit until the glide was obscene, wet, sticky, filthy. He circled it with practiced care, switching pressure and speed just the way he knew would unravel you. Your thighs clamped around his hand without meaning to, like your body was begging for more, begging for release.

“There she is,” he whispered, watching you shake, eyes dark and blown with focus and something bordering on awe. “Still so responsive. So wet for me. You really needed this, didn't you?”

You nodded. "Nnghh...Feels so good, Harry... More, please."

Then he pressed down just right, with the perfect rhythm, his thumb rolling over your clit while two thick fingers slid inside you, making you gasp so sharply it caught in your throat.

“You’re so tight, fuck,” he groaned, voice ragged as he moved his fingers with maddening patience, curling them just so, hitting your g-spot, making your toes curl.

You tried to hold on, tried to breathe, but your body was already there—every nerve pulled taut, every inch of you tightening like the moment before a scream.

“Harry—” you whispered, clutching his arm, his shoulder, anything you could reach as your body climbed toward the edge.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, voice wrecked with devotion. “Cum for me. Right here in my hands, yeah? Give it to me, love. Give it all to me.”

And you did—your orgasm crashing through you like a sob, like a wave of relief so violent it felt like exorcism. You shook beneath him, thighs quivering, your pussy gripping his fingers in pulsing, desperate waves, and Harry held you through it like he said he would, whispering praise and filth into your skin:

“That’s it, fuck, there you go—so beautiful when you cum. So fuckin’ good for me, always so good.”

Your breath came in shaky bursts, the aftershocks still rolling through you. Your thighs twitched where they lay parted, wet and glistening, Harry’s fingers still buried inside you, his mouth soft against your cheek, whispering praise and devotion like prayers.

And then you felt it, his cock, thick and hard and heavy against your hip, pulsing with need. He hadn’t even touched himself, he was too focused on you, but still you felt him, and suddenly, that was all you wanted

You turned your face toward his, your voice still fragile, breathless. “I need your cock, Harry.”

He stilled. “You sure, love?” he asked, but there was no teasing in his tone.

You licked your lips, cupped his jaw with trembling fingers. “Please. I need it. I need you inside me.”

His groan was raw, torn from somewhere deep inside him.

“Fuck, babe—” His fingers slipped from your pussy, shinning with your arousal, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Then he shifted, kneeling between your legs, stroking himself once, a long, slow pull from base to tip, spreading your slick over his length like it was meant to be there, because it was.

Harry lined himself up, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding his cock—thick and hot and leaking at the tip—to your soaked entrance. And when he finally pushed in, inch by thick inch, stretching you open with sacred care, you both gasped, like you were being remade in that moment.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he choked, bottoming out slowly, carefully. “You feel like heaven, babe, you knew that?”

Your legs wrapped around him to feel him deeper, needing more, needing all of him. “Don’t stop,” you whispered. “Make me forget everything but you.”

And Harry obeyed, because for you there wasn’t a single thing he wouldn’t do. He moved like he was still holding your soul in his hands, with deep and deliberate thrusts, hips rolling into yours with reverence. Your bodies slotted together perfectly, like he’d been carved just to fit inside you, like he belonged there, buried deep inside your cunt.

His face stayed close, nose brushing yours, his lips kissing your tears as he whispered:

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re mine.”

You moaned softly, your arms wrapped around his back, dragging your nails over his skin. With every slow thrust—every warm, wet glide of his cock inside your clenching cunt—you could feel him unraveling, feel his breath hitching and his thrusts getting rougher and deeper.

“You feel too fuckin’ good, babe,” he groaned, his voice cracking. “Fuck—how do you still feel this tight around me?”

“Because I'm made for you,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders. “I need you—Harry, fuck me harder, please.”

That broke him. His jaw clenched, muscles flexing as he slammed into you, deeper now, harder, the rhythm turning primal. Skin on skin, balls against your ass every time he slammed, the sound of him pounding into you echoing in the quiet bedroom.

“You want it hard, yeah?” he growled against your throat. “Want my cock to fuck it all out of you?”

You nodded, barely able to breathe, your moans turning into helpless cries as his hips snapped harder, faster.

“That’s it, babe—take it,” he panted, teeth grazing your skin, his grip bruising on your hips as he held you right where he wanted—helpless, aching, split open just for him.

Your legs wrapped around him like a vice, clinging, clawing, your heels digging into the backs of his thighs, forcing him even deeper, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that made your whole body jerk, your mind go white and useless. He was hitting it again, and again, and again, and you could feel your walls fluttering around him, getting tighter with each brutal thrust.

“Fuck—clenching like you don’t wanna let go,” he hissed into your jaw, his thrusts getting filthier, meaner, soaked in the slick heat between your thighs.

You sobbed his name, voice breaking, too full, too overstimulated, your moans reduced to whimpers and needy gasps, your body shivering with every thrust.

“Harry—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Cum again,” he demanded, voice wrecked, lips pressed to your ear. “Cum on my cock, babe. Show me you’re mine.”

Your body seized under him, back arching, that white-hot wave of pleasure cresting with a sharp cry as your orgasm tore through you. Your walls clenched down hard, and he groaned, a deep, ragged sound from the bottom of his chest.

“Gonna cum in you,” he snarled, voice cracking. “You want that, babe? Want me to fill you up, make a fucking mess of you?”

You gasped, eyes rolling. “Yes—please—please—”

“Fuck—fuck,” He cursed, losing his rhythm, burying himself deep one last time as he came—hot and thick, cock pulsing inside you, his cum flooding you while he groaned into your neck.

“I love you so much, my sweet angel,” he breathed, voice wrecked and trembling.

His thrusts were slower now, half-hard but still deep inside you, claiming, dragging every inch of him through you like he never wanted to leave.

“You don’t even know,” he whispered, almost broken. “All the things I’d do for you.”

He didn’t pull out, he held you while still buried deep in you, his cock softening in the mess he'd spilled deep inside your body, getting your thighs sticky with it.

Harry laid there, caging you with his arms, as if his body was your anchor, pressing kisses to your temple your eyelids, the corners of your mouth. Kisses like penance, like promises.

“You okay?” he asked softly, still cradling your face.

You nodded against him, voice gone, eyes glassy.

Just one whispered word: “Better.”

Later, long after you’d cleaned up and crawled back under the sheets, Harry stayed beside you, stroking your hair. You had curled into his chest, tucked beneath his chin, breathing slow now, but not yet asleep.

And he started to talk.

“Do you remember that trip to Brighton?” he murmured, voice rumbling low. “When Aidan was two and we forgot the stroller?”

A small smile tugged at your lips, even through the pain.

“You made me carry him the whole time, and you wouldn’t even let me complain ‘cause you said I was the one who wanted to have a strong Irish son.” He chuckled softly. “You said, ‘Well congratulations, now carry your legacy.’”

You laughed—just a little. It sounded broken, but real.

And he kept talking about memories, stupid ones, sweet ones, all those he knew you tucked away like precious jewels.

Until finally, your eyes fluttered shut.

And Harry held you while you slept, his hand over your belly, his lips in your hair, his heart finally beating a little steadier. He didn’t sleep, he just kept whispering stories to you, so when you dreamed… it wouldn’t be of chainsaws, but of Brighton, of warm summer days, of your son, of home, of him.

Of life.

A/N: Okaaaay, so this was finally the last Harry request I had, can you believe it??? (Not the last you’ll be seeing of Harry though… I still have some ideas of my own) Next fic is gonna be an Alfie one (still got two more pending) Hope you liked this one🩷🩷And as always, if you did, consider showing it some love, I absolutely love reading your comments!!

dividers by: @/thecutestgrotto

[purplerain85]

Heyyy! I don’t usually request stuff but I can’t stop thinking about Alfie Solomon helping female reader feel less anxious by touching her and making love to her, I would love to see your take on this <3

ALFIE SOLOMONS X FEM!READER

Genre: fluff - smut

Writer's note: i hope this is what you meant! Please let me know if it wasn't ˃͈◡˂͈

WARNINGS: sexual content, vanilla sex, unprotected sex, mentions of anxiety, use of pet names, soft dom, mild overstimulation, cursing, P in V

Alfie helps you unwind after you've been anxious and stressing all day

Y/N had been nervous and anxious all day. Administration had gone wrong, she’d broken a few vases while cleaning, and she’d hit her head against his desk while picking something up. Everything had been going wrong--and of course, Alfie took notice.

When the day ended and they both returned to bed, he had Y/N in his arms.

“What happened today, eh? You had quite the slippery fingers. Never seen you this clumsy, doll,” he said, making her sigh and frown.

“I was just a little anxious today… the more things went wrong, the more nervous I became,” she admitted, looking up at him.

He traced her jaw with his finger and murmured, “My poor girl’s feelin’ anxious, yeah? Well, we ought to make that better, don’t we?”

His hand slid down her body, gentle and unhurried.

She blushed as she felt his palm resting on her tummy.

“Can’t have you go destroyin’ my office and hurtin’ yourself more, right, doll?” he teased, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

His hand roamed lower, carefully raising her nightgown.

“Can I?” he asked, looking at her with soft, sea-blue eyes, eyes that always reminded her of the ocean when they were alone.

She met his gaze and nodded.

He pulled her panties down and tossed them off the bed. His fingers trailed over her slit before gently easing one inside. She let out a soft, pleased moan at the intimate touch.

“Relax for me, yeah? You always do so much for me, always so sweet to me. You deserve a bit of time to let go, don’t you, love?” His voice was warm, his pace soft and loving.

She blushed at his words, resting her head on his shoulder. She loved caring for him, he was her husband, after all--but seeing him so grateful made her heart flutter. She felt safe with him, even though he was a feared gangster. She trusted him with her whole being.

He slid another finger inside, watching her face to make sure she was comfortable. She gasped, letting out another sensual moan. He kissed her lips, not rushed or sloppy--just slow, deep, and romantic.

As the kiss deepened, she tightened around his fingers. He noticed and gently sped up his movements until she came around his hand, panting softly as he slowly pulled his fingers out.

“Can I keep goin’, love? Or do you wanna stop? I won’t do a thing you don’t want, alright?”

She smiled up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes soft.

“Please… I really want it.”

Alfie smiled--not teasing, not lustful, but a rare, gentle smile he saved only for her.

He tugged his pants and underwear down, coaxing her to lay back as he gently parted her legs.

“This okay?” he asked, and she nodded.

He pushed into her slowly, inch by inch, careful not to hurt her. Each bit deeper drew another soft, breathy moan from her. When he was fully inside, he paused to let her adjust before beginning to thrust--steady, loving, and slow.

“So beautiful… my beautiful wife. Can’t have you stressed and anxious, can we? You’re so good to me… I love you so much… fuck,” he groaned, his hand cupping her cheek as he leaned down to kiss her again.

The kiss was deep, tender, and made her feel cherished.

When he pulled away, she was already a trembling mess.

“Please don’t stop… Alf~! P-please…~ mmhm~!” she begged between gasps.

His thrusts gradually quickened as he neared his climax. She could feel the tight knot in her stomach threatening to snap.

“I have to… I’m gonna--cum~!” she moaned, clinging to him.

“Come for me, yeah? That’s it, dolly… come for me,” he whispered, and she did, falling apart in his arms. A few moments later, he followed, groaning as he released inside her.

They both lay there panting. As he pulled out, she winced slightly from the sensitivity.

Alfie got up, went to the bathroom, and returned with a warm, damp cloth.

“Open up for me, sweet girl. Good girl,” he murmured, and she parted her legs for him. He gently cleaned her up and tossed the cloth aside before settling in to cuddle her from behind.

“I love you, you know that?” he whispered into her ear as his hand stroked her hair.

Safe in his arms, she drifted to sleep, the weight of her anxiety finally gone.

[purplerain85]

Ride the Bull - An Alfie Solomons/Reader One Shot Story.

A couple of drabble requests combined prompted this new piece of Alfie smut. Enjoy, my darlings! 

“Alright, Y/N, what you still doing here at this time?” Your boss asks, leaving his office to find you still behind your desk, writing in the ledger. Just the feel of him standing behind you, his imposing bulk right there, the scent of him, god. He makes your insides burn.  

“Just getting ahead, Mr Solomons.” You look up, your heart and stomach somersaulting as usual to behold your handsome boss. You might be a married woman, but you’ve always found him attractive.  

“How many times have I got to tell you, darlin? Just call me Alfie. Mr Solomons is my father.” His tone is brusque, but there’s amusement there in his voice, perhaps even a tinge of softness.  

Keep reading

[purplerain85]

“Camden’s sin”

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

Check Alfie’s Masterlist here to see the next parts

Summary: You were a Shelby working in your family’s business. You tried to convince yourself that it was just that, business. But Alfie Solomons wasn’t just business, not when he had you bent over his desk.

WC: 2.3k

Warnings: intense smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, filthy language, oral(f!receiving), rough sex, creampie, reader is Tommy Shelby’s sister.

A/N: Again, english is not my first language, so sorry if any mistakes throw you off. I’m planing to do several more parts of this (please tell me if you have any request, this is my second time writing).

Your brother trusted you. For some reason, you were good with numbers—that was a fact. And you were good with people, probably because they all saw you as the innocent and youngest Shelby sister, but you were smarter than any man in the room. They underestimated you. That’s why you got sent to Camden Town almost every week. That, and because Alfie Solomons was utterly obsessed with you. Tommy found it convenient, really, since it always gave you the upper hand in every deal. Alfie simply couldn’t resist you.

You never thought anything of it. Yes, Alfie flirted with you—crude and blunt, filthy sometimes—but you were sure of his intentions. Just a game to piss your brother off. So you dismissed his banter.

The morning air was thick in Camden. It always was. You walked through the bakery like you owned the place, weaving through the towering barrels and busy working men until you reached his office. You didn’t even get a chance to knock. His voice came through the door, rough and immediate.

“Get in.”

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air reeked of rum and cigars. He was there, of course—seated at his desk, leaning back in the chair. Sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, tattooed forearms. His beard was thick and wild as ever.

“Well, bloody hell. The Shelbys sent me an angel today, eh?”

“You knew it was me coming, Alfie.”

“That I did. Every week, like a sharp clock, you are,” he grinned. “Lookin’ like fuckin’ sin, you do.”

You sighed. You knew all his lines by now. He’d used them a thousand times already.

“Let’s talk business, yeah?”

“What? No hello? No how’ve you been, Alfie? No I’ve missed seeing your face?”

He twitched his jaw when you stayed silent, completely ignoring his advances once again.

You tried your best to talk numbers, to finalize the new distribution routes. But it was almost impossible with the way his eyes were trailing over your body—lazy, deliberate, like he was undressing you with every glance.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” You were pissed now.

“Well, forgive me, yeah? It’s fuckin’ hard to focus when you’re lookin’ like that.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, smirking. “You do it on purpose, you do. That dress, that mouth painted red like bloody temptation itself.”

“This isn’t a bloody game, Alfie.” You warned him, trying to stay cool and composed—even while he was practically eye-fucking you across the desk.

“Course it’s not a fuckin’ game,” he said, voice low. “I want you. And yeah, yeah, before you say it again—I know you’re Tommy’s sister. I don’t give a fuck whose sister you are, right?”

“You’re crossing the line. Stop it.” You were trying hard not to flinch, not to blush. Trying to seem unimpressed.

“Oh, am I crossing the line?” His eyes dropped to your legs. “I’ll stop it when you stop sittin’ there with those… those fuckin’ legs crossed tighter than a nun. Pressing your thighs together since the moment you got here. Probably the same way you press them every night thinkin’ of my mouth.”

He smirked, proud of the reaction he managed to pull from you.

He had you now. He bloody well did. And it pissed you off that he was so damn observant, that he noticed everything.

“Fuck you.”

“God, please.”

Your cheeks burned—with anger, yes, but with something deeper than that. Something dangerous. Something like desire.

“You’ve mistaken my tolerance for interest, Alfie. If you want to keep doing business with the Shelbys, then you fucking behave,” you hissed.

“Business?” he scoffed. “Treacle, the only thing I’m gettin’ from business with the Shelbys is fuckin’ blue balls. Havin’ to stare at you every fuckin’ week without being able to touch you the way I want.”

“Are you done? Done saying all the… filth that’s inside your mind? You’re a pig.”

“Done? I’m nowhere near done.” He leaned back, eyes gleaming. “Next time you come here, I’ll tell you what I want to do to you—page by page—like a fuckin’ scripture.”

You stood up, turned away without another word, and walked straight out of his office. Just like that. Gone. Leaving Alfie cursing under his breath.

The truth is, you should’ve told Tommy. Should’ve told him that Alfie crossed a line, so he’d send someone else. But you didn’t.

No matter how hard you tried to stay away from that man, there was an invisible string pulling you toward him.

You wore black that day. High-necked. Buttoned all the way up. But when you walked into Alfie’s office, the first thing you saw was him—waiting for you with a little old leather notebook in his hands.

He didn’t say hello. Didn’t greet you like most days. He just opened the notebook and looked at you.

“I made you a promise, right? And I’m a man of my word.” He tapped the cover with a grin. “Fuckin’ poetry I wrote for you.”

“You think I came here to hear your filth?” you said, sitting across from him, arms and legs crossed.

He ignored you completely. Cleared his throat. Adjusted his glasses. And began to read from the first page.

“You come here all proper, all buttoned up, pretendin’ to be holy. But I’d get you against my desk anyway, with my hand under your tight little skirt, as you moan my name like a fuckin’ prayer.”

He turned the page.

“You’d tell me to fuck off—’cause you love to pretend you don’t want me. But when I feel your thighs squeeze around my fingers, I know it’s all lies.”

Another page turned.

“I’d put my mouth between your legs, eat you until you can’t remember your fuckin’ name. Make you scream so loud your brother in Small Heath would hear you.”

“And I’d fuck you from behind, right on this desk we’ve signed a hundred papers on. You’d beg me not to stop. In fact, you’d beg me to go harder, ’cause—”

“Stop.” You cut him off. Your voice soft, but sharp.

You felt the heat pooling low in your stomach. Felt your undergarments dampen. But you didn’t show it. You stood up, hands trembling, legs unsteady.

“You think you’re clever? Think I’ll melt because you wrote all your filth in a book like some fucked-up priest?”

He stood too, walking around the desk toward you with slow, measured steps. “Maybe. Tell me—is it workin’?”

“You should be locked up.” You should’ve slapped him. Should’ve run. But you didn’t. You stayed. You listened to every word.

“Maybe,” he whispered, closing in. “But I’d find a way out. Just to find you.”

He was towering over you now. So close you could smell him—cigars and rum and sin.

“I should take what I want right now,” he murmured, voice rough. “Should bend you over my desk and do every fuckin’ thing I wrote in that notebook. Everything you’ve been denyin’ me.”

Your knees buckled. Your breath hitched.

“But I won’t, treacle. And you wanna know why?” His voice dropped to a growl. “Because when I do—yeah?—you won’t be walkin’ straight for a fuckin’ week. And it’s gonna be your choice.”

“My choice?” you whispered, your voice barely there, feeling his eyes devour you.

“Yours. You’ll come back here tomorrow. Not for business. Not like a Shelby. You come back for me.”

Somehow, your legs carried you out of his office. Out of the distillery. Back to the car waiting for you outside.

The moment you stepped inside Alfie’s distillery the next day, you knew it—this would be the last time you ever walked out of here untouched.

You made your way into his office, and like always, he was already expecting you. Leaning back against his desk, arms folded, eyes on you like he’d been waiting all fucking day. He looked as irresistible as ever.

“You’re late,” he said.

You checked your watch. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you’re about twenty fucking meetings late for what I really want.” His voice was low, husky. “Lock the door.”

You obeyed without thinking. As you stepped closer, his thumb grazed your throat—rough, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle.

“You want to hear it again? Page by page? ’Cause I’ve written a thousand more.”

“No,” you breathed, “I want you to show me.”

He groaned—and that was it. Restraint fully vanished. He grabbed you and crushed his mouth against yours, desperate, hungry, all tongue and teeth as he yanked your head back and devoured you like a man starving for something only you could give, with the need to own you.

You moaned when he shoved you against the desk, one hand on your throat—holding, not squeezing—while the other dragged your dress up.

No knickers. He swore.

“Fucking hell… You woman… you’re trying to kill me, are you?”

Before you could reply, his hand was already between your thighs, feeling the heat, the wetness.

“Oh, you’re so ready for me, ain’t you? Fucking dripping on my fingers.” He growled—and then dropped to his knees, right there on his office floor. Because there was only one reason Alfie Solomons got on his knees, and that was to eat cunt.

“Alfie—” you began.

“Shut up. Let me read my scripture,” he rasped. Then his mouth was on you—no patience, no mercy.

His thick beard scratched the inside of your thighs, but all you could feel was the way his tongue worked you open. Lazy circles over your clit turned into relentless strokes as he devoured you like you were his first hot meal after the war.

He pulled back for a second, just to look at you.

“Tastes fucking divine.” He gave one long, filthy lick. “Like fucking salvation.”

“Oh God—God—” you whimpered.

“No, treacle, the Lord’s got nothing to do with it. This is all me. So say my fucking name.”

“Alfie… Oh, Alfie…” you moaned, hands buried in his hair, grinding shamelessly against his mouth. He latched on your cunt harder, tongue ruthless going through your slick folds, sucking your clit in the right way. fingers gripping your thighs to keep you from flying apart.

And then—you broke. You came in seconds. Hard. Loud. Messy. Your whole body shook, and you would’ve collapsed on the floor if it weren’t for his strong arms holding you up.

He stood, his beard glistening, soaked in your fluids. Eyes dark as the night, wild. He didn’t wait a second—his hands were already unbuckling his belt.

“You ready for page two?” he growled. “’Cause I’m still fuckin’ hard. And tired of waiting.”

You nodded, It was all you could do, you were speechless, breathless.

He grabbed your body forcefully, turned you around, and bent you over his desk, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you down like he’d envisioned a thousand times.

He spit into his hand, stroked himself rough and fast, like the world was about to end. And then—

He slammed into you.

You screamed his name, gripping the desk so hard your knuckles went white. He was huge, and if that wasn’t enough, he was brutal with his unforgiving thrusts that had you seeing stars and the whole fucking galaxy.

He pounded into you so hard you didn’t know if he loved you or hated you, hands bruising your hips, balls slamming against your ass over and over.

“Fuck—fucking—” he choked out, and you realized that this was the first time you’ve ever seen Alfie Solomons struggle to find words. “You trying to kill me? Squeezing my cock like that with this tight little cunt.” He smacked your ass, hard.

All you could do was whimper, pathetic little whimpers that came out of your mouth as he continued to dive into you.

The room was full of it—all of it—the wet slap of skin against skin, the creak of the desk under your body, your muffled cries, his snarling breath mixed with all the filthy words that came out of his mouth.

“Custom-fucking-made for my cock, you were.”

“You feel so good… so wet and hot and tight for me.”

“Look at you, listen to you—moaning like a fucking whore for me.”

He was feral for you. He had turned into a beast like never before. Because even if he had his fair share of women in the past, no woman had ever made him feel like this, not a single one of them had ever felt as good as you did right now, It was all he had ever dreamed of, and more.

And you—you—were taking it, it was all you could do, cause you were built for this. No one ever fucked you like a real man should, no, that was something only Alfie could.

That sharp sting built in your belly and then it snapped—and you came again, harder this time, clenching so tight around his cock he cursed in Yiddish. You didn’t know what he said, but the way he said it made your whole body throb.

“I’m gonna fill you up… so bad it’s gonna fucking drip out of that pretty pussy all over your thighs yeah? You want that?”

“Yes… please, Alfie… fill me up.”

He pulled your hair back, arched your back against his chest, and fucked into you harder. Once. Twice. The third thrust—he buried himself deeper and he came with a guttural growl, spilling himself inside you as he moaned your name into your shoulder.

He stayed there inside you, holding you close, his lips at your throat, whispering things that made you melt, and kissing your shoulder softly, as if trying to comfort after he was the one to wreck you

When he finally pulled out, you felt it—his cum, mixed with your juices, dripping down your thighs. He shoved it all back inside with two fingers, stuffing you full of him again.

“Tell me you’ll come back next week, yeah?” His voice was oddly soft now.

You barely managed a whisper. “Try not to go mad until you see me again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Now that, treacle… that’s a promise I can’t make.”

NEXT PART HERE

‪dividers by: @/saradika-graphics‬

[purplerain85]

BUCKY BARNES | SEX POLLEN TROPE

main masterlist | note: as the trope includes smut, all of the fics include +18 content. also since at least one party is under the influence of some kind of a chemical, this is dubious content. please proceed with caution and minors dni. enjoy!

toxic heat • bucky barnes x reader | by @nyletac

summary: while waiting for the extraction team after a successful mission, bucky leaves you and runs into a greenhouse room in the mission building with strange plants. accidentally breathing in the gas from the plants he returns to you, but something is off. (smut) (6,4k words)

take you there • bucky barnes x reader | by @heli0s-writes

summary: sam plays a game called fuck or die. it's like he willed it into existence as you and hucky explore the basement of an old hydra lair. (smut, dub-con) (3,8k words)

louder than fear • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @godmadeaterribleerror

summary: missions involving hydra often go very wrong. this is different. this is worse. this is a strange bioweapon, nobody telling you exactly what's wrong, and staring at the ceiling as bucky roars you name. it’s echoing in your brain. and you love him. (smut, light angst) (8,5k words)

lustful agony • bucky barnes x plus size!reader | by @fatecantstopme

summary: after getting hit in the face with a pink dust during a visit to an old hydra lab, you are confused as to what happened. thankfully, your mission partner knows what it is, and thankfully he knows the solution. (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, masturbation)

what was rule number #2 again? • tfatws!bucky barnes x reader | by @satinestales

summary: messing around in banner's lab, the night before your mission wasn't as good an idea as you thought, and you begin to question your actions the moment you step out of it. things worsen when you realize the super soldier serum isn't immune to an unknown contagious disease. (smut)

delirium • bucky barnes x reader | by @flowersforbucky

summary: stranded in the middle of the alaskan wilderness with no means of communication after being exposed to a foreign drug, you're reluctant to accept help from the one person who has a shot at saving you. (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, angst, friends to lovers, avenger!reader) (4,1k words)

play pretend | part two • bucky barnes x reader | by @wkemeup

summary: when bucky is injected with a substance that leaves him desperate for release, you offer your help. (smut, dub-con) (7,8k words)

summary of pt.2: in the aftermath of munich, bucky struggles to go back to how things were before. but now that he knows how it is to love you, he's not sure he can. (smut, mutual pining) (5,8k words)

strawberries • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @ellemj

summary: bucky, the man with a long list of girls on his roster, gets exposed to a sex pollen in the field. will he fuck the first girl he calls or the girl he's wanted for the last two months? (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, size kink, fuckboy!bucky) (7,5k words)

does it hurt? | bonus chapter • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @ellemj

summary: bucky never would've gone out of his way to help you if he knew that hydra was still watching his every move, if he knew that it would shift their focus to you. when you're targeted and taken, it's his fault and he'll do anything to save you. anything. (angst, smut, unprotected sex, abduction, violence, voyeurism, mentions of sa) (24,3k words)

summary of bonus ch.: when you're finally out of hydra’s clutches, the recovery process drives you and bucky farther and farther apart. you can't decide if what you felt between you was real or chemically-induced. what will it take to sway you? (smut, angst, non-descriptive smut) (12,4k words)

untitled • bucky barnes x reader | by @myfictionaldreams

summary: it was your first mission out with your mentor, bucky, but not all goes to plan when you stumble across an old hydra laboratory and accidentally trigger a trap. (smut, dub-con, grumpy x sunshine, rough sex, praise kink)

high for this • new avenger!bucky barnes x reader | by @buckysleftbicep

summary: during a mission, you and bucky are exposed to a gas meant to strip away restraint. he resists, and well, you try. but when the heat fades, it’s not the mission that haunts you both, it’s what happened behind that door. (smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, angst, regret) (3,8k words)

desperate | uncertain an sure • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @buckets-and-trees

summary: enemies? rivals? it's always been reluctant teamwork between you and the winter soldier, but when put in a situation where personal feelings have to be put aside, maybe actual personal feelings are uncovered. (smut, kidnapping)

desperate measures • bucky barnes x avenger!fem!reader | by @simplyholl

summary: when you encounter a mysterious substance during a mission, it forces you and your mission partner to get closer. (smut)

petals • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @biteofcherry

summary: it was supposed to be so simple. a boring reckon mission. just to check the cabin and secure any samples of the ongoing experiments the former hydra doctor ran the place. however the unexpected comes in the form of a flower. (smut, dub-con, fingering)

unleashed • avengers!bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @veltana

summary: during a mission, bucky is exposed to something that removes his inhibitions and all he wants is you. (smut, slight fluff, possessive!bucky, unprotected sex) (4,2k words)

crimson fever • bucky barnes x fem!reader | by @mandoalorian

summary: in the icy shadows of 1944 occupied europe, you uncover a dangerous hydra secret that could shift the war’s tide. but hydra’s ruthless scientist, arnim zola, marks you as a threat, unleashing a sinister drug—“crimson fever”—that set your body and soul ablaze with an unrelenting desire. as you fight to protect vital intel, your path collides with sergeant bucky barnes, your childhood friend from brooklyn, whose unspoken love for you burns brighter than the war’s chaos. (smut, dub-con, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, violence, torture) (6,7k words)

[purplerain85]

OH MY GOD!!!! I loved this so much!

The absolute anger I felt off of Harry for what dipshit did to his wife. Kind of reminds me of the warehouse scene from Law Abiding Citizen.

Then he comes home and makes his wife feel safe and somewhat put back together.

👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

Hiiiii, oh my God, I love your stories so much. Could you do one about Harry Da Souza, where someone tortures the Reader, who happens to be his wife and the person he loves most in the world? And she gets scared to tell him the truth, so she just makes up some stupid excuse like 'I fell down the stairs.' Thank you, I luv youuuuu!

“Payback”

Harry Da Souza x Wife!Reader

Harry’s Masterlist

Summary: You can’t lie to your husband, he knows you too well. And when he realizes that you’re covered in bruises, he makes sure it never happens again.

WC: 5.6k

Warning/Tags: smut, minors DNI, violence, torture (nothing too explicit), blood and bruises, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), drugging, hurt/comfort, protective/vengeful Harry, implied murder.

You flinched when the front door opened.

It was just Harry. Of course it was just Harry. It sounded like him, after all these years of marriage you could recognize his footsteps by heart. And yet, you still jumped.

You were curled up on the far end of the couch with a blanket pulled tightly around you, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, collar yanked up to your chin to hide the purple blooming along your throat. Your ribs ached when you breathed. Your face throbbed. You didn’t even look at him when he came into the room.

“Alright, babe?” Harry’s voice was low, a little tired, a little rough, like it always was after dealing with the Harrigans all day. “You ate?”

You nodded, keeping your eyes on the TV even though you hadn’t registered a single word of the program for the past hour.

He moved towards you and you felt yourself tensing, not out of fear of him, never fear of him, but out of fear that he’d see. That he’d notice. Because you knew him, and you knew that if he did, all hell would break loose.

You’d told yourself you wouldn’t cry again, much less in front of him. But the second his hand touched your hair, gentle as always, the tears came anyway, no matter how hard you tried.

Harry crouched beside the couch immediately, cupping your jaw. “Hey. What’s this, hmm?” His thumb brushed under your eye.

You turned your face away before he could see the swelling. But you’d forgotten that Harry was the kind of man who noticed, he was trained to see this kind of things. To observe. His fingers found your wrist, and you winced in pain, quickly he rolled the sleeve up, and saw the dark purple bruise blooming across your skin, freezing at the sight.

“What the fuck happened to your arm?” His voice was quiet. Lethal.

Your throat closed. You opened your mouth and closed it again. Your lips trembled as you scrambled for the lie you’d settled on earlier, the one that sounded just believable enough.

“I fell down the stairs.”

Harry went so still it was like he turned to stone.

You tried to force a laugh. “I was rushing. Carrying the laundry basket. Didn’t see the last few steps. Landed hard on my side.”

He stood silent. His eyes swept over you with clinical precision, like he was reconstructing a crime scene in his head.

You should’ve known better. Harry had tortured people for hours, covered up dozens of bodies for the Harrigans. He knew bruising patterns. He knew impact angles. He knew lies.

“You fell,” he repeated, voice ice. “Down the stairs, you say?”

You nodded too fast.

He took a slow breath through his nose. “Take the hoodie off.”

“No.”

“Take it off.”

“Harry, please—”

“Take it the fuck off.”

You flinched again. That shattered him more than your bruises, the fact that you were so scared, so tense, that you almost seemed afraid of him.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, hands up. “Not unless you want me to. Just—please, babe. Please don’t lie to me.”

Your throat cracked on a sob. And then you pulled the hoodie off.

Harry looked. Really looked. At the bruises, at the outline of fingers on your neck, at the way you held yourself like your ribs were broken.

You expected him to yell or to punch something. But instead, he sat down. Just sat on the couch next to you, with his hands clasped between his knees. Breathing hard.

Then—very softly:

“Who did this to you?”

You wiped your cheek. “It doesn’t matter—” You didn’t want to cause more pain for Harry, you knew how much stress, how many sleepless nights, his job already brought him. And more than anything, you didn’t want to be the reason he walked into something worse, you didn’t want him going after some dangerous man for revenge.

“It matters to me.” His eyes burned now. With guilt and fury. “You think I can just look at this and let it go? You think I can see you like this and not kill someone for it?”

“Can we just let this go?” you asked, voice shaking, trying to blink away the tears already threatening to spill again.

Harry’s eyes flashed, his jaw clenched. “How the fuck do you expect me to let this go? Why won’t you tell me who did this to you?”

Your hands trembled. “I’m scared.”

He looked up, startled. “Of me?” He said, and prayed silently that the answer would be no, that you weren’t scared of him. The thought of you fearing him was something he couldn’t stand.

“No. Of—what you’d do.”

He reached for you slowly, and you let him this time. His arms went around you, his chin resting on top of your head, and you pressed your face to his chest, shuddering.

“I’ve never hurt you,” he said quietly. “Not once. Not ever.”

“I know.” It was true, Harry had ever hurt you. He had never laid a hand on you, never broken a glass or punched a wall in anger when arguing with you. Most of the time, he didn’t even raise his voice. Only when you pushed him too far… when your anger got loud enough to drown his silence, did he ever snap back. And even then, it was words, it was never violence.

“You’re my wife. You’re mine. No one touches what’s mine.” A pause. “And gets to go like nothing happened.”

You didn’t answer, and his grip tightened.

“Tell me who it was. Please.”

You hesitated, but you knew there was no way out of this. Even if you didn’t tell him, Harry would find out one way or another, that’s what he did for a living, tracking people down, piecing together what others tried to hide. So maybe it was better to just… make it easier for him.

“I—I think his name was Carlos, or something with a C. Said it was Jaime’s orders.”

You felt the change in him instantly. The way his whole body went tense. Silent. Calculating. Like a predator that’s just caught a scent.

“Did he do anything else to you?”

He didn’t say it out loud, he couldn’t even say that word, but you felt the weight of the question in his eyes. He was asking if the man had done more than the bruises he could see, If something worse, something unforgivable, had been done in places Harry couldn’t spot at first sight.

“No, no,” you shook your head. “Just roughed me up. Said you should think twice about whose side you’re on.”

Harry let out a slow breath, one he hadn’t realized he was holding. It wasn’t much. The bruises were still there, you had gone through something no one should have to go through. And the fact that he hadn’t been there to stop it, and that it was all becouse of the life he leads, made him feel like his chest was caving in. But at least it wasn’t that. At least that line hadn’t been crossed.

Harry kissed your temple. “You won’t see him again. I promise you that.”

The day Harry married you, he made his vows, to love you, to stand by your side in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, until death parted you.

But silently, just to himself, he’d made another one. To keep his world—the violence, the shadows, the blood—away from you.

And seeing you like this now… bruised, scared, hurt… he’d broken that vow.

“Let me make you a cuppa, yeah love?” he said softly, already walking to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

He put the kettle on. Grabbed your favorite black tea. A spoonful of honey to make it extra sweet. And then, quietly, he crushed a little white pill and stirred it into the hot water until it vanished.

When he brought it back, he slipped onto the couch beside you, cradling you in his arms as you drank it all.

“Mmm… I’m so tired,” you mumbled, blinking slow.

“Yeah,” he murmured, taking the empty cup from your hands and setting it on the coffee table. “C’mon then, love. Let me take you to bed. You need rest.”

He scooped you up effortlessly, like you weighed nothing at all, even though your limbs had gone heavy and limp, dead weight in his arms from the sudden exhaustion and dizziness blanketing your body. He carried you down the hall and laid you gently on the bed, pulling the covers up and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You rest, yeah babe?”

You mumbled something, the words slurring with sleep. “Harry, why’s the room spinning?” You chuckled to yourself, half asleep. “… Or maybe it’s me spinning…”

A soft chuckle. Then nothing. Just silence, and your steady breathing as you slept peacefully.

Harry sat beside you for a long time, watching you sleep. He didn’t feel guilty about doing that, you needed the rest, your body needed it to heal properly.

And he needed time too. Time to find the bastard who did this to you, and make him pay.

“I’ll be back before you wake up, love.”

He turned out the bedroom light and closed the door behind him.

The warehouse on the docks had seen worse.

Drug deals gone sideways. Stabbings. Gunfights. Smugglers thrown into the Thames with bricks tied to their feet.

But tonight? Tonight, the warehouse witnessed Harry unleashed like he’d never been before. Cause tonight it was personal.

He stood in the center of the cold, concrete floor, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, leather gloves dark and dripping, soaked through at the knuckles. His chest rose and fell in steady, heavy breaths as he stared down at the man strapped to the chair in front of him.

Still twitching. Still bleeding. Still breathing. Barely.

“Now,” Harry said, calm as anything, crouching low until he was level with the man’s ruined face. His voice was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made men's hair on their necks stand up. “We’re gonna try this again.”

The man whimpered, his broken nose bubbling blood with every inhale, mouth split and leaking. A nasty cut curved above his left eye, still bleeding slow. His shirt clung to his chest in wet and dark red patches. His whole body shook so violently the metal chair scraped against the floor with each tremor.

“I didn’t know she was your wife,” he gasped, voice wet with pain and spit. “I swear, mate—it was Jaime’s orders, I didn’t—”

Harry didn’t blink.

“That’s not the part that fuckin' matters.”

He stood and reached behind him to the table, methodical, like he was choosing a kitchen knife for dinner prep. His fingers closed around a wrench — long, heavy, stained — the kind of weight meant to break things.

He turned it over in his hand, testing the balance. Not rushed. Not angry.

Focused.

“What matters,” he said, almost to himself, “is that you put your hands on her.”

And then he swung the wrench. One clean strike right across the kneecap.

The sound the man made didn’t even sound human, a ragged, raw scream that shot straight to the rafters and echoed through the space like a wounded animal. The kind of scream you hear only in horror films. The kind that lived in your throat long after it was over.

Harry just tilted his head, watching. Waiting.

The man sagged, sobbing. His leg trembled, blood seeping fast.

“I didn’t touch her like that—”

Harry’s voice was low. It was dangerous.

“You touched her at all.” He leaned closer, blood on his gloves now soaking into the knees of his trousers. “You looked at her. Made her flinch.” His lip curled. “Made her scared.”

There was something worse than fury in his face now.

Conviction. Just the steady, righteous burn of a man doing what needed to be done. What any husband would do in his place. What that poor bastard deserved for ever laying a finger on you. This wasn’t about revenge, no, this was about justice. Plain and simple.

“So now I gotta make sure she doesn’t feel that way again. Ever.” He stood again, wrench hanging at his side like dead weight. “And I’m real fuckin’ thorough when I make a point.”

The screams of the man echoed so loud it rattled the rafters. Harry just tilted his head, waiting for it to die down.

“You hurt her. You put your hands around her throat.”

His voice was low now, low enough that you’d have to lean in to hear it, like a secret, like a prayer.

“I saw the bruises. Counted them.” He leaned in closer, lips by the man’s ear. His breath warm but his tone ice. “Six on her arm. Four across her ribs. One on her cheek. Fingers around her neck.”

A pause. A beat of silence where even the man’s sobs quieted in fear.

“I see those bruises every time I close my eyes.”

The man sobbed again. Wet, ugly, begging.

“Please—please—Harry, man— I was just following orders, you know how it is.”

Harry snapped like a switch flipped inside him. He wanted him to suffer threefold for every second he’d made you hurt. Wanted his final moments to be nothing but agony and regret.

“You don’t get to beg.” His voice cut like a blade. “She begged. Didn’t she?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Part of him couldn’t bear to hear it, couldn’t stand the thought of you in pain, begging to be left alone, so he just drove the wrench into the man’s gut — once, twice — again, again — until the chair tipped with a metallic scream and the man collapsed sideways to the floor with a sickening thud.

Harry stood over him. Chest heaving. Gloved hands flexing like he was trying to hold something back and failing.

“I’ve buried men for less, you know that?” His voice was quieter now. Not calmer. Just colder. “But you—oh, mate. You’re special.”

Harry tortured people for a living, he made them talk, killed them afterward if necessary. He’d stopped flinching long ago. But this time felt different. This time it wasn’t because he had to, it wasn’t a job, a duty, a consequence of the life he’d chosen.

This time, he did it because he wanted to. Because some voice deep inside his head told him this was the right thing to do.

And this time… a twisted and sick part of him enjoyed it.

He crouched down again, slow and steady, but his eyes hid something dark behind them.

“You made my wife lie to me.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You made her flinch at me.” His voice cracked, just a little. “You made her cry.”

He looked down at the man like he wasn’t even a person anymore. Because he barely was. So disfigured, so drenched in blood, he’d lost all trace of a human face.

“She was scared to tell me.” His throat worked. “Scared, after everything I’ve done to protect her.”

The man coughed up blood, sputtering against the floor.

“That’s the worst part,” he whispered. “She thought she was protectin’ me by keepin’ it quiet.”

His nostrils flared as he stood there. Silent. Controlled. But there was a knife in his hand now, those same hands that had held you hours ago gently, reverently, now gripped the blade like an extension of himself, steady and sure and ready to dive into the man’s flesh.

“You broke something in her,” he said. “Something I swore I’d never let anyone touch.”

Then, quieter:

“And now I’m gonna break you.”

⸻

Harry made sure no one would ever find the body.

The house was warm when you woke up.

You blinked into soft golden light pouring through the bedroom curtains and shifted in bed, just barely, against the deep ache in your ribs.

You didn’t exactly remember how you got to bed last night. The last thing you could recall was sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, Harry making tea. You probably fell asleep. Yeah, that was it, you must’ve passed out on the couch and Harry had carried you to bed.

You soon realized that you weren’t alone. For once you hadn’t woken up to an empty house.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed beside you, shirt off, hair damp from the shower. You didn’t know he’d been in the bathroom for at least half an hour, getting every last bit of blood off his body. He was watching you with that unreadable look he always wore when he was trying not to scare you. Not to make it worse.

“Mornin’, love,” he murmured. His hand reached for your face, so gently, knuckles brushing down your cheek like you were something fragile he didn’t dare hold too tight.

Your throat felt thick. “What time is it?”

“Half nine. You slept through.” A small pause. “Didn’t wake once.”

“Feels like I’ve slept for ages,” you mumbled, stretching your arms with a yawn.

“Yeah? Had a good night’s rest?” he asked, even though he already knew damn well how deep you’d slept. “You were out like a light, babe. Like a baby—” he grinned, then deepened his voice, “—or more like a bear.” He let out a dramatic, rumbling snore, trying to imitate you.

You laughed, shoving at his arm. “Hey, watch it. I do not snore like that.”

Harry chuckled with you, his smile softening as he looked at you… but then it faltered as his eyes drifted lower, toward your body, towards the bruises.

“I’m fine,” you said, before he could even ask.

“No, love.” He shook his head gently. “You’re not. You’re hurt. And you’ve got every right to not be fine.”

“You really gonna fuss over me like this for the rest of the week?”

“Month,” he said immediately. “Minimum.”

You laughed. It hurt, a little, but it didn’t matter.

“Do I get foot rubs, too?”

His brow arched. “Cheeky.”

“Blanket tucks, foot rubs, sponge baths—”

“Watch it, love.”

You smiled, finally meeting his eyes again. And this time when he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, you didn’t flinch. You melted.

He traced the shell of your ear with his thumb. “I used to think I’d never have something good. Then I got you. And I promised myself, this one thing, this one person, I wouldn’t ruin.”

“You didn’t ruin me.”

“I didn’t protect you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. But I should’ve known better.” He bent low, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Just kiss me, Harry.” In this moment, you didn’t want to face his guilt or the weight of what had happened. All you craved was to feel your husband’s warmth, his electric touch against your skin, his lips pressing kisses all over your body as if you were something holy.

He does. He kisses you. Slow. Deep. Tongue sliding between your lips, hand cradling the back of your head like you might break. But you don’t break, the safety of him anchors you down like gravity.

When he lays you back, he takes his time. He pulls your shirt over your head, eyes catching on every bruise, every mark, like he’s memorizing them.

And something broke behind his eyes. A flicker, too quick to catch if you didn’t know him, but you did. You saw it. Felt it. That familiar heat blooming in the space between your bodies, in the tension of his breath, in the way his hips shifted against you. He was getting hard, you could feel him, thick and aching between your thighs, the same hungry need he always had when you were together, resurfacing like instinct.

But layered beneath the arousal was hesitation, the doubt. His eyes dropped to the bruises scattered across your skin, the ones he hadn’t caused but still felt responsible for. You felt his restraint like a wall between you two. He didn’t want to hurt you. Didn’t want to take you when you were already raw and wrecked.

You could see him fighting it. Fighting the urge to fall into you, to bury everything he was feeling inside your cunt, the only place that ever seemed to quiet his mind. And it wasn’t just the thought of causing you more pain he was afraid of, it was what it meant, that someone else had touched you hard enough to leave marks. That you were still here, still choosing him, bruises and all.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

“Harry,” you whispered. “It’s okay. I want this. I want you.”

He gives you the tiniest nod, letting his mouth follow down your body, planting soft kisses to your chest, your ribs, every single part of your body he can reach.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, like something scraped raw, like he was afraid the sound alone might hurt you. “Tell me and I’ll stop right away.”

You nod, your eyes never leaving his. “It’s not too much,” you whisper, the words trembling at the edge of your throat. “Your kisses… your touch… you. That’s all I need right now.”

His hands slip under your thighs, big and warm and deliberate, spreading them slow, reverent, like he’s opening something sacred.

“Let me taste you, babe.” His voice is thick, low and guttural, like it’s dragging up from somewhere deep.

You nod, breath catching, and he sinks to his knees, disappearing between your legs like it’s the only thing in the world that makes sense anymore, like he’s been starving for you, like your body is his only salvation.

His hands clamp around your thighs, rough and possessive, dragging them wider until you’re spread obscenely for him, open, vulnerable, dripping. He holds you there like something sacred and filthy all at once, like a gift only he gets to unwrap.

“Fuck, you're still the most perfect thing I've ever laid my eyes on,” he breathes admiringly, before diving in.

His mouth is on you in a second — hot, wet and starving. Tongue flat and greedy, he parts your folds with practiced ease, like he has done for years, burying himself in your cunt like a man possessed. A low moan rumbles in his chest, vibrating straight through you as he sucks your clit between his lips and into his mouth like he wants to bruise it.

The first flick against the nub makes your whole body jolt. His tongue circles it in tight, perfect strokes, worshipful and devastating, like it’s a holy ritual and he’s been praying for this.

He licks you slow. Deep. Long, deliberate strokes like he’s trying to memorize the taste of your sweet fluids, like your pleasure is the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His tongue slides through your slick with maddening precision, dipping his tongue inside you, curling like he’s trying to coax your orgasm out by force.

He groans against you like he likes the taste of your pleasure. Like every sweet sound you make is one less demon inside his head.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t even blink. His tongue is slow, devoted, merciless, dragging from your entrance to your clit with wet, obscene pressure, over and over, until your legs start to shake. It’s like he’s trying to rewrite the memory of every unwanted touch with the soft scrape of his beard, the drag of his lips, the sinful glide of his tongue.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your pussy, lips slick and glistening, thick fingers stroking your thighs like you’re made of porcelain. “Cunt so fuckin’ sweet. So soft. My girl. Mine to protect. Mine to worship.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, twisting hard, because the things he’s doing to you don’t feel real, it’s too good, too intense, too much.

Your hips roll helplessly against his mouth, greedy for more, chasing the unstoppable heat of his tongue with every trembling grind. There’s no rhythm anymore, just need. Desperate, aching need. You’re soaked, thighs slick and trembling, the muscles in your stomach tightening like a drawn bow. You can’t think, can’t speak, you can only breathe his name again and again, broken and full of heat, dragged from somewhere deep and aching inside your body.

“Harry.” It’s a whimper, but also a curse and a prayer you didn’t know you’d been holding in your chest, tumbling out of you like your body doesn’t belong to you anymore, because it belongs to him now.

“That’s it,” Harry murmurs against your cunt, his voice husky and thick, lips brushing your clit with every word. “Give it to me, love. Wanna feel you cum on my tongue.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, fisting it hard, anchoring yourself to the only thing that feels real, his mouth, his tongue, his filthy worship.

You cum slow — hot and shaking — with a guttural whimper and Harry’s name spilling from your lips like a confession, like it’s the only truth that’s ever existed.

“H-Harry—oh my God—

Your body arches off the bed, thighs clenching around his head, hips stuttering as your climax crashes over you like a wave breaking all your pieces loose.

And when your breath catches, when your whole body spasms under him, muscles locked and fluttering around nothing, he just holds you there, mouth still latched to your dripping cunt, tongue flicking lazily over your clit, dragging out every last tremor until you’re whimpering like it hurts.

Too sensitive. Too full of him. But you can’t stop.

“Fuck, babe,” he groans, “you taste so fuckin’ good when you cum. I'll never get tired of it. I'm gonna put my mouth on you every single day for the rest of our lives.”

He pulls away from your cunt, but not before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your inner thigh. His eyes meet yours, dark and hungry, beard damp and lips swollen from the taste of you.

“Can I be inside you?” he asks, voice wrecked. “Please. Need to feel your cunt around me. Need you to feel me. Let me take it all away.”

You reach for him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yes. Please. Need you too. Need your cock deep in me.”

When you give him permission he fucks you like he’s trying to undo every bruise with his body. Like if he fills you deep enough, slow enough, hard enough, maybe he can erase the hurt someone else left behind.

His thick, massive cock broke you open like it always had, impossible to take but exactly what you needed. He groaned the moment your slick heat swallowed the blunt head of him first, the rest of his inches shortly after as he pressed forward until you were stretched to the limit.

His body is blanketing yours like he’s shielding you from the world, like every thrust is a vow and every kiss is an apology. Every moan from you is proof you’re alive, and you’re his, and you’re not broken beyond repair.

He’s gentle but firm, guiding his cock into you with unbearable slowness, letting you feel every thick, aching inch as he stretches you wide and deep to accommodate him.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes against your mouth, voice strained and reverent. “You feel so warm. Tight as the first time. You've got the most perfect cunt, did you know that? Don’t ever wanna let you go.”

You sobbed into his shoulder, body shaking from the stretch, your nails digging into his back. “Harry—s-so big—”

“I’ll give you everything, yeah? All of it.”

His rhythm is unhurried, deep and possessive, but his hips grind into you with a punishing rhythm, not cruel, but consuming, raw with need, with love, with all the things he doesn’t know how to say with words. Your body arches beneath him, every nerve-ending stretched tight as he slams into you, the fat head of his cock dragging across every tender, sensitive spot inside you like he knows exactly how to wreck you. Because he does.

“Fuck—look at you,” he groans, voice dark and wrecked against your throat. “Taking it so good, babe. You—fuck—you love this cock stretchin’ you wide, fillin’ every fuckin’ inch.

He watches your face, watches the way you gasp and writhe, and the promise in his eyes is loud enough to drown everything else out:

“You’re safe now. You’re mine. You’re proper fuckin’ mine.”

His hands grip your hips, fingers firm but careful enough to avoid hurting you, his broad thumbs trace the edges of your bruises without pressing on them, like even the ghost of your pain makes him want to tear the world apart.

The care in his touch makes your throat tighten, your chest ache, your eyes sting.

You arch under him, slick and shaking, whispering his name again and again, and when you say, “Don’t stop,” it comes out as half-plea, half-command, like you’d die if he let go of you now.

He growls into your skin, lips brushing your ear.

“I’m not stoppin’. Not until you say so. Feels so fuckin’ good inside you.”

His hips slam forward again — deep, heavy — and you cry out, your back arching, your whole body shaking as pleasure swallows everything else.

“Do you like it, babe? You like having this cock fucking you full? Stuffing that little cunt of yours?” he moaned, voice rough, hips snapping harder against you.

“Fuck—I love it, Harry. Keep going.” Your voice broke halfway through, overwhelmed and needy.

“Say it again.”

“I love it—I love your cock, Harry—” you gasped, eyes fluttering. “Feels so good—so fucking deep.”

“Yeah, you do. Can feel your cunt squeezing me, so fuckin’ greedy—like she never learned how to take me.”

He buries himself to the hilt with a groan, cock stretching you full, tight around him, and he rocks into you like he wants to stay there forever, like the feel of your soaked cunt gripping him is the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

“Jesus, fuck—so good,” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “You feel like fuckin’ home, babe.”

He kisses your lips, your shoulders, your throat, your cheeks, anywhere the bruises colored your skin, like he’s worshiping the pain away, even while he fucks you like he’s trying to break the bed in half.

He fucks you through every sob, every tremor, every broken little sound. You’ve never felt so held. So taken. So loved.

“I love you,” he says, voice hoarse and breaking, forehead pressed to yours as he keeps pushing into you slow and deep, his cock pulsing inside you. “You hear me? I’d burn the fuckin’ city down for you.”

“I know,” you gasp. “I know, Harry—”

“Mine,” he groans, voice thick and breaking, driving his cock deeper, if it was even possible, one hand coming up to cup your cheek like you’re something fragile. “My wife. My fuckin’ heart. Gonna fuck you until you forget anything else ever existed. Gonna fuck the hurt right out of you.”

You sob his name, clutching his back, nails dragging down his skin in desperate lines, and he groans, low and wrecked, from the sting.

“That’s it, you always take it so good for me,” he hisses through gritted teeth, hips rolling deeper, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, the thick grind of his pelvis dragging across your clit with every brutal, perfect thrust. He’s not giving you a single second to breathe, not letting up, not holding back, and you don’t want him to.

“Cum for me again, love,” he growls, voice dark and low right against your ear. “Let me feel you. Let me feel you soaking this cock while it splits you open.”

And you do. It slams into you without warning, your body locking up, trembling, shattered around him as you cry out, loud and raw and wrecked because of him.

Your cunt tightens around him like a vice, soaking him as you cum hard, legs shaking, back arching. Your voice breaks into a moan so desperate, so ruined, it barely even sounds like you anymore.

“F-Fuck—Harry!”

He doesn’t stop. Not when your body’s still trembling, cunt still fluttering around him like you’re trying to pull him even deeper. He keeps grinding into you, slow and brutal, his cock thick and hard and so deep it feels like he’s carved himself into your body.

"Ohh—gonna fuckin' fill you up, babe,” he whines. “Gonna stuff your little hole so full of me It’s all you’re gonna be feeling for days.”

Harry follows you soon after with a guttural moan that came straight from his chest, slamming into you one last time as his hips jerk and still. His body goes rigid, chest heaving, fingers digging into your thighs like he’s holding on for dear life. He’s cumming hard, hot and thick inside you, the warmth spreading deep in your walls with every pulsing spurt.

“Fuck—fuck, love—” your name tumbles from his lips, tangled in a curse and a prayer, like he’s trying to give you everything he has.

He stays inside you after. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go. Just breathes with you, his body wrapped around yours like an armor.

You both lie there, slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling over you, like ocean waves. Your thighs still trembling, his arms locked tight around your waist. His cock is still buried inside you, softening gradually, his cum drips out of your hole where you two are connected, wetting your thighs, staining the sheets, but neither of you move. There’s no rush. No need to.

The silence is warm and heavy with breaths and sweat and safety, it wraps around you like his arms do, strong, unyielding, safe. The only sound is your mingled breathing, your heartbeat slowly syncing with his.

His fngers trace slow, lazy circles against your hips, in reassuring and grounding little motions, showing you his wordless devotion.

“How do you feel?” he asks softly, his voice barely more than a rumble against your skin.

You bury your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of sex and sweat and something undoubtedly him. You press a kiss there — small, shaky, real.

“I feel… good,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. You felt good in a way you didn’t think was possible after what happened, not so soon at least. Good in a way that felt like being rebuilt.

His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you even closer, as if he could tuck you under his skin.

“Good,” he echoes, but his voice breaks a little, like he’s the one who needed to hear it the most. “That’s good.”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t have to.

You just lie there, wrapped in sweat and each other and silence that speaks louder than anything, the kind of silence that heals.

A/N: To the person who requested this — thank you so much for your kind words🩷🩷 It means so much to me. I truly hope you enjoy this story just as much as the others, and thank you for your patience, it took me quite some time to get through this fic, but I’m finally content with it.

The fic I’m working on rn is a request I got for a forced marriage with Alfie, so yes… Alfie is coming back soon!!!(probably will have it finished sometime next week)

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

[purplerain85]

@darqchilddaydreamz still love this one and it’s still one of my favourites of yours ❤️

SOA Boys Bedroom Styles: FozzieBear

After doing the SOA Bedroom Styles post

...some of our boys really stuck in my head (like they didn't already live there). Might do a fic for each of them now. idk. So again...I had to. ;)

18+ONLY

3k words

sweet smut ° giggle smut ° smutty smut below the cut

Forgive any typos, i was interrupted about 1426 times while editing. 🤬

SOA belongs to Kurt, this story belongs to me and I belong to The Boys.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Your interactions with Bobby Munson had always been simple enough. He came by your auntie’s pawn shop once a month or so to pick up ‘a package’ and after a few trips he started to stick around shooting the shit for a while before he left. When he started staying longer you didn’t notice right away. For being a generally straight faced guy he was truly funny, time flew by usually only interrupted by his leash, or should you say - phone.

“Mind yourself, girl.” Your aunt murmured, leaning on the counter, giving him a smile and wave goodbye that belied the tone she was using with you.

“What? Bobby is just…Bobby.”

“Humph,” She cut her eyes at you like you were 16 years old instead of a full grown woman. “It’ll sneak up on ya with that one.”

You laughed at the time, but as usual, she was right.

0.o.0.o.0

When Bobby offered you a bite of the new edible Juice and his partners had concocted, your lips accidentally brushed his thumb. It was innocent on your part but the way he looked at you froze you in place. The way he stared at your mouth while he flicked his tongue across the tip of that same thumb, then sucked your lip gloss from it, was an absolute sin.

When your aunt asked you to come with her to the clubhouse while she did a little business with Clay, you thought it would be a nice break. Why the place was packed out at five o’ clock in the afternoon you still don’t know. You sat on Bobby’s lap because the other option was standing, at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. Amid the raucous chatter no one saw how his hand rested on your thigh under your jacket, with that damn thumb stroking back and forth, so close to your kitty cat that it fluttered. You could have stopped it at any time, maybe you should have - but instead, you went home and spent an hour with your vibrator trying to get rid of the hunger he stirred up.

Wait, really? Bobby Elvis? The one you laughed with and called Fozzie Bear? Really?

The more you thought about it the worse the itch got. You visited the clubhouse regularly now, you know - to hang out with the guys. Liar. It was a running joke that you liked laps more than chairs, but no matter whose lap you found yourself in when you got there, you always found a way to end up with your squirming ass in Bobby’s. Waiting on that wandering hand, inexplicably delighted to feel the hardness beginning under you, going home each night more worked up and freaked out than ever. The appeal grew around the rich, smooth tenor of his voice, that tease of good ol’ country boy in his speech. You were drawn to his even tempered calm, surrounded by the chaos of his brothers. To the keen, soft brown eyes that found you wherever you were in the room and the tangled mess of unexpectedly soft, curly hair that you fingered during every hug goodbye.

Oh, shit…you were hot for Bobby.

0.o.0.o.0

Pulling up to the small BBQ being held at his house for SAMCRO, you were a conflicted mess. You dropped kisses on the cheeks of his brothers as you maneuvered through saying your hellos, but you placed Bobby’s as close to his mouth as you could get away with, lingering long enough for his fingers to begin to press into your back and his body to start to turn toward you. To anyone watching, it would all still seem friendly but the slide his hand made across the top of your backside when he let you go was telling a different story. You could smell his efforts at a good presentation in the tempting scent his cologne and the proper beard oil he had used. His deep blue button up, pinstripe shirt was wrinkle free, his jeans not quite as worn as normal and stylishly cuffed at the bottom as were his sleeves.

Bobby was not behaving today. Standing by his chair to listen to him and his brothers one up each other with stories, you smiled as if he wasn’t using his hand for darker intentions, finding the sensitive skin on the backs of your knees just below the hem of your skirt. The simple circles he drew caused your body to flush with heat and your nipples to harden. You bit your lip when his hand briefly wandered higher, sending tingling ripples of distraction up your legs and to your center that you could still feel long after you walked away.

Night came and the party was still going outside but Bobby had found his way into the kitchen with you - leaning against the counter, asking random questions about the chocolate fudge cake you brought. Tasting it off of your fingers, tasting you.

“I wanna show you something.” His voice cut through the fog his lapping tongue had created and you nod following him down the hall to the last door. Flipping on the light, he let you pass and closed the door behind him. The room was decorated sparsely and smelled like his cologne and faintly of weed smoke.

“I just wanted a minute alone with you.” The velvet voice that came across the quiet inches between you, trickled down your torso in a heated path.

You look up and one second he was just standing there, the next he had you pinned up against the dresser with his fist wrapped in your hair. His tongue still sweet from the chocolate tasting finds yours in a slip and slide tangle of want. You responded immediately to his boldness, wrapping your arms around his neck, finally able to dig into his mop of curls, their grey streaked softness spilling all over your hands and wrists. Bobby pulled back to study your face. His eyes asking, Go time? 

You respond by recapturing his mouth, sweeping your tongue across his bottom lip, teasing before he grips your hips possessively, leaning in for more. The hot pulse in your abdomen is familiar now, you wonder if he knows how long you’ve fought thinking about this. You don’t care that there are people still at the house. You don’t care that he is an outlaw biker, twice married. All you care about is the shimmy it takes to get out of your skirt and the chaotic unbutton, unsnap, untie and unzip that it takes to be skin to skin.

You were happily surprised to feel the solid muscle tone in his chest and arms that his wardrobe of long sleeve shirts had hidden and trailing your hand lower your mouth watered.

“Jesus, Bobby,” you breathed against his lips. “How do you ride with that thing?”

His stomach jumped with his dark chuckle. “Don’t you worry none…it tucks itself away jus’ fine, darlin’. I’m a grower not a shower.”

And with that, the burly man took control, picking you up and tossing you onto the bed like you weighed nothing. When he crawled up next to you, as stealthy as a man half his size, he loomed over you, letting his fingertips skim over your collarbone and the tops of your breasts. Teasing across the stiff peaks pressing against the fabric of your bra until you undid the front clasp, giving them to him to play with, while he smothered your moan with a slow kiss. He traced your belly button and hip bones to the point of distraction, stirring up a new intense heat. He travelled all over you but not with just the biting and sucking you expected. His wanderings were more of a mouthing of your skin, tasting and playing on your sensitivities finding places to make you shiver, stoking the heat into a flame. You didn’t know you had nerve endings at the base of your calf but apparently Bobby did. You didn’t know a well place bite on the inside of your knee would make you suck in all the air in the room and moan it back out. This man was not playing fair.

On his knees, pulling your panties away from your soaked split he groaned, licking his lips, his eyes glued to your apex, “Aw, look at that pretty thang…all wet for me.”

You squeaked when he yanked you diagonal on the bed so he could lay down between your legs. His thick beard on your thighs tickled like a hundred tiny fingernails, leaving you a twitchy ball of anticipation. When he stroked his thumb up your shining, slick lips you hissed and cursed low. His voice floated to your ears, murmuring in wonderment, “Goddamn, you got the prettiest pussy.”  

Up on your elbows unable to look away, you watch him lean down further and take the first long lick. A breath escapes you on a high note. Another lick and another flutter your eyes closed.

“Tastes like heaven,” he muttered. You whimper as he pauses to look up at you with the devil shining from his eyes, licking you from his lips, knowing he had you now. “Can I have some more?”

You nod because words are not possible and Bobby went to work - humming to himself as he licked long and slow over your hardened bundle of nerves. And oh god, the noises he made. The moans and slurps and growls in his throat, the soundtrack for your destruction.

“Mmm-mmm-mmm,” he rumbled, lapping your juices up while you sighed out your pleasure. Rolling your hips against his mouth, your climax was coming fast. Your cries higher in pitch with every swipe of his tongue. Clamping your lips down on your own cries you arched, welcoming the spasms as they consume you.

Bobby may have slowed down as your body jerked, but he didn’t stop. He gave you deliberately slow licks as you trembled your way back down. He slid his tongue up and down the sides of your clit, gauging which side was more sensitive by your twitches, by the tune of your sighs and whispers of how good it felt. Finding his target side, his tongue flicked left to right with you gyrating against his mouth, moaning unashamedly, caught up in the returning heat his lips and tongue were stoking. He raised his head to see your hands on your own breasts working your nipples, your torso snaking, reaching for the next peak that was so unbearably close.

“Yeah, you like that?” he teased you, loving the sound of his name spilling from your lips. Dropping his face back between your legs, he tongued you quickly. Expertly working one side of your pulsing nerve center then the other as if the devil himself was whispering instructions into his ear.

“Oh! There! Please! There!”

Desperately, you flex your hips up needing more, needing it faster, just needing it to not stop - until your orgasm slammed into you, forcing a series of short sharp cries out of your throat.

“That’s it,” he paused in his feast only to encourage you losing your mind. “There ya go, darlin’.”

“Okay! OKAY! Please! Wait…wait!” Panting between gasps and stomach clenching spasms, you swore you couldn’t take it as his wicked tongue kept up the assault forcing your back to arch up off of the bed and your hands to reach frantically up into the empty space above your head for something to save you. He laughed out loud, hearty and deep, as you tried to scramble up the bed to get away.

“Where you going, huh?” he taunted. “You runnin’?”

Now you understood why his name was called to stop the fights in the ring. You are not a weak woman but he had the strength of a workhorse and when a man as brawny as Bobby Munson wants you to stay put, you have no other option. He locked his tree trunk of an arm around your thigh and all you could do was limply kick out with your other leg, whimpering and trembling while he leisurely perused your folds with random licks and suckles, as if you weren’t tossing your head back and forth like a woman being electrocuted.

Responding to you desperately pulling on his hair to end it all, Bobby grounded you back to the earth with bites and kisses on your thighs. His soft hairy cheeks nuzzling you, his hands warm and tender stroking your hip and abdomen but holding you in place all the same. As you came out of your fog, you could hear his voice but he wasn’t talking to you, not exactly.

You raised your head, heavy-lidded eyes questioning, “What are you doing?”

“Listening,” He spread you open and wet his finger swirling wide gentle circles on your clit, “while she tells me what she wants.”

You let your head flop back down, his fingers making it hard to pay attention. In a breathy whine you inform him, “She wants a break…or you. Come up here.”

“Hush, woman! This is between me and her.” He slid his thick finger through your juices again, switching to perfect tight circles. A new wave of heat rolled up through your abdomen, your clit firming up again. Again?  

With his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your thigh he spoke, “Okay…I can do that.”

Do what? 

And then he shoved his tongue so far up inside you every single muscle in your body seized up. Absolutely overrun by the stunner move - your toes curled, feet bowed, ankles snapped out straight. Your back arched, arms flung out gripping the comforter beneath you. Eyes wide and mouth open, your neck strained from your head being thrown so far back that according to your new field of vision, his headboard was now upside down.

Oh! My! God!

Shifting, he spread your thighs wide, his beefy hands pressing them down while he licked inside of you. His wicked prized muscle swirling and diving into your swollen space, while you wailed. Bobby was methodical, withdrawing his tongue to lay several flat long licks on your clit, only to spear you again. All notions of being quiet were flung violently out the window, you cursed the day you ever met him and shrieked his name. He let you tug at his hair, chuckling against your sex before starting quick slurping licks from your opening to the very top of your clit. Turning his head rapidly this way and that, like you were a melting ice cream cone and he didn’t want a single drop to hit the ground. He played you like an instrument, his hands stroking your thighs and stomach and breasts while his mouth on you continued with the sweetest torture.  

Changing tactics, he suctioned your clit up between his lips and rhythmically sucked, three short then one long…five short, then one long.

“Oh no,” you moan out, near panic. “No no no no!”

You bucked, slapping at his arm,* gasping for mercy, begging for him to go back to the safe licks, crying out for him to stop and come fuck you - anything but this.

“I outta tie you down,” he growled into your thigh, biting down hard, giving your hip a stinging slap. “Goddamn, bronco.”

Soon enough you were unable to fight against the build up between your legs. Demanding more from you he slid two thick fingers inside of you, diving deep - stroking slow. Sucking on your clit now with a slow drawing in of suction and a sudden full release, making a wet smacking sound that you could hear even in your mind blown state. With your chest heaving, tears came to your eyes from the over stimulation. Every breath ending in a whine or a sob.

“Please,” you begged. “Oh god, Bobby…please.”

He had you desperately swallowing your own saliva to wet your scream-dried throat. There was no way…no way he could make you come again. Your pleas were met with no mercy, instead he upped the ante, withdrawing his fingers from inside you for a lower target, moving just centimeters down he circled your tight, virgin hole lightly. That did it. 

Eyes wide, you screamed and bucked. Your body jerked rapidly again and again, but Bobby held on tight and rode you out, thrust for wild thrust, through every twisting convulsion. There was no escaping his fingers, his tongue or his grip. You sobbed throaty, raspy and incoherent through the most forceful part of your release, dissolving into helpless mumblings and shuddering breaths as he let you come down.

You could feel the bed dip as he crawled up next to you. You peeked open your watery eyes, watching him wipe his mouth with the whole length of his forearm. Chucking against your shoulder, he rested his hand on your breast, slowly thumbing your hardened nub, “You alright?”

“No!” You giggle, sniffing as he wipes the moisture in the corner of your eyes. “I hate you!”

“Yeah?” He grabs your hand and puts it on his dick, using you to rub himself. “Ain’t had a good hate fuck in a loooong time.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the plan.”

You burst out laughing, slapping his shoulder. He chuckles, dragging you on top of him, demanding your mouth for a kiss even though you are still getting your breathing together. You can’t resist because despite what he put you through, the need to have him inside of you has not been met. His kiss is greedy, exciting, sharing the taste of you, his beard drenched in your scent. It doesn’t take long before your body wants to give what he needs. His pre-cum smeared on his stomach and yours calls you to action. Sliding down onto his thickness with no preamble almost sends you through the ceiling. He is stretching you, the sensation so intense it borders on painful.

Meanwhile, Bobby’s whole body is tensed up. After waiting so long he can’t help the way he claws at your hips wanting you to move, wanting relief. “Fuck yeah! Come on, girl.”

You tremble from head to toe struggling to establish a rhythm your destroyed vagina can take. He lets you work over him unashamed of his own pleasure. He had given you plenty and now he was thrilled let you do the same. He licked his lips watching your torso and hips sway and circle, yanking you down some to latch onto your breasts with his mouth, hungry and voracious. Switching between the two, grunting happily while you rode him, his breathing harsh and hot against your skin.

“Goddamn that’s good,” he groaned, now muffled between your breasts, palming them on either side of his head, tugging and twisting your nipples, nipping the oft neglected undersides, drawing cries out of you that you didn’t think you had left - feeling your walls start to tremble.

“You got another one in ya?” he teased, scraping his teeth across your nipples. Your body answered the question before you could utter a syllable, folding you up over him. He chuckled low falling back on the bed, pleased with himself as your head dropped down on his lower chest, your body twitching, your hips still rocking while he endured your walls clamping down and releasing. His chest jerking every few seconds under your forehead told you that he wasn’t far behind you.

“Oh damn,” he whispered in a tortured groan, caught up in the fluttering inside of you that he himself was causing. “Come on,” he urged, “Comeoncomeoncomeon!”

Hearing his deep groans change to that panting plea was the driving force behind the motion of your hips now. Leaning forward with both hands planted on his chest you bounced your ass over him. Keeping your back as arched as possible, the new angle making his tip scrape against your wall the entire down stroke as you sent him to heaven…or hell. It’s all perspective, right? And damnit if he didn’t earn it.

“Jeeeasus Christ, girl! FUCK!” Bobby bellowed. He had a painful grip on your hip while his other hand shot up to yank you down into another kiss. He took his long awaited release with gritted teeth against your lips, a strained guttural growl escaping in time with his hot, pulsing spurts.

“Shiiiiit! You tryin’ to kill me?” he muttered into your mouth while his body jerked, emptying out every ounce of pent up seed.

As he came down his hands roamed your back, cupping your butt cheeks, squeezing and kneading. All of it sending showers of tingles all over your body. He drifted breathless kisses from your neck to collarbone to breasts and back again. You relaxed into a pool of weightlessness, relishing in the unexpected tenderness. His hands stroking the backs of your arms, your shoulder blades and his fingers slipping into the hair at your neck, the soft squeezing is hypnotizing. His still twitching dick was the only thing keeping you from falling asleep.

A loud knock on the door takes you both out of it. Juice’s voice called out, “Um, you guys good?”

Bobby snapped, as you rolled off of him, “Whadda you think?!”

“Uh, okay. We’re leaving. I’ll lock the door.”

You look at Bobby with wide eyes and a quite giggle, having no idea how much time has passed.

The door knob rattled as someone tried it. Bobby roared, “The fuck you doin’, Juice?!”

“It wasn’t--”. A bump against the door accompanied a cry from Juice, “Ow! Dick! It wasn’t me!”

Tig’s voice came next, “Just checkin’ on ya!"

Bobby shook his head, smiling wide before yelling back, “Bye, asshole!”

Tig's voice sang out, fading as he made his way down the hall, "Good niiiiiiight, kiddies!”

-fin-

[purplerain85]

How would they react: Squirting

Angel Reyes- squirting during doggy style

Previously: Ez Reyes- squirting during oral sex.

Bishop Losa- squirting during phone sex

A/N: It’s finally here, and I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it lol. 🥰

Warnings: Unprotected sex, squirting, oral (female receiving), sprinkle of dirty talk

There’s an ache in your lower back from the position Angel has put you in for the past fifteen minutes. You could feel little droplets of sweat slide down the curve of your spine, all the way down to your neck.

His hips are slapping against your ass with every thrust he makes, creating a sound that only encourages him to keep going. Both of you were panting loudly, but he managed to get a scream out of you everytime he decided to change his pace, resulting in a firm smack against your ass.

“Look at you, mi dulce” he coos, his steady rhythm not faltering for even a second. Your eyes are closed, loud moans falling from your lips as Angel slides himself in and out of you. “I wish you could see what I see. The way your pussy just swallows this cock—you need it, don’t you?”

Your desperate whimpers are taken as a yes, judging by the soft chuckle behind you. It wasn’t the first time you came tonight, and with each orgasm sweeter than the last, you could only imagine the pleasure that was about to hit you.

A hand makes its way down your back, eventually reaching your neck. He held it with a tight grip, reminding you that he was in control, something you had to change. You press yourself forward, only to slam back on his cock again— a move that never fails to spur him on further.

He retrieves his hand from your neck and allows you to find your own pace, “You like fucking yourself on my cock, baby?” Angel asks you, while using his free hands to knead the jiggling flesh pushing up on him.

“Fuck.. Angel” you moan, holding onto the headboard in front of you. “You feel so good,”

Deciding you’ve had your fun, Angel is quick to take over again. He has a hard grip on your hips, as his cock pumps into you with a renewed fervor.

It’s not long before you can feel it building again, the desire in your belly growing by the second, knocking the breath out of your lungs. You look over your shoulder, wanting a glimpse of Angel as you reach your climax.

His eyebrows were furrowed in determination, and you could tell he was trying to hold off in his own orgasm. “Cum for me, querida. Cum all over this cock, I know you want to”

With his head rubbing against your g-spot, and his hand sneaking down your pussy to attack your clit with his fingers, your vision goes white. It’s as if your skin is on fire, and Angel keeps on adding more and more gasoline, sending your body into overdrive.

The heat rises to your face, while Angel pulls you as close as humanly possible, leaving you gasping for air.

It’s like fireworks exploding inside of you, followed by a warmth erupting deep in your body, sending goosebumps all over your skin. Your pussy clenching around him, gripping him so tight, he could enjoy every ridge of your walls.

Just when you think the best part has come, he starts fucking you more vigorously, causing you to cry out again. An unfamiliar type of sensation washes over you, one that had your pussy squirting fluids all over Angel’s cock and the bed.

Your legs are still shaking from the new experience, when Angel pulls himself out of you. The look of amazement, quickly turned into a look of pure lust.

“Look at you, baby.. squirting all over this cock, ruining these sheets”, Angel teases, while grabbing your ass cheeks almost painfully hard, spreading them apart to get a better view, “You made a big mess, querida. Let’s clean it up.”

Before you can even process his words, you feel him burying himself between your legs, his tongue immediately devouring your drenched pussy, not leaving a single spot untouched.

This was going to be a long night.

If you’d like to be added to my Angel taglist, let me know! ✨

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[purplerain85]

Bad Idea, Right?

Title: Bad Idea, Right?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary:  You swore you were done. You told your friends you blocked him. But Bucky Barnes always knew how to get under your skin and between your thighs.

Word Count: 4.2k  

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Rough sex, Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Praise & degradation mix, Hair pulling / wall sex, Toxic relationship themes, Lying to friends, Emotionally complicated dynamic, Post-sex emotional avoidance

A/N:  @sunday-bug… all because you shared that one damn edit (completely dif from this) but now I have ‘Olivia Rodrigo - Bad idea right’ on loop in my damn head..

Your back had hit the wall so hard you gasped, but not from pain. It was the way he did it with that desperate, reverent hunger, like he was trying to shove the world away just to get more of you. The contact shuddered through your spine, knocked the breath from your chest, and made your thighs tighten on instinct. His hands were already inside your shirt, fingers cold and rough against your overheated skin, dragging the fabric up like it had offended him just by existing. You felt the calluses scrape over your ribs, the pad of his thumb grazing the underside of your breast like he’d forgotten what it tasted like and now he needed to remember.

He mouthed down your throat, lips wet and hot, tongue flicking behind your ear with attack precision. It sent a shock straight to your core. Your knees threatened to buckle, and the only reason you stayed upright was because he pinned you there with his body; all sharp edges and heavy heat. His beard scraped your jaw and down your neck, and you hated that it made you wetter. Hated it even more when you tilted your head for more.

You were breathless, your palms splayed against the drywall, clutching for something solid while your mind went soft. Already halfway gone. You could feel him- hot breath, hard cock, clenched jaw.

It was always like this.

You always said no. You never meant it.

It wasn’t weakness. Not exactly. It was instinct. It was muscle memory. It was fire meeting gasoline in a dark room where nothing good ever happened, but you still lit the match.

This is a bad idea, you thought, right as his teeth caught the edge of your bra and dragged it down your shoulder. Had worse.

Hours earlier.

You weren’t going to go out tonight. Swore it. Even said it out loud in that tone you use when you're trying to convince yourself just as much as anyone else. You'd already taken off your makeup, put on that worn hoodie, queued up something half-hearted on Netflix.

But your friends were already dressed, already halfway to that bar you used to avoid like it had teeth. His bar. So you went. Just to prove it didn’t matter. Just to prove he didn’t matter. You told yourself you’d stay for one drink. One laugh. Maybe half a song.

And then you saw him.

Back corner. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he didn’t want to be noticed- but his eyes were already on you. Locked in. Hungry in that quiet, heavy-lidded way that always made your heart skip a beat you didn’t want to admit to.

He didn’t come over. He didn’t need to. Just sat there, fingers tapping the glass in front of him, mouth barely twitching like he already knew how the night was going to end.

You pretended not to see him. Ordered something strong and downed it too fast. Laughed too loud at things that weren’t funny. You held your phone like a shield. Fidgeted with the rim of your glass. Said you had to pee just to get away.

But the longer you stayed, the more you felt it, that low hum under your skin, a dangerous ache that didn’t quite hurt but refused to go away. The way your body always seemed to tune to his presence like a song it hated but still knew by heart. That magnetic pull.

That slow, inevitable draw.

You lasted just over an hour before slipping outside for some air. The noise had gotten too loud, the lights too sharp, and the burn of your drink wasn’t doing what it was supposed to anymore. You told your friends you needed a smoke. You didn’t have one. But you needed something to do besides stare at the bar and feel the heat of his gaze crawling up your spine.

And of course, he found you there. Like always. He didn’t even pretend to be surprised.

You’d barely had time to breathe before the back door creaked again behind you.

You lasted just over an hour before slipping out the back door for air. The night was cool, but your skin was flushed, your blood buzzing in that restless way it always did when he was close. You paced, fiddled with the zipper of your jacket, stared out into the alley like it might give you an answer. Like maybe it’d remind you that walking away was still an option.

He found you there, like always. Slow footsteps, his shadow stretching long across the alley wall before you even heard the creak of the door closing behind him.

“Couldn’t even wait until last call?”

You turned at the sound of his voice, smooth and low, tinged with something smug and sharp. That voice always got under your skin. Familiar enough to drag up a hundred memories you didn’t want to sift through.

You let out a small, crooked smile. Not quite a laugh.

“Still playing vigilante?” you asked, your head tilted like you were trying to gauge the bruises you were sure were hidden under his hoodie. You never asked where they came from. He never offered.

“Still pretending you don’t miss me?” he shot back, and there it was, that grin. The smirk that had gotten him into your bed and under your skin more times than you could count. Hair falling around his jaw, eyes drinking you in like he hadn’t seen you in months, even if it had only been a couple of weeks. 

He stepped closer. His boots scraped softly over gravel, slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly how to draw this out. Not touching. Not yet. But his presence was thick, magnetic. You could feel it curling around you, pulling at your spine, daring you to move first.

The look in his eyes made your stomach flip. All dark amusement and something heavier behind it. Like even when he smiled, there was still something broken beneath it. Something that wanted, needed. Not just sex. You knew that look. You’d seen it before, usually right before he kissed you like an apology and fucked you like a promise. You knew better. You always knew better.

“You left fast,” he murmured. “Didn’t even give me a chance to say something reckless and stupid.”

You raised a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t even see you.”

He laughed once, under his breath. “Liar.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. Your gaze flicked down to his hands; scarred knuckles, a twitch of tension in his thumb. Then back up to his mouth, which was already curling again like he’d caught the slip.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was full. Full of every fuck, every fight, every night you swore would be the last.

“One drink,” he said, stepping in close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body. His fingers brushed your wrist, barely a touch, but enough to make your stomach twist. Soft, like he knew he didn’t need to push.

You smirked. “Sure. One drink.”

He tilted his head, voice quiet. “I didn’t mean in there.”

You laughed despite yourself, and fuck, you hated that it felt good. “Didn’t think you did.”

You could pretend a little longer. Pretend you weren’t already leaning toward him. Pretend your hand didn’t slide into his just as easy as it always had.

“Still a bad idea,” you said, just loud enough for him to hear.

“Most fun ones are,” he replied.

And when he tugged gently, guiding you away from the alley wall and toward the edge of whatever this was, you didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Now.

His place had always been a mess- unmade bed, cluttered floor, that dim yellow lamp in the corner that buzzed when it was left on too long. But you didn’t see any of that. Not really. All you saw was the look in his eyes when he turned the lock. Like he’d been holding his breath since the alley and could finally exhale now that you were here.

You kicked your shoes off as he tugged your shirt over your head. You didn’t even remember the walk here, just the way his hand traveling your skin, pressing, possessive. You didn’t remember the elevator ride, but you remembered the heat of his mouth on your neck the second the door clicked shut. And you definitely remembered the sound you made when he pressed you into the wall like he needed to own you just to breathe.

His mouth had been on you before you could say a word. Hands rough, mouth softer than it had any right to be. And God, it was a hit- pure, concentrated need shot straight into your bloodstream. His tongue dragged across your throat like he was carving the shape of your name there, licking into your skin like he wanted it under his teeth forever.

You didn’t just take it, you gave it back.

One hand in his hair, tugging him closer, the other trailing down his side to feel the twitch of muscle under your palm. You traced the ridge of his spine, not for affection, but to anchor yourself. Because being with him was like balancing on a fault line, any second, you were going to break. And maybe you wanted to.

Your hips rolled against his thigh. His fingers pushed beneath the waistband of your jeans. You met his touch with your own, slipping your hand down between you, palming him through his jeans. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating into your chest. You liked the way his hips bucked into your hand. You liked knowing you could still pull that sound out of him.

It was a pattern. It was a loop. Your breath hitched when he bit your lip; his pulse jumped when you pressed harder, rubbing slow, lazy circles until you both lost track of who was chasing who. There was no rhythm, only craving, matching urges stacked on top of each other until your bodies didn’t care who had started it.

You kissed him hard, open-mouthed, your hand sliding up under his shirt to feel the twitch of his abs as he groaned. He gripped your hip like he was holding on for dear life. Like if he let go, he’d come apart. Maybe he would have.

It wasn’t just addiction.

It was relapse.

He backed you onto the bed, dragging your jeans down your legs like he was unwrapping something that had been meant for him all along. Like he was unwrapping a secret he’d kept hidden, a habit he wasn’t ready to kick. And maybe you were.

His eyes raked over you, pupils blown wide, lips slick from your mouth and smiling like he’d just won a prize. You were shirtless, flushed, the waistband of your panties biting into your hips and your jeans twisted around one ankle like you’d barely survived getting them off. Your chest rose and fell too fast. His hand slid up your thigh, lazy but sure.

Then your phone buzzed beside you on the mattress. Sharp. Interrupting.

You glanced at it. The name on the screen lit you up with guilt before you even answered.

Your best friend.

Bucky smirked against your stomach. “Go on,” he said, voice low and smug. “Tell her you blocked me.”

You answered before you could think better.

��Hey,” you said, voice tight, trying to sound bored. “What’s up?”

Your best friend didn’t waste time.

“Please tell me you’re not where I think you are.”

Bucky was already tugging your panties to the side, dragging the soaked fabric down with a slow, deliberate flick of his wrist, like he was savouring the reveal. One thick finger slid through your folds with ease, collecting wetness, and he groaned low against your skin like the sound alone might make you come apart. "You never came back inside.." 

Her voice sounded far away as Bucky stubble dragged along your inner thigh as he mouthed at the sensitive skin. The finger he’d dipped into you came back to circle your clit with practiced laziness, slick and filthy, and he chuckled into your skin when your thighs twitched involuntarily.

You glared down at him, trying to warn him off, but it only made him grin wider. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. His eyes set on your and then just tapped his ear, shit you were still on the phone. 

“No,” you lied, the word catching slightly as his finger made another circle. “Course I didn’t. I just went home.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, tongue flicking out once, twice. Lingering longer this time, pushing closer to the place you needed him most. You clamped your jaw shut, trying to keep your breathing even, trying not to moan his name with your best friend on the line.

He knew it. And he loved it.

“Seriously,” she said. “You need to block him for real this time.”

He dragged your panties down your thighs slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact. You spread your legs wider for him, and he bit just above your knee- a sharp nip, enough to make you flinch.

“I did,” you whispered. “I’m done.”

His mouth moved up as he got settled on his stomach, tongue a firm stripe through your soaked folds, dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit like he wanted to taste every bit of what he did to you. His groan was low and guttural, vibrating straight through your core, mouth open, tongue thick and wet, pressing in again to tease your fluttering hole before flattening and sliding up. His mouth closed over your clit like he was punishing you for the lie. He started to suck- slow at first, like he was building something. Like he wanted you to squirm, to shake. The suction was warm and steady, his tongue flicking under the hood with maddening precision, making your whole body arch into the pressure. Every inch of that stripe made you twitch, made your breath hitch, made your toes curl in the sheets.

“You okay? You sound- weird.”

You slammed the mute button as you arched chasing the feeling of him.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” you hissed

He didn’t.

Two fingers pushed inside you, thick and sure, curling up in that maddening rhythm that made your hips stutter against the bed, your entire lower half bucking toward his face like your body had a mind of its own. He was fucking you with them slow and deep, dragging against every nerve-ending inside you, fingertips pressing up into that sweet spot with a precision that made your vision blur.

His tongue worked your clit with slow, hungry circles, like he was savoring every second. Long licks became short, teasing flicks, then back again- until your breath was catching in your throat with every pass of his mouth.

You tried to unmute. Failed. Tried again, shaking, fingers fumbling across the screen.

“Sorry,” you gasped, voice wrecked and thin. “You know how tequila hits me. I need to go...”

You hung up without saying goodbye. Couldn’t. Not like this. Not with your mouth falling open around a moan you couldn’t swallow. Not when he had you laid out, open and trembling, every inch of your skin burning under his mouth. Not when your legs were shaking from the pressure building low and fast, like a fuse just waiting for his next move to set it off. You didn’t need to say goodbye, you needed to fall apart.

You dropped the phone to the sheets like it was too heavy to hold, both hands now gripping his hair, pulling him closer, grinding up into his face as his fingers drove into you again. The angle shifted just enough to make stars blink behind your eyes, and the way he groaned into your clit.

“God!” It shattered something in you. That groan wasn’t just arousal. It was possession. It was homecoming.

You came with his name caught between your teeth, thighs clamping around his head, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles cracked

He didn’t stop. Not right away. Just kept licking, slow and greedy, like a man making up for lost time.

Only when your legs went limp did he pull back.

He kissed the inside of your knee, soft and smug.

“Yeah,” he said, voice thick and wrecked. “Real done with me, huh?”

You tugged on his hair, rolling your eyes even as your thighs still trembled.

“Shut the fuck up and take off your pants.”

He fucked you like a man with something to prove. Not just to you, but to himself. Every thrust was a declaration, every roll of his hips a punishment and a plea tangled together in the heat of your bodies.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him like you were drowning in the drag of his pace. His hips slammed into yours, rough and relentless, like he needed to bury himself so deep he could erase every trace of anyone who had ever touched you. Like he wanted to carve himself into your walls and never leave.

You gasped into his shoulder as he lifted your leg over his arm and angled deeper, hitting something inside you that made your vision white out. The sound of skin slapping filled the room, obscene and rhythmic, matched only by the soft, guttural curses he muttered into your neck.

"You feel that? Fuck…" he grunted, his breath hot against your cheek. "You needed this. Needed me." "B-uck-y"  You moaned his name, the syllables breaking in your throat, because yes. You did. You always did.

He pulled you to the edge of the bed, one hand hooked back under your knee, the other wrapping around your throat just enough to make your breath catch and your pulse skip. He didn’t squeeze. Just held you there, steady, controlled, reminding you that he could if he wanted to. And fuck, part of you wanted him to. That edge, it lit you up like kindling.

He paused just long enough to lock eyes with you. "Say it," he muttered, grinding his hips forward.

"Say what?" you were panting.

"That you missed this. That you missed me."

You moaned instead, high and helpless.

Then he fucked you harder.

You clawed at his bed, dug your nails into his shoulder blades, into the sheets, into anything that could hold you down while he tore you apart, over and over. Your thighs wrapped tight around his waist, trying to keep him in, to hold him deeper. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing heavy, groaning when you clenched around him.

"You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?"

"Fuck… yes… don’t stop."

You didn’t even know what number you were on. You just knew you couldn’t stop chasing the way he filled you, stretched you, ruined you.

When he slid back in after your second climax, he fucked you deep, slow at first, letting you feel every inch like he wanted to leave a mark somewhere inside. Then he grunted and started again with that brutal pace. The kind that made you cry out, the kind that had your back arching up off the mattress.

He flipped you over like you weighed nothing, shoved your face into the bed, and drove into you from behind with a growl that vibrated down your spine. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking until your throat was bared to the air and your back arched like a bow.

“Such a fucking liar,” he sneered, voice thick with dark amusement. “Lied to your friends just as easy as you lied to me.”

He pulled your hips higher, snapping his hips forward again with brutal force, making your breath hitch on a whimper. 

You tried to speak, tried to tell him off, to deny how wet you still were for him- but all that came out was a broken moan as his cock hit that spot again, deep and punishing. His fingers dug into your hips, bruising. Holding you still.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “Squeezing me like you’re starving for it. You were never gonna stay away.”

“F-fuck you,” you managed to gasp, even though you were pushing back onto him, desperate for more.

“Oh, you are,” he growled, fucking you harder, dirtier. “And you fucking love it.”

You didn’t disagree. You couldn’t. You only whimpered, pushed your hips back harder into him.

He didn’t stop. One hand tangled in your hair, yanking just enough to make you arch, the other splayed across your lower back, pinning you there while his cock slammed into you, relentless, desperate, almost angry with how much he wanted you.

Your thighs shook. Your vision blurred. You sobbed his name into the sheets as another orgasm hit you like a train.

All you could hear were his low groans, your cries, and the slick, messy sound of him ruining you in the dark.

You didn’t talk after. Not really.

He brought you water. Drank whiskey in just his underwear, perched on the edge of the bed like the last hour hadn’t wrecked both of you. His hair was a mess- your doing. You could still see the angry red crescents and lines your nails left on his ribs, fading but visible.

The room smelled like him. Or maybe it was you that did. The air felt thick with it; sweat and sex and the sharpness of his cologne. The evidence of him was still leaking from between your crossed thighs, soaking quietly into his sheets as you sat there, legs drawn up, trying to act like you weren’t completely unraveled.

“Your friends still hate me?” he asked after a stretch of silence, swirling the amber in his glass.

You snorted. “Told them I blocked you.” The lie came easy now. Just like all the others.

His mouth pulled into a lazy smirk. “Liar.”

“You’re one to talk. Told yours I was fucking my boss, didn’t you?”

“Maybe you should.” He didn’t even blink.

“I might.”

The silence returned, heavier now. Weighted with things neither of you were willing to say.

“I should go,” you murmured, making a vague reach for your underwear.

He didn’t move. “You want to?”

You didn’t answer. Just let your hand fall back to the sheets.

The next morning.

You’re still a little high off the night before.

Not just the orgasm- that was earth-shattering- but the feeling. The rush. The heat of his hands still echoes on your skin, phantom touches pressing into your thighs, your hips, your throat. You can feel where he bit you if you tilt your neck just right. Your panties are damp, your body humming like it’s waiting for round two. Or three. Or forever.

And the shame?

It’s only teasing at the edges, like a mean little whisper you haven’t let in yet.

It doesn’t matter. That’s what you tell yourself as your heels click against the sidewalk. That it’s your choice. That you’re allowed to have a dirty little secret. A vice. Something selfish and stupid and private. You’re not hurting anyone. Not really.

Only him. Only you.

Only every promise you both keep pretending not to make.

Your friend raised a brow over brunch, fork paused halfway to her mouth.

"Where’d you end up last night?"

You looked up from your coffee, careful to keep your face neutral. "Told you I went home."

Her brow lifted. "Uh-huh. Then why do you look like you got hit by a truck?"

You laughed a little too easily, stirring sugar into your cup. "Didn’t sleep well."

"Is that what we’re calling it now?" Her voice flat with disbelief.

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged and took a sip.

Technically not a lie. You hadn’t slept well. Not with the way Bucky had taken you apart on his mattress like he was trying to fuck the fight out of you. Not with how your body had ached afterward in all the places his hands had held you too tight. Your thighs were still sore. Your voice still rasped when you laughed.

Your phone buzzed on the table.

Bucky: One more drink?

She saw it. You watched her read his name. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Just gave you that look. The one she always did when she was trying not to say, You deserve better.

"You’re not going, right?"

You laughed too quickly. Shrugged, like it meant nothing.

"God, no."

But the thing was, your legs were still sore under the table. You could still feel the bruises his fingers had left on your hips when he dragged you down onto him. You could still feel his come sliding out of you every time you shifted.

You left early.

You were already halfway to his place before the guilt even caught up to you.

And by then, it didn’t matter.

You were already buzzing from the anticipation. Already rationalizing.

It was your body, your decision. You were allowed to enjoy yourself. To take what you wanted. The only ones getting hurt were the two of you.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because you both just kept coming back anyway.

[purplerain85]

Title: About Time {Requested}

Henry Cavill x Reader

  Words: 6.3k

Warning: Smutty, Smut, NSFW, Choking,

A/N: Eeeh, a request! So exciting. This is a bit long, I didn’t mean for it to be, but it is. Hope you enjoy it. Also, please excuse any typos or spacing issues,  this is loosely proofread and edited.

  Summary: You and Henry are really good friends, have been for eight years. You’ve wanted him for such a long time but never had the guts to make your move because you always thought you weren’t good enough for him or the kind of woman he needed/deserved. He knows it and has waited for you to come to it on your own, but he is tired of waiting, especially after his long, frustrating day of work.

                                             ۞۞۞۞۞۞۞۞۞

You sat behind your desk in your cubicle. It was yet another day of the same ol’, same ol’. It was Friday, and you were thankful for it. It had been a long week, and you were desperately in need of a well-deserved break. Your mind drifted to your routine Friday night. Every Friday you and Henry had a Netflix-n-Chill night. One of you would go to the other’s house with takeout. Whoever didn’t supply the food had to make sure the alcohol was stocked. You took out your phone from your top drawer and shot a message to Henry.

  MSG: Netflix-N-Chill tonight?

  You waited for a minute and no reply. Placing your phone on top of your desk, you tried to focus on the article you were supposed to be writing. You glanced at the clock on your desk; it read one-fifty. You groaned, closed your eyes, and rolled your neck around. You had four more hours until you could leave and you had no idea how you were going to survive it. You couldn’t focus on the article even if it meant saving your life. Slumping back in your chair, you tried to get into the mindset you needed to finish the piece. Your deadline was Monday morning and you’d barely written a paragraph. You’d told your editor and chief that you were the last person who could write about advising on becoming a woman who made the first move and take charge of her desires. You didn’t know the first thing when it came to that.

    Hell, you’d been in love with Henry for the last umpteen years, and you still hadn’t uttered one word about it. Instead, you pretended the opposite. When he told you about the women he went on dates with you kept a straight face and tried not to look affected when inside you were dying. When he asked for advice when he was having woman troubles, you tried to give unbiased advice when really you wanted to sabotage him at every turn. It was painful, but somehow you got through it.

    You wanted to tell him how you felt, but you were afraid he didn’t feel the same and worried that you just wouldn’t match up to all the rest. He’d been with some stunning women, women who had perfect bodies according to the mass public and women who had so much to offer, like models, beauty queens, and actresses. You tried to tell yourself, of course, you had a chance. You knew you were a pretty girl your features were not basic, and your curves drew a lot of men to you, but you only had eyes for Henry. What was worse was that he had no clue. Your phone buzzed on top of your desk.

  MSG Henry: Depends are you going to adhere to the true definition of that term?

  Your heart skipped a beat, and your mind raced with the possibilities of what he meant. Henry’s sense of humor was all over the place. He could mean it literally, or he could mean something else. You knew what you wanted it to mean. Chewing your bottom lip, you wracked your brain to come up with a response. After five minutes you’d still had yet to respond.

  Keep reading

[purplerain85]

It’s About Time [Jeremy Renner]

A/N: thank you anon I needed this push and I’ve been in a Renner mood!!!

Plot: established relationship. Reader has a “normal” job. It’s been months, at least six, since you and your boyfriend (Jeremy Renner) had seen each other and finally… he has time to visit!

Pairing: F!Reader X Jeremy Renner

Warnings: oral (f receiving), fingers (f receiving), p in v without protection (USE A CONDOM!!) Maybe some strong language. Breeding kink if you squint.

[[ Lemme know if you wanna be added or removed from tags; no questions asked ♥️ likes are amazing however I really appreciate Reblogs to help spread my writing further! Thank you 🌈😘]]

Tag List: @jaseminedenisephotography @iraniq @snewsome756 @vikkikrash @amelia-in-w0nderland @pandaliciouz @crispyimagines17 @marie-is-blogging @bonniebird @nutinanutshell @louise-buchan @differentcatcat @madsadgenius @sycochick @rossieburrow @dreamlesswonder86 @purplerain85 @lipstickandtanqueray @kandis-mom @melaclintbartoncorner @mcugeekposts @kcthescreamqueen

—

The shower had been great but no matter how cold you had it, it wasn’t enough to stop the burning between your legs any time Jeremy sent you a message, a voice note or worse still a video call.

The video calls had been fun on the occasions he had been alone, you hadn’t been at work on your lunch break and the time differences hadn’t completely fucked you both over but your fingers and toys were no comparison to his talented digits, tongue and dick.

Jeremy had originally told you three months but things needed to be reshot, there had been illness on the set and everything got pushed back and now it was hitting six months since you had last been in the same room together; you had warned him you were practically feral at this point and he had laughed but winked with a dark smirk.

Your hands were again trailing over your damp skin when you heard the front door open, close and be locked.

“….Remy?” You call and turn as he hurries through to the bedroom, dropping his bags and pulling you close in a heated kiss that quite literally took your breath away.

After a few moments he pulls away slowly and starts kissing over your jaw and neck. “Hi…I’m home…”

You giggle and wrap your arms around him “that or I’m just so horny my imagination is making me hallucinate you..”

“Nu uh…” he shakes his head, kissing over your skin as he slowly sinks down to his knees in front of you; he nips and licks over your skin leaving red marks in the wake of his lips, hands moving over your damp skin to your ass and squeezing you.

“Fuck I missed you…” you breathe and lean back against your dresser drawers.

“I miss you too..so much..” he lifts your leg to rest over his shoulder and licks a stripe over your pussy slowly, humming at the taste of you.

You grip the dresser with one hand while the other snakes into his hair, gripping lightly and making him moan against you as he continues to lick over you. His slow and long licks become faster with his want of you; he hums and moans, sucking on your clit in pulses and looking up under his lids at you - watching the rise and fall of your chest as you gasp and moan louder and louder.

Jeremy pushes two fingers into you and curls them just right, making you cry out and beg him not to stop; music to his ears as he continues to push you closer and closer to your first orgasm of the night.

“Cum for me..” Jeremy’s voice is rough and low.

You can’t find words and instead moan in response, rocking your hips to his face and fingers. He didn’t need direction; he knew exactly where you wanted the attention and what to do. Jeremy closes his lips around your clit and sucks hard, his fingers moving quickly inside you making you mewl and whine. You switch between trying to push him away and holding him against you but it’s all too much and you throw your head back in ecstasy as you climax against his face and around his fingers.

Jeremy moans, feeling your clit throb between his lips and your walls clench around his fingers.

“I need more! I need you! Please Remy!” You moan desperately and lean against your mirror, panting heavily.

He pulls away and stands, with your help he quickly sheds his clothes until he’s fully naked in front of you. Both of you pull at one another, hands and lips trailing over skin, scratching and biting leaving marks that would stay for days. Jeremy moans as your hand wraps around his hard cock and jerks, twisting and rolling until he’s pushing your hand away and spreading your legs wide. He guides his cock inside you with ease and sinks into you fully with a low groan.

You stay like this for a few moments, foreheads resting against each other’s, breathing heavily as you relish the full feeling he gives you, the blissful stretch of his cock inside you after so long without.

Jeremy kisses you deeply and grips your hips, moving his into you with long deep strokes; he fills you fully on every thrust and the way he flicks his hips has you quickly seeing stars. It doesn’t take long before he’s pounding into you, the sounds of your moans mix with the slap of skin and your arousal filling the room, echoing back to you.

Broken and rushed kisses are interspersed with moans and grunts, no words need to be said which is just as well because you couldn’t make a sentence anyway right now.

Your grip on Jeremy’s arms tightens and you gasp, looking deep into his eyes, crying out as you climax suddenly. You arch and rock your hips desperately to his relentless thrusts, whining as he pulls out of you. Your confusion is quickly dissipated as he stands you up and spins you around to face the mirror.

He quickly thrusts back into you and pulls you back to meet his hips.

“Look at yourself….” He growls low and meets your eyes in the reflection.

“Look how much of a slut you are for me…”

You moan and nod, still unable to say anything.

“Such a slut for this cock… hmm? You my little cock slut?”

You groan and nod.

“Say or…. Say you’re my cock slut..”

You pant heavily and manage to say “I’m your… cock… slut!”

“Good girl…very good girl…” Jeremy reaches down and rubs your clit in circles, watching you almost curl over as he holds you upright and snaps his hips.

You lean your head back against Jeremy’s shoulder and moan on every exhale.

“Cum again… lemme feel you cum on my cock again..” he pants and grunts in your ear. “Then I’ll fill you up…”

You let out a long whine at his words; the thoughts of him filling you with his seed send you dizzy but it’s all you need to push you over the edge again and you cry out, your legs going weak as you climax again. You feel Jeremy tense and then he groans low and long with his release, pushing deep into you before you both fall to the floor in a panting heap tangled in one another.

Jeremy turns your head so he can kiss you; this one slow and longing, his hand cups your cheek as his tongue explores your mouth and tangles with yours until you both break the kiss to breathe.

“Welcome home Remy…” you smile and peck his lips.

“Thank you baby..” he nods “I’m sorry I was away so long.”

“You made up for it, don’t worry.” You chuckle and kiss him again.

-Fin-

[purplerain85]

could you do a one night stand butcher fic? i think he’s be so flirty and sexy then fuck your brains out soooo good 🤤 please and thank you in advance!

I didnt think I was gonna make it this long but enjoy😭

The bar wasn't a place that you frequented very often. Drinking wasn't something you liked to do much but when your friends invited you out you figured why not. Only problem was that they done got drunk and started dancing with random men. Not you were watching them to make sure they didn't get kidnapped. After a while you sent them home and was about to finish your shot when a man sat next to you.

Glancing at him the man was like a bear. Big, covered in hair, definitely was a bit on the intimidating side with the trench coat and everything. "You staring awfully hard. Didn't ya learn not to do that as a kid?" A chuckle left you and you brought your shot up to your lips. "There's a million other seats and you sat directly next to me. Didn't you learn about personal space?" You could hear him scoff and order a beer. "Usually when someone gets told off they stop staring at said person."

"You're a very attractive man." His face scrunched at the sudden compliment and he turned to look at you

" 'Cuse you?" "I said you're an a very attractive man. What? Never been compliment before or something?"

Another scoff came from him and he put his drink down. His gaze moved to you, analyzing you. "You saying that for a reason, huh?" He didn't miss the small smirk you had. Both of your eyes met and he turned his body to fully face you. "Guess that answers my earlier question about if you like what you see?" "I do. I see a big man but I'm wondering if everything about him is." "We can find out in a second." "Is that a bet?"

It was now his turn to smirk as he followed you into the bathroom. This wasn't how he expected his night to go but after the shit he went through why the hell not?

-"be quiet sweet thing. 'les you want them to hear how much you like slutting yourself out." You shook your head but that just had you contradicting yourself your moans were on my getting louder. And as much as he loves he loves to hear you moan he did not want to share that with anyone else at the moment. "Oh god, fucking me so deep." His large hand moved from your shoulder to cover your mouth. Harshly slamming his hips against yours, pulling up to look in the mirror "yeah that's it, call out to your God baby. But he's not gonna be the only name your calling out in a minute."

[purplerain85]

YOU WANTED more thoughts?? here i am.

mean n possessive dads best friend bucky whose always known you have a crush on him

OR (and?)

also you yapping n overthinking and bucky stopping you by fucking you

-@nevereclipse

sneaky - nsfw dbf!bucky barnes

please be warned this is... deranged. uncle kink. (not actual uncle because it's dbf) BOTH ARE FULLY GROWN ADULTS 18+ OKAY. you have been warned, read at your own discretion.

~~~

sneaking around with your dad's best friend probably wasn't the best idea you'd ever had.

what made it worse? every time your dad referred to him as your "Uncle Bucky." you cringed every time you heard it.

yeah, that's who he was to you your whole life. but hearing it now, knowing what you knew...

it put a bad taste in your mouth. a reminder of what you absolutely should not be doing.

but the way he fucks you isn't worth giving up just for peace of mind.

you wonder, sometimes, if that's what people who cheat on their partners think. that no matter how wrong it is, how many people you hurt, it just feels too goddamn good to give up. they're willing to go to insane lengths to keep the secret and keep their families together. they want to have their cake and eat it too.

because even though neither of you are cheating on anybody, that's exactly what you're both doing.

~~~

"fuck, that's my girl," he groans as you get down on your knees in front of him. you'd been sitting on his couch, watching something on netflix, anything, when you got carried away. only thirty seconds into the show.

maybe you're just insane, but there's something about being on your knees for him, bowing down to him, knowing how wrong this is...

he's supposed to be a father figure in your life, and what are you doing? you're blowing him with no remorse for your actions. you've done it before, and you're looking forward to doing it again.

his hands massage your scalp, encouraging you, "come on. be good. you can take it all," he says, pushing further into your throat and holding your head there, making you take it.

"love seeing you take all of me. love knowing I'm the only one who gets to fuck this little throat, huh? ain't that right? my own personal call girl?"

you nod as best you can while he holds you in place.

"yeah. my little girl. all grown up now, such a slut for her uncle, huh?"

your face warms so much you feel like you're sitting in front of the furnace. he loves rubbing this in your face, reminding you of what you're doing, forcing you to get off on it.

"that's right. you know your place, I know you do. I taught you so well."

he holds you there for you don't know how long, massaging your scalp down to the back of your neck, before bringing his hand to the front of your throat and pressing on where it bulges, thanks to him.

"my girl," he hisses. "none of those little college boys can fuck you the way you need. you needed someone you know, someone you trust, ain't that right?"

you might cry from how embarrassed and turned on you are right now.

"that's right. so needy for my cock, every fucking time, knowing how stupid you're being. you just can't get enough."

you're startled when his phone rings. he doesn't bother moving you, making you sit there while he looks down at the screen to see who it is. when he ignores it, you finally relax.

"you know I've been taking care of you your whole life, darlin'. course I'm gonna take care of you now. gotta take care of all your little needs cause no one else can, not like Uncle Bucky can."

and then, your phone rings in your pocket.

"fuck, is he calling you now?" Bucky groans.

and that's when you freak, shoving yourself off of him and falling backwards onto your ass on the floor. you reach for your phone in your back pocket.

Bucky asks you, "the hell are you doing? you're not done."

your voice is fucked when you quickly tell him, "my dad knows I'm with you! I told him we were getting dinner!"

Bucky's eyes widen. normally you tell him you're at a friend's place.

he nods and you hurry to answer.

"hey, Dad..." you try, clearing your throat, trying not to sound like you're absolutely wrecked.

"yeah, no we got takeout... yeah, Bucky's outside... yeah..."

you eventually hang up the call, both of you sitting there, startled.

no matter how much Bucky taunts you about it, it's not fun when you're reminded of the reality.

"he asked me why we didn't invite him and my mom," you tell him quietly from your spot, still on the ground.

you're both silent for a minute, the tv still playing in the background as you the awkward moment drags on and on.

you eventually both decide it's best to call it a night.

~~~

you both know better than to be reckless at this point.

but sometimes, you just can't help it.

you were trying to hop in the shower one afternoon, turning on the water, waiting for it to steam up the room. minute after minute ticked by as you stood there, naked, pleading the water to get hot.

you curse the universe when it doesn't, because it's just your luck that your dad isn't home to fix the problem.

so you shut off the water, wrap a towel around yourself, and go sit on your bed while you make a call.

"hey you, what's up?" he asks.

"can you come fix my pipes?" you tease.

Bucky stutters for a moment. "wow, that's... bold of you to say. I take it your folks aren't home?"

"you're right, they're not. but no, I'm being serious, the hot water won't turn on. can you come over and take a look at it for me?"

"yeah, sure. be over in a few."

you don't bother putting on any clothes, waiting around for the knock at the door still clad in your bath towel.

when you answer the door, you can't help yourself.

"oh, mister, however am I supposed to repay you?" you ask, pretending to be distraught, but it's ruined by the fact that you can't stop laughing as you say it.

"you're insufferable," he teases, stepping inside and yanking the towel from your form as he walks to the closet where the hot water heater is.

"hey!" you yell, reaching for the towel again.

"nothing I ain't seen before. besides, it'll encourage me to do my best work if I got an incentive for payment, don't ya think?"

that's how you end up in the shower together, hot water fixed, thirty minutes later.

he's got you pinned against the ice cold tile wall, hooking one of your legs up and around his waist. his fingers trace the skin of your thigh, his other hand behind your head to keep it from hitting against the hard wall.

"yeah, that's it. gonna let me use you, aren't you?"

"yes, yes, Bucky," you whine. he's teasing you, running his tip up and down your folds. he stares down at the sight, working you up to make you so desperate you'll do whatever he wants.

you start begging way too soon. "please, Bucky, I can't wait. please," you say, drawing out the last syllable.

he has no mercy, continuing to tease, before pulling back entirely.

"Bucky!" you cry, the only word in your mind.

"you know what I want to hear," he whispers in your ear.

he did this on purpose. he always does this on purpose, goddamnit.

"please, Uncle Bucky?"

he groans in approval, finally pushing himself into you, opening you up for him once again.

except it doesn't last long, because with the water raining down on the both of you along with the force of his motions, neither of you can keep your feet in place, and you keep slipping.

"god, least we tried," he laughs, turning off the water and picking you up bridal style to take you to your bedroom.

he barely gets the chance to lay you down when you hear the front door unlock downstairs.

you make eye contact. you're fucked, you're fucked.

"go put on your clothes. spray your shirt with the shower nozzle, tell him I sprayed you after you fixed the hot water," you whisper to him, pushing him off of you.

you both scramble to put on your clothes. Bucky does as you instructed, and you freak out when you see your sheets covered in water. you didn't bother using your towel, which clearly, was a bad move.

you're pretty sure your dad buys the excuse.

~~~

a few weekends later, your parents invite Bucky over for family dinner. he texts you before coming over, "wear a skirt for me, pretty girl."

now, as you sit at the table eating dinner, you know why.

he sits there, trailing his prosthetic fingers up and down your thigh under your skirt, all while your parents talk to him like normal. there's very little for you to contribute, so you're lucky you can focus on keeping your shit together while he messes with you, occasionally pinching your skin to keep you on edge.

"Bucky, we have something to ask you about," you hear from across the table.

his hand stops, and your jaw freezes in the middle of chewing.

"uh, what's that?" he asks them.

"we think there's something you're not telling us. and we think it's something you're both keeping from us."

you're fucked. you're done for. it's over.

"it's not what you think-" he begins, only to be cut off.

"have you started seeing someone? you've been happier lately. and knowing our daughter, she's probably already figured it out, but you've sworn her to secrecy, right?"

you let out a sharp exhale.

you're safe.

"yes, yeah. that's exactly it," he tells them, continuing to make excuses that he didn't want to say anything yet, it's still new...

his hand begins moving under the table again.

~~~

later that evening, you express a craving for ice cream.

"I'll take her," Bucky says before anyone else responds. "and I'll have her home before curfew."

you feel a pang in your chest when your dad assures Bucky, no need. we trust you with our daughter.

you know Bucky feels the guilt hit, too.

it doesn't stop you, though, from finding an empty parking lot and getting in the back seat as soon as possible.

"fuck, what would you have done if they'd found out, hmm? would you have admitted you had a thing for your uncle, baby?" he taunts, moving your hips down on his as you straddle him, riding him the way he likes.

the windows are already coated in condensation, the both of you so eager and pent up from the stress of the evening.

"no," you pant, tossing your head back.

he brings a hand to your throat, making you look at him.

"nuh-uh. you're gonna watch me while I fuck you. you're never gonna forget who it is that's fucking you like this, you hear me? I'm never going to let you forget."

~~~

when he drops you back at your house that evening, your mom asks, "vanilla?"

"I'm sorry, what?" you ask, confused.

"you get vanilla? you got some white stuff right there," she points to the corner of your lips.

you don't tell her you didn't go for ice cream.

~~~

guys I am sorry for this one... I had to

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