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pin-k-ink · 21 days

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heat // kozume kenma

tw ⇢ mutual pining, strong sexual tension, making out, fingering, nipple play, orgasm denial, cunnilingus, teasing, squirting, unprotected sex

wc ⇢ 6.7k

a/n: not proofread

The arrivals terminal buzzed with a cacophony of greetings and farewells as travelers rushed about - wheeled suitcases clacking against the polished floors. You scanned the teeming crowds, pulse flickering with both excitement and trepidation.

After all these years, you were finally back in Tokyo. The city where you had grown up living across the street from Kenma - the two of you inseparable friends until high school graduation scattered you along diverging paths.

Though you tried keeping in touch through the occasional text and social media, the miles between you seemed to widen into an ever-growing chasm. Which made it all the more surprising when Kenma himself had reached out weeks ago extending an open invitation to stay over at his place during your upcoming visit.

"I have a pretty spacious setup now with my gaming and streaming work," he had typed nonchalantly. "You can crash at mine instead of some soulless hotel room."

Coming from anyone else, the offer could've been easily misconstrued as flirtatious or inappropriate. But this was Kenma - your childhood friend who hardly spoke more than was absolutely necessary, much less indulged in coy overtures. With him, you knew the pragmatic suggestion was precisely as straightforward as he had phrased it.

Still...spending who knew how many nights in close quarters threatened to stir up residual longings you thought had been neatly extricated years ago. You had seen the photographs and gaming celebrity articles documenting how Kenma seemed to fully bloom after high school, shedding his reticence in favor of a quiet magnetism entirely befitting his feline moniker.

Would being confronted with the all-too-appealing reality of Kenma's newly confident presence make you regress into a dumbstruck, overly flustered mess like you were as kids?

Lost in your whirling contemplations, you nearly missed the ping of an incoming text from Kenma:

"Made it through arrivals. Meet you outside?"

You startled slightly, clutching your carry-on bag as you pivoted towards the exit. Sure enough, there stood Kenma - posture slouched in that trademark listless slouch of his with hands stuffed into the pockets of a mustard yellow hoodie emblazoned with his gaming company's logo.

But beyond that superficially laidback veneer, his penetrating cat-like gaze missed nothing. Those keen amber eyes flickered over every detail of you in one sweeping glance - from your wind-tousled hair down to your ankle boots. A slight furrow creased Kenma's brow, mouth tugging into a barely perceptible frown as if dissatisfied by his visual assessment.

Before you could finish approaching him, he seemed to shake himself minutely from whatever critique had taken place. The corners of his lips quirking up into a lopsided shadow of his former boyish grin.

"Yo," Kenma greeted you with that same trademark laconic inflection even after all these years. "Long flight?"

You simply nodded, still struggling to find your footing and access the right combination of words to respond properly. Up close now, you found yourself momentarily stupefied by just how much Kenma had changed over the separation, yet somehow still manifestly embodied his innately intriguing core essence.

There was an indescribable charged electricity snapping between you two - bristling with poignant nostalgia and thrilling new tension. The corners of Kenma's slanted eyes crinkled fractionally, reflexively interpreting each one of your minute micro expressions with that eerie perceptiveness he always possessed.

"Well let's get you home and settled in, yeah?" he prompted at last when you failed to break the silence.

Nimble fingers feathered across your knuckles, sliding into your grasp before tugging you towards the exit with that same featherlight yet insistent guidance you had grown so accustomed to as kids. Knitting your brows in bemused consternation, you could only nod and allow his silent lead - the first of many unspoken exchanges that threatened to strip away all remaining defenses.

The ride back to Kenma's place was mostly quiet, each of you slipping into familiar contemplative lulls between stretches of idle chitchat and getting reacquainted. You stole sideways glances while stopped at traffic lights - drinking in all the intricate details of his profile in crystalline crisp focus.

The angular, almost severe slash of his jawline and slightly fuller pout to his lower lip. The high sweep of aristocratic cheekbones seamlessly blending into sculpted yet soft edges of his face. Even the prickling roost of silken blond roots already peeking through his two-toned tresses drew your lingering eye.

By the time Kenma smoothly navigated into the underground parking complex of his residential high-rise, you felt dazed and off-kilter as if emerging from the thick miasma of a dream. When had your oldest friend transformed into someone so inexplicably alluring yet unyielding to casual appreciation?

Kenma retrieved your solitary suitcase from the rear hatch, sweeping his hooded gaze over you consideringly through those longish fringe strands. There was a fleeting spark of mischievousness that reminded you so acutely of the Kenma from your childhood days - making your pulse kick up double-time.

"You ready to head in?" He cocked one eyebrow inscrutably. "I've got a feeling you could use a nap from all your...spacing out on the drive."

You flushed slightly at Kenma's acknowledgment of you essentially devouring him with your eyes during the entire commute. Clearing your throat, you mustered a nonchalant shrug.

"A power nap does sound amazingly good right about now," you admitted, falling into step beside him as you navigated the corridors towards the building's elevator bank.

Kenma hummed noncommittally, deft fingers already tapping out a lightning cadence against the side of your suitcase in a gesture unmistakably gaming-adjacent. The old compulsive tic brought a nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

You stole a sidelong glance at your oldest friend, wondering what sorts of virtual adventures currently captivated the nimble-minded focus you recalled so vividly from long-winded gaming sessions in his bedroom as kids. So much had changed, yet that inherent core of what made Kenma so uniquely himself clearly persisted.

Once inside his impressively spacious flat, you immediately understood why he had offered to host you instead of booking a generic hotel. The entire open-concept living area seemed expressly appointed to revolve around an imposing, multi-monitor gaming rig complete with a professional-grade broadcasting setup.

Various cat-themed peripherals and an impressive library of neatly displayed physical and digital game collections cluttered nearly every flat surface. You caught your reflection in the smoked glass case enshrining a particularly eye-catching piece of merchandise - anaberrant juxtaposition of the cosmopolitan living space tailored around Kenma's unapologetic video game devotion.

A wry chuckle from behind you made you twist back to face him. The diminutive smile playing across his lips suggested he accurately interpreted your bemused expression.

"I see that look on most people whenever they visit for the first time," Kenma murmured in that rich, honeyed voice of his that you weren't remotely prepared for. "They expect my 'career' to be some sort of immature pipe dream rather than global brand."

You shook your head quickly at the veiled hint of reproach beneath that mild observation. "No, I just...it's exactly the kind of space I always envisioned you creating for yourself, to be honest," you replied sincerely. "I think it's incredible how you've genuinely established this whole lifestyle and identity for yourself completely on your own passions and terms."

Kenma regarded you with a glimmer of pleasant surprise flickering across his striking features before smoothing them back into that familiar half-lidded aloofness. Still, you caught the way his gaze sharpened infinitesimally.

"Well, since you're the only other person who truly grasps my 'lifestyle,' I'm sure I can count on you to make yourself at home." His tongue darted out to wet his lips - a minute gesture you found your focus utterly arrested by for some reason. "The guest suite is just through here."

Amber-gold eyes met yours unflinchingly, sparking with an unspoken invitation to comment. You swallowed thickly but forced yourself to nod, shuffling after Kenma as he turned and began leading you down a dimly lit hallway.

After stowing your luggage, he ushered you into a decadently appointed en suite - complete with a massive walk-in rainfall shower that sent your exhaustion-hazed thoughts careening into rather unbecoming territory. You swiftly refocused as Kenma leaned against the marble vanity, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

"Go ahead and get settled however you need," he prompted with a vague gesture around the posh accommodations. "I'll probably be streaming for the next few hours, but you're welcome to hang out once you've recharged."

Inclining his head towards the threshold, Kenma paused just briefly - long enough for you to catch the indescribably weighted undercurrent flickering across his expression before he schooled his features. Then he pivoted, padding out in that signature laidback shuffle while you were left to stare dumbly at the patterns in the granite tile.

As the hot cascade of a shower finally began unwinding the knots of tension from travel, you couldn't ignore the steadily gathering storm of uncertainty swirling within. Part of you instinctively raised guards, preparing for the intense nostalgia and rekindled intimacy of reminiscing with Kenma to open up old wounds you thought had been neatly sutured years ago.

The other part, however - the shamelessly indulgent facet you struggled to repress - eagerly anticipated whatever unspoken electricity seemed to be steadily exerting its gravitational pull.

After luxuriating under the pulsing streams of the walk-in shower until the water ran tepid, you reluctantly toweled off and padded back into the guest suite. You were enveloped in one of the plushest terry cloth robes imaginable as you cinched it securely and paused to survey your temporary accommodations.

Sunlight slanted across the polished hardwood in warm bands, filtering through the gauzy curtains to cast everything in a gilded afternoon glow. Your gaze snagged on the embossed geometric patterns woven through the textured area rug - such an unexpected departure from the stark minimalist aesthetic you'd have imagined Kenma cultivating in his home.

Sinking down on the edge of the bed, you ran fingertips over the intricately carved patterns detailed in the wooden bedframe's footboard. So many thoughtful design touches married throughout the space that exuded a bespoke richness and warmth wholly juxtaposed against the more austere tech-centric common areas.

You couldn't resist trailing further across the plush duvet, indulging in the heavenly glide of high thread-count cotton against your calf. Seriously, how had Kenma assembled such an indulgent oasis within his gaming lair? The simple boyhood recollections you harbored cast everything in a new intriguing light.

Just as you had begun contemplating what else in Kenma's carefully curated world might challenge your established perception of him, a series of rhythmic knocks rapped against the guest suite's door.

"You decent?" His instantly recognizable dulcet tone preceded him by a beat before the door eased open a sliver.

"Of course, come in," you replied automatically, reflexively tugging the plush lapels together.

Kenma slipped through the narrow opening, clad in a long-sleeved shirt emblazoned with stylized cat motifs and a pair of formfitting joggers that embraced lean muscle definition you actively avoided ogling. Shoving his hands into the front pockets, he bobbed his head in an idle suite.

"Figured I'd come check and see if you managed to get some rest."

"More or less," you hedged with a lopsided smile. "Your shower was heavenly for working out some lingering flight stiffness at least."

A faint tinge of color brushed across Kenma's arched cheekbones at the innocuous mention of the shower. Had your imagination gone so utterly to seed that something as simple as—

"Cool, good. I'm all wrapped up with my gaming sessions for the day, if you want to..." he trailed off, adam's apple bobbing minutely before venturing a sidelong look through those burnished lashes. "Or we could just order something for dinner and...I don't know, hang?"

The weight of unspoken implication behind that seemingly casual invitation hit you like a visceral punch, momentarily robbing you of your voice. Instinct shouted to claim the offering, while deeply ingrained reservations around compromising a cherished lifelong friendship threatened to override any forward impulses.

After a protracted pause, you cleared your throat quietly. "Yeah, sounds great." Steadying yourself with a measured inhale, you lifted your chin as a slow smile unfurled across your lips. "I'm famished, so...what are you feeling?"

A muscle in Kenma's jaw ticked fleetingly, eyes glittering for just a moment before blinking back to their trademark heavy-lidded warmth. "I could go for some hot pot...lots of protein. Think you can handle the spice?"

The edges of his mouth curled into an undeniably flirtatious grin that sent your pulse skittering immediately into double-time. You felt the heat flooding your cheeks, but leaned into the pull of his focused magnetism rather than shrinking away.

"Oh, I can handle anything you wanna dish out," You tossed back, surprising yourself with the faint purr underlying your words.

Without looking away, you slowly rose to your feet - allowing the plush robe to slough off one shoulder with deliberately choreographed casualness. Kenma's breath audibly hitched, eyes darkening momentarily in appreciation before his lips parted on a low exhale.

"Is that right? I'll have to remember you said that." His voice dropped into a sin-tinged register that went straight to your core. "We have...all sorts of games to play later."

The unmistakable undercurrent behind his double entendre sent another rush of molten heat cascading through you. This time you responded with nothing but a subtle arch of one brow, staring him down in electrified silence as the air itself seemed to thicken and throb with heated tension.

Until finally Kenma ceded the moment with an almost pained hiss through his teeth before pivoting on his heel. "I'll get that order placed. You might want to slip into something...sturdier."

You suppressed the urge to openly gape at his rapidly retreating form, frozen in the wake of whatever had just viscerally transpired. Of one thing you were abruptly certain - these coming days would be more of a test of endurance than either of you seemed prepared for.

The spice Kenma alluded to was poised to burn you down to ash before you even had a chance to compute the inferno.

The pungent aroma of simmering broth and assorted proteins wafted through the apartment as you settled across from Kenma at the kitchen island. A dizzying array of small plates and dipping sauces had been meticulously arranged, as if this were some elaborate streaming event rather than a casual dinner.

"I may have gone a bit overboard," Kenma admitted, sweeping a hand over the impressive spread with an uncharacteristically sheepish tilt to his mouth. "Old habits and all that."

You couldn't resist letting out a low appreciative whistle. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're flexing for your captive audience here."

Grabbing your chopsticks, you deftly plucked a perfectly seared slice of marbled wagyu from the central hot pot, purposefully locking eyes with Kenma as you brought the morsel to your lips. His gaze followed, rapt and laser-focused, as you slipped the tender beef past your parted lips with an involuntary moan of satisfaction.

"You have no idea..." he murmured, low and rough like gravel.

You paused mid-chew, certain your ears had to be playing tricks. But the heated intensity burning behind Kenma's stare left no ambiguity about the undercurrent thrumming between you. Recovering with a coquettish arch of one brow, you reached for one of the small dipping dishes - fingers brushing against the back of his wrist accidentally-on-purpose.

"No, I really don't," you murmured before deliberately dragging your tongue along the plump swell of your bottom lip to collect a stray smear of savory-sweet sauce. "Why don't you elaborate for me?"

A muscle ticked faintly along Kenma's chiseled jawline as his gaze followed the unconscious path of your tongue with rapt fixation. You watched his pupils slowly dilate, then narrow into frozen precision as his lips parted on a harsh exhalation.

For an endless stretch, the thickening silence seemed to yawn between you, weighted with the echo of your suggestive challenge. Unsure whether to double down or backpedal, you felt suspended in a crystalline stasis awaiting Kenma's response like it held the power to upend your world.

"Well, well...look who's developed a bold side in their old age," he finally rumbled in that sinfully textured timbre you weren't remotely prepared to withstand. His smirk sharpened fractionally as one elegant fingertip traced the rim of a small ceramic dish filled with delicately pink pickled ginger. "Trust me, I have plenty to...elaborate on, if you think you can keep up."

Your breath hitched faintly as he raised the dish to his mouth, sweeping his tongue with excruciating indolence across the glistening ginger to collect the tangy juices. He held your widening stare hostage as he hollowed his cheeks around the soft flesh suggestively before withdrawing with a quietly filthy sound.

"How's the heat treating you so far?" Kenma practically purred after a considering pause. "Because it's about to get much...much more intense."

You could only swallow thickly, wishing you could play the consummate picture of unruffled nonchalance like he did. Instead, you shifted unconsciously in your seat - tormented by an uncomfortable tightness in your jeans from the undeniable pull of Kenma's molten confidence.

For his part, the setter-turned-streamer simply watched you steadily over the rim of his beer glass as he sipped. Seemingly amused by your flustered state and secure in the knowledge he'd already seized the upper hand in whatever game stood to unfurl between you over the coming days.

Before either of you could press the heated boundaries further, a strident chirp echoed from the hallway - effectively shattering the thick tension with its jarring intrusion.

Kenma quirked one brow in irritation before rising smoothly to his feet, shooting you one last unreadable look from beneath his lashes as he stalked off to retrieve whatever device was clamoring for his attention.

Left alone, you huffed out a sharp exhale, remnants of desire still prickling across your heated skin like a brand. Muttering a soft curse under your breath, you steadied your racing pulse and turned your focus back towards the array of food with something adjacent to grim determination.

One way or another, you were going to wrestle back control of this game before it devolved into utter capitulation to the hypnotically smoldering aura Kenma had somehow mastered in your absence.

Little did you realize you had already resigned yourself to becoming the moth irresistibly fixated upon his flame...

The following week passed in a heated haze of building frustration and rapidly fraying restraint.

No matter how innocuous the interaction - lounging together on the sofa while Kenma orchestrated one of his streaming sessions, accompanying him on idyllic forays across Tokyo to revisit childhood haunts, even the mundane domesticity of sharing meals - an inescapable undercurrent of restless tension thrummed like a livewire between you.

Countless moments where your gazes would lock in a protracted stare; fingertips "accidentally" brushing along exposed skin and triggering full-body shockwaves resonating bone-deep. The perpetual push-and-pull of flirtation somehow elevating errant touches and otherwise innocuous exchanges into something hungering and profane.

Kenma no longer bothered to disguise the appreciative trail of his penetrating stare roving across your form whenever you bent or stretched. You quickly acclimated to the hot skim of his focus mapping every curve and dip overtly, pupils dilating with shamelessly burning desire he didn't seem inclined to sate.

For your part, you began unconsciously rising to match that unhurried confidence - boldly regarding Kenma's lithe, powerful physique with the same sensuous appreciation. Emboldened by how his throat would noticeably tighten every time your eyes dropped to linger across the vee of his collarbones, hips subtly canting forward whenever he sprawled in those fitted joggers that clung like a second skin.

Beyond the escalating physicality, you found yourself captivated by Kenma's rare loquaciousness about himself more than anything. Unburdened from your weighty history, he began opening up in quiet retrospective anecdotes about his passage into adulthood, steadily dismantling your preconceptions about his insular nature.

Like how he had secretly sponsored a children's e-sports program to guide underprivileged kids into careers in the burgeoning gaming industry. Or the surprising revelation that he regularly worked pro-bono with speech pathologists to design specialized voice controls for disability accessibility.

This was a side of Kenma's generosity and altruism towards the community fostering his career that you never could have envisioned. And with each newy facet, you found yourself plunging deeper under his unrelenting pull - utterly infatuated with who this remarkable man had become.

He simply chuckled, low and throaty, each time you gushed over some fresh depth unveiled. Absorbing your unrestrained awe and esteem with the same private relish as whenever you "inadvertently" provoked him into undisguised want. The heady combination only fanned the flames of simmering tension blazing between you.

It was on the eighth night sequestered together when Kenma decided to press the boundaries once more.

You were sprawled on the plush area rug before the oversized sectional, cycling through television menus in a vain attempt to pick something suitable to watch. A frustrated huff punched from your chest as you reached the end of yet another recommendations category that failed to inspire.

"Everything looks so mindless and forgettable nowadays," you mused, half to yourself. "What happened to real stories being told?"

A low chuckle resonated from behind you, vaguely Kenma-scented air puffing across the nape of your neck. You hadn't even registered his approach until his muscular form settled on the rug beside you with only a whisper of displaced fabric. The gold-green kaleidoscope of his eyes practically glowed with wicked mischief at your obvious failure.

"Well if you crave imaginative narratives so badly, maybe you'd fare better diving into a real fantasy scenario instead."

The rich velvet of Kenma's timbre immediately snapped every iota of your focus towards him. Your eyebrows lifted quizzically as he leaned in incrementally closer, fringe of silky hair feathering along your temple.

"What did you have in mind?"

Another low rumble ghosted your hairline as Kenma hummed almost inaudibly. "Let's just say...I have a distinctly illicit form of entertainment that may require your unbiased opinion."

Intrigue sparked low in your abdomen at the deliciously unspoken implications behind his words. Before you could fully decide whether or not to indulge his transparent flirtation, Kenma was already rising to his feet once more - extending one elegant hand down towards you in silent invitation.

Scarcely daring to breathe, you allowed him to pull you upright before following his lead towards the hallway. You pretended not to notice how his palm scorched the naked small of your back through the thin cotton tanktop as he ushered you across the darkened threshold into his inner sanctum.

A hushed, ambient glow bathed Kenma's bedroom in shades of moody twilight as you stepped over the threshold. Various pieces of gaming memorabilia and framed promotional artwork adorned the walls, creating an insulated atmosphere that existed in a world entirely unto itself.

Without preamble, Kenma crossed to the sleek desktop monitor setup, fingers already flying in a flurry of keystrokes and clicks as he booted up whatever "illicit entertainment" he had teased. You hovered uncertainly in the center of the space, casting furtive glances around the dimly lit sanctuary that emanated pure Kenma energy.

"Have a seat," he prompted without turning around - as if acutely aware of your momentary hesitation. "Get comfortable."

You cleared your throat but obeyed, carefully perching on the edge of Kenma's massivebed. The plush duvet conformed luxuriously to your weight, upholstered in some sort of sleek microfiber that reminded you of a cat's velveteen coat. Inexplicably, you found yourself burrowing your fingers through the decadent bedding's nap while studying Kenma's form in sidelong profile.

The muted blue-white glow from his monitors caressed the elegant contours of his face, shadowing the regal sweep of cheekbones and strong jawline in stark chiaroscuro. You marveled at just how much he had evolved from the reserved, rail-thin youth of your memories into the tantalizingly statuesque man before you now. One defined by an aura of languid intensity and assured command over whatever scenario unfolded around him.

As if he could sense the weight of your rapt scrutiny, Kenma angled towards you incrementally - chin dipping just enough to pin you momentarily with the full smolder of that heavy-lidded golden stare. His lush mouth curved into the barest ghost of a smirk, clearly relishing whatever discovery had your undivided attention so thoroughly enraptured.

"Second thoughts about seeing how the other half indulges their fantasies?" he murmured, pitching his already simmering timbre at a register that seemed scientifically engineered to inflame your senses.

An involuntary shiver rippled through you despite the heated flush creeping up your neck. Swallowing hard, you mirrored the slow, molten sweep of Kenma's eyes with one of your own - unabashed in drinking in each lean, corded muscle shifting beneath his fitted tee.

"Not a chance," you rasped, proud of how steady you managed to keep your voice despite the electrifying lash of his focus. "I'm the one who thrives on having my boundaries thoroughly...obliterated."

Kenma held your weighted stare for one suspended heartbeat longer before his tongue slipped out to wet his lower lip with unconscious sensuality. You mirrored the visceral action, entirely mesmerized by the naked want flickering across his strikingly beautiful features in that crystalline moment.

Then he seemed to resettle his composure like an unshakeable monolith, turning back towards the computer monitors as he clicked open some file directory. You subtly repositioned yourself more comfortably on the bed, back canting against the sturdy headboard while determinedly ignoring each tantalizing glimpse of scarlet duvet bunched around you in disheveled invitation.

A few more staccato keystrokes and suddenly one of the monitors flared to luminescent life - the unmistakable refrains of an overly saccharine J-pop opening sequence blaring through Kenma's speakers.

The game loaded on Kenma's monitor, intro music at odds with the charged atmosphere. You watched raptly as a buxom anime avatar appeared - her features and proportions eerily…familiar.

"Kenma..." You began, then trailed off, unsure if you wanted confirmation of what seemed obvious.

He didn't respond right away, deftly navigating the opening scenarios with deft keystrokes and clicks. Only when the digital woman began making coy, suggestive comments did you see him tense imperceptibly.

You studied the sharp lines of his profile, the slight parting of his lips as he deliberately avoided your questioning gaze. Finally, he exhaled - the sound low and fraught.

"I've had this commissioned mod for a while now," Kenma murmured, finally glancing your way with molten eyes. "From certain...unflattering angles, she captures some essence of you that's proven...distracting."

Your mouth went dry as you processed his oblique admission. Kenma had essentially crafted a digital embodiment of you to indulge his fantasies privately. The thought was overwhelmingly, incendiary.

"Show me," you heard yourself reply, proud of how steady your tone remained.

Kenma exhaled slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard as the digital avatar paused mid-scenario. His eyes cut towards you, burning intensity simmering behind those heavy lids.

"This next interaction gets...decidedly more intimate," he murmured, a muscle ticking along his chiseled jaw. "Are you sure you want me to continue?"

You held his searing gaze, giving a small nod. Kenma's lips parted on a ragged exhale before he continued guiding the game. The simulated woman began uttering breathless endearments, describing in graphic detail the acts she longed for her partner to indulge. You felt heat prickling across your skin as Kenma's jaw went taut, his own arousal visibly kindling.

"Look at her, begging for it so shamelessly," he rasped, not looking at the screen. His smoldering eyes bored into you. "But she doesn't even begin to fully capture the reality of how intoxicating you are."

Your breath hitched at the undisguised yearning that threaded his deep velvet tone. Kenma's chest rose and fell rapidly, desire and restraint wrestling across his striking features.

"To have you panting my name..." He continued roughly. "Writhing against me as I finally make good on every heated fantasy..."

A low, guttural sound tumbled from his parted lips as he abruptly shoved back from the desk. In two strides, he towered over you - an inscrutable, blazing force looming above where you sat rooted to the bed. You could only gaze up, up at him, dizzy with spiraling need.

Then Kenma simply...moved.

One moment, you were shakily inhaling his earthy, spice-tinged scent. The next, the universe distilled to the scalding slide of his mouth possessively claiming yours. A guttural rumble reverberated from deep within his chest as you eagerly opened for the fervent sweep of his tongue.

Any last vestiges of restraint shattered irreparably.

You clung to the sinewy lines of Kenma's back as he walked you further up the bed without relinquishing his devouring kiss. Finally breaking just long enough to gaze upon you with eyes guttering like banked embers, before swooping down to map every exposed inch of feverish skin with a desperate, open-mouthed reverence.

Every scorching path of his tongue and teeth left you arching helplessly against him, hands clutching greedily at the powerful lines of his frame. The sensation of him, warm and solid and overwhelming, left your pulse careening into double-time.

Then one leanly muscled thigh slid between yours, applying the barest hint of pressure that threatened to shatter you. You moaned his name, hips instinctively canting against him in search of sweet relief.

Kenma merely growled - a predatory, primal sound - before seizing your wrists and pinning them above your head. His smoldering stare met yours, pupils dilated until his eyes resembled two obsidian pools ringed in liquid fire.

"I can feel just how badly you need this," he rasped, a note of disbelief threading through his tone. "How you're fucking dripping for me."

You gasped, shuddering as the blunt force of his thigh pressed harder against your aching core. Then his free hand dipped below the waistband of your jeans, sliding sinuously through the slick arousal pooling there.

Kenma hissed out a curse as his fingertips stroked feather-light patterns across your throbbing clit. Each touch sent white-hot sparks spiraling through you, a deliciously building pressure that left you whimpering incoherently.

"Fuck, I could play with your gorgeous cunt all night."

Kenma punctuated his darkly erotic admission with the sinuous slide of one long finger inside you. Your walls immediately clenched around him, back bowing with the delicious intrusion.

He released a low groan, adding a second finger to the first as your hips rocked against his hand. He held your gaze, molten and hungry as he pumped his fingers mercilessly in and out of your soaking heat.

"You're taking me so fucking beautifully," he purred, his free hand skimming the hem of your shirt up just enough toexpose the supple curve of your breasts. "So eager for every bit of pleasure I can give you."

Your nipples pebbled immediately, aching for his touch. Kenma leaned down, tongue flicking the straining peak of one sensitive nub before drawing it between his lips. You keened as the sensation arrowed directly to the molten pool of need building within.

Kenma hummed low in approval, the vibration rippling across your nipple and sending fresh shudders coursing through you. Then he was curling his fingers, stroking a spot so deliciously deep you saw stars.

Your entire world collapsed into the single point of Kenma's relentless thrusts, the maddening flick of his tongue and the torturous suction of his mouth against your breasts. Every nerve ending crackled and burned with the electric friction he stoked higher, higher, until—

A sob tore from your throat as you felt Kenma slide his fingers out of you. You were left trembling, utterly wrecked and bereft - a string of pleas and curses tumbling incoherently from your lips.

"Please, I-I was so close."

Kenma gazed down, lips swollen and reddened from his relentless kisses. "Don't worry, I'm nowhere near finished with you."

With that, he began unbuttoning your jeans, slowly easing the denim and dampened fabric of your panties down your trembling legs. Your entire body sang at the feeling of being utterly bare before him.

Then his eyes widened, a low sound like a snarl vibrating from his chest as he took in the sight of your slick, glistening cunt. You flushed at the unbridled hunger reflected there, the knowledge that it was because of him - his touch, his words, his body - that had you absolutely soaked.

Without preamble, Kenma was on his knees between your legs, his hands gripping the back of your thighs as his mouth descended. You cried out at the first hot swipe of his tongue, hands instinctively burying themselves in the silky softness of his hair.

Kenma groaned at the sensation, the sound resonating directly against your clit. His lips sealed around the swollen bundle of nerves, the faintest graze of his teeth sending fresh spasms of pleasure wracking through you.

You couldn't breathe, couldn't think - every fiber of your being a raw, exposed livewire crackling under Kenma's unhurried attention. The languid drag of his tongue as it plunged into your aching depths, the obscene sounds as he sucked your clit. Every sensation was a blissful torment that had you bucking against his face, desperate for more.

Kenma seemed to relish in your uninhibited abandon. He tightened his hold, pulling you even closer against his ravenous mouth. A keening cry tore from your lips as his tongue fucked you mercilessly, lapping up every bit of your honeyed arousal.

You felt your walls begin to flutter, the molten pressure building with every swipe of Kenma's wicked tongue. Just as you were about to come undone, his mouth pulled away.

A broken whimper tumbled from your lips as he began kissing a slow, scorching path up the quivering plane of your stomach, across the dip between your breasts. All the while, his hands caressed the heated flesh of your inner thighs, teasing so close to the slick heat throbbing for him.

"Not yet," he rumbled, lips ghosting along the shell of your ear. "I need to feel your pretty cunt squeezing around my cock before you come."

He leaned back just enough to pull his shirt off, revealing a chiseled torso rippling with lean, powerful muscles. The sight sent a fresh surge of need pulsing through you.

Kenma reached for the waistband of his joggers, shoving the fabric down with agonizing indolence. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy and dripping. Your breath caught at the sight.

With a low groan, he palmed the rigid length, his thumb spreading the bead of precum at his swollen tip. He held your gaze as he stroked himself, lips parting on a ragged exhale.

"See what you do to me," he gritted, the corded muscles of his forearm flexing. "My beautiful, perfect girl."

The unadulterated reverence in his voice sent a surge of heat racing through you. Kenma's nostrils flared, a growl resonating deep in his chest.

"You're practically begging to have my cock stretching that tight cunt," he continued roughly, leaning down until the molten tip of his length grazed the seam of your soaking entrance. "I could take you right now."

A shudder coursed through you as his head nudged against your throbbing clit. Your hips arched instinctively, seeking the delicious friction. Kenma let out a low, pained sound.

"That's it, fuck yourself on me," he growled, eyes blazing with a possessive, predatory lust.

Your eyes rolled back, a moan spilling from your lips as his shaft dragged through your soaked folds. Every inch of your skin felt scorched, hypersensitive - the air itself charged with electricity.

Then Kenma was reaching down, lining the swollen tip of his length against your aching entrance. His hand gripped the back of your thighs, holding you open as he pressed forward.

You bit back a cry, back arching as his cock stretched you inch by delicious inch. Your walls fluttered and clenched, struggling to accommodate his girth. But Kenma kept going, a low stream of praise falling from his lips as his hands skimmed soothing patterns across your trembling thighs.

"That's it, I've got you. Such a good girl, taking every fucking inch."

A moan slipped from your lips as he bottomed out, the sensation of his thick cock filling you utterly overwhelming. His hips rocked slowly, allowing you to adjust.

You gripped the sheets, struggling to stay tethered to reality. The feeling of Kenma's length buried to the hilt, his hands gripping your thighs, his smoldering gaze pinning you. It was all too much, but still not enough.

"Please," you begged, your voice a hoarse whisper.

Kenma's nostrils flared, the tendons of his throat flexing as he swallowed hard. Then he began thrusting, each stroke a searing slide of friction. The heels of his palms dug into your waist as he pinned you with his weight, a low growl rumbling from deep within his chest.

Your moans filled the air, interspersed with the slick, filthy sounds of his cock pumping in and out of your aching cunt. You writhed, helpless beneath the delicious onslaught, his length stroking places that left you breathless.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Kenma rasped, his grip on your hips tightening. "And look how beautifully you take my cock."

A flush bloomed across your heated skin, a delicious ache building with every thrust. You whimpered as Kenma's thumb began circling your swollen clit, the added sensation driving you to the brink.

"I can feel how close you are," he rumbled, the molten intensity in his gaze unwavering. "Give me everything, sweet girl."

A shudder wracked through you, your walls fluttering as you teetered on the edge. Kenma's thumb moved faster, his thrusts picking up a punishing rhythm.

"Come for me."

Your vision blurred, ecstasy crashing over you in wave after wave of rapture. A cry tore from your lips, back arching as your pussy clenched and squirted around his thick length. Kenma let out a guttural groan, his strokes growing erratic as his own release approached.

You moaned, overwhelmed by the feeling of his cock throbbing and swelling inside you. Kenma's head fell back, eyes closed as his thrusts became frenzied. His jaw clenched, a ragged groan escaping his parted lips as he finally came.

His length pulsed inside you, painting your walls with hot spurts of his cum. You shuddered, the sensation pushing you into a second, unexpected climax. Kenma growled, thrusting through both of your releases until you were utterly spent.

You lay there panting, struggling to catch your breath as Kenma's weight settled beside you. He reached out, trailing a fingertip down the slope of your cheek, the hollow of your throat. You shivered, still hypersensitive.

"Beautiful," he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips.

A soft hum slipped from your mouth as he pulled you closer, the warmth of his body enveloping you. You sighed, content to melt into the deliciously sated haze that permeated the aftermath.

Then, Kenma's voice sounded again, low and rumbling from deep within his chest:

"You should move in."

Your eyes flew open, breath hitching as the full import of his words hit you. Kenma's arms tightened, a subtle tension radiating across his powerful frame.

"I know it’s selfish, but I wasn’t planning on letting you leave if I’d worked up the courage to confess to you," he continued quietly, his breath warm against your neck. "You don't have to, but—"

"Yes."

The word slipped from your lips before you even had time to fully process the decision. But the moment it hung suspended in the charged silence, you knew the answer was inevitable.

"Yes?" Kenma echoed, something like wonder threading through his voice.

You twisted to meet his gaze, the faintest flicker of hope reflected there. A small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, a giddy warmth blossoming across your chest.

"Yes," you repeated, punctuating the word with a gentle kiss to his parted lips. "There's no way in hell I'm leaving you now."

Kenma hummed, a slow smile of his own curving his mouth as he pulled you even closer. You felt his lips brush the shell of your ear, his words a warm murmur of contentment:

"Good. Because you're not going anywhere."

#haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x reader smut #kenma x reader smut #kenma fluff #kenma smut #kenma kuzome #kenma x reader #hq kenma #haikyuu kenma #kozume kenma

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hoshigray · 9 months

Text

random thought, but like Gojo getting a little handsy while the two of you are out together with your friends.

a/n: yeahhhhh I have no excuse, this literally just popped up in my head two days ago, just read lol

cw: Gojo x fem! reader - nothing too sexual, but very suggestive, so minors stay away!! - fingering (f! receiving) - sexual acts in a public area; in a café - other people present but they don't know what's going on - pet names (angel, baby, princess) - Gojo putting you through hell but you get your getback :3 - you may [or may not] feel second-hand embarrassment, we shall see.

wc: 1k

"...Then I turned to him and said, 'I know you don't think I'm going to have sex with you after you've done thrown up on my dress.'"

"Nooo, after the dress was how much—"

"Right!! So I nicely shoved him off me and called an Uber to..."

It was a pleasant sunny hour to spend with your friends at a local café not too far away, mingling and catching up with them from the last meetup. It was always a splendid time having moments like this with them.

But what made this time a lot more striking was you bringing your boyfriend over! After many weeks of your friends wanting to meet the guy — not to mention him bugging you about also wanting to see your close buds — you promised to have him tag along for the next in-person meetup. And, low and behold, your partner, Satoru Gojo, wasted no time having your mates attracted to his sociable charisma.

Not that you'd think he'd be out of place — if anything, you knew he'd be able to swoon into their sweet graces. With his dashing smile, alluring sky-blue eyes, and engaging conversations, it was only a matter of seconds before the white-haired man could take your spot and engage with your pals. Shit, it's practically happening right now as you sip on your iced tea while he's listening to one of them reminiscing about a terrible night they had last night.

Nevertheless, you're not complaining. A boyfriend who gets along with your friends is better than not, right? That's why you watch and listen to your friend's story with a smile, happy to know that combining two parts of your world results in new companionships.

That is, until, you feel someone's hand land on your thigh. At first, you paid no mind to the action since it's nothing you're not familiar with when it comes to Gojo. But then that exact hand ventures further down and slowly sneaks past your skirt. Your brows furrow with your inner thoughts. I know this man is not trying to start something right now...And when you feel his slender fingers brush your inner thigh, you get your answer.

Your lips release the straw to your iced beverage, and you slowly lean toward your boyfriend. "Gojo," your tone hushed only for him to hear as your companions seemed preoccupied with a talk of their own.

"Hmm?" The tall other leans a bit for his ears to properly hear your whispers, his face still facing front to your friends.

"Can I ask why your hand is up my skirt in public?" You knew by the playful snicker rumbling his chest that his answer would be far from appropriate for the situation.

"Whaaat~, can't touch the love of my life?" He whispers back to you.

"Can't if we're out in the open at a fricken' café," you hiss with a glare from your peripheral. "Especially with others within—Hmmm." Before you could finish that remark, two fingers brushed on your panties, rubbing gently between your clothed folds. He snickers — both at your stifled response and as a faux reaction to a part of your friend's storytelling.

"Sorry, but I can't help myself when I wanna touch my princess." You notice him peeking at you from behind his dark shades. His fingers form a curling motion, causing your body to slightly jerk and prompt your legs to a further spread. He brings his chin down to your ears, his chuckles easier to interpret their mischievous connotation. "Plus, when did I last see you wear that skirt? Had my eyes on it since you looked at the mirror before we left."

God, I hate his ass so fucking much. "Who said I was wearing it for you?" You retort, wanting nothing but to wipe that dumb smirk off his handsome face. "I wore it because of—Ohhh!!" To your surprise, he swiftly puts his digits inside your panties; the sudden warm contact on the folds of your chasm prompts a sneaky cry.

...A cry so sudden that, of course, your friends stop talking to look in your direction with perplexed expressions. Of course, they would look. Oh, for fuck's sake...

"Uhhh, you okay, Y/n?" One friend blinks while surveying your body language. The other chimes in. "Yeah, you don't look so good; ice tea went the wrong way?"

Quick with your feet, you cough up your answer. "Ahem—Y-Yeah, I'm fine, guys. I was just thinking, ya know," your hand snakes down to Gojo's to pinch the skin, the tall other jolting his hand away from you. And you know he looks to you with pain, yet serves him right. "Since you two are getting along with Gojo, why don't we take him to the mall and show him our favorite spots? He has a good eye on clothes, plus I'm sure he'd like to try the crepe stand in the food court."

The look on your buddies' faces expressed nothing but delight at the idea you pulled out your ass. "That's a great plan, I'm down!" One says while the other nods frantically. "You up for that, Gojo?"

Rubbing his pinched skin, Gojo sends the two a smile. "Sure! I'd love to spend more time with my baby and their friends." He then leans to kiss you, but with a kick to the shin, you turned his face from a lovestruck fool to that of a hurt puppy. Your friends watch as the snow-haired man quivers and puts his forehead on your shoulder for support.

"Hmm? What happened?"

"Don't mind him; he was rocking his chair and probably hit himself with one of the legs." You speak for him as you watch your boyfriend tremble in pain with a smirk on your lips, the two others giggling at your seemingly clumsy man. It's your turn now to whisper to his ear. "That's for that little stunt of yours."

Gojo's laughter seethes through gritted teeth. "Are you really my angel? You're such a meanie...Don't think I won't do it again, princess."

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aspirationalpeony · 4 months

Text

Dark Horse

Summary: As a cameraperson on the Abbott documentary crew, you've always had a good working relationship with Melissa Schemmenti. One flirtatious night at her home sends you spinning as you try to figure out if this is really real—not to mention how everyone at Abbott seemed to know about Melissa's crush on you, long before you ever did. (See author's note at the end for prompt credit.) Content Warnings: Lots of smut, a bit of emotional confusion, and me having absolutely no idea how filming anything works. I just faked my way through it, very horribly. Oops! :) AO3 Link

It all starts with a late shoot.

It's just you and the mic guy and one other crew, and your camera trained on Melissa Schemmenti. She talks, in a way she's done rarely so far. A season and a half and she's always conscious of the stare of the lenses, quick to dart around a corner or cut herself off if she knows the opps are listening.

She takes big sips, almost gulps, from her wine glass. She leads you back and forth across her house, reaching over tables or pointing along walls to find a photo here, another there, and talks. "Me'n Kristen-Marie... This one—" pause for more wine—"from my college graduation." It's the two of them, almost mirror images of each other at that age, with a tall man whose lean face makes you think he has to be their father; on the other side of the girls is their Nana.

There's no trick in this photo: no wedding dress, no blood, no hint of drama between the sisters at all. They just look hopeful and desperately young. This feels private, that Melissa could have been so young—something that shouldn't be content for the show—and you feel an impulse to duck the camera away, hide her secret. When you look at Melissa again, she’s watching you; there’s a glitter in her green eyes you can’t interpret: not hostile, and not the look she gets when she’s hustling someone, either. The gaze she’s giving you is strangely soft.

“Whaddaya think?” she says, to you, not to the camera.

You swallow. Nothing you say will make it to the final cut, but the editors will hear your answer, so you can’t tell her she’s beautiful in that picture. “I think I’m lucky you’re showing me this,” you say at last.

Her eyes move over your face. You feel it almost like a touch, intimate and slow, and you aren’t making it up: her gaze stops at your mouth and hovers there. She bites her lower lip before she lifts her wine glass again for another pull. “Maybe I like ya,” she says. “Maybe you’ll get luckier.”

You’re still blushing when you wrap for the night. You sit on your couch at home—you’re always insomniac after shooting at night, your brain and body still buzzing with the work—and put on Netflix on low volume and you don’t watch, just feel your cheeks still burning, thinking about her lipstick on her wine glass.

Of course, the whole crew knows the story by the next morning. When you turn up, Pedro, your best friend on the crew, says, “Look at you! Dark horse!” and it makes your face sear with heat all over again. He lowers his voice, leans in and nudges you. “C’mon, nothing in the contract about that. You deserve a little fun. Let your Italian mama take care of you.”

You cringe. “Please,” you say, “never say ‘Italian mama’ to me again. Okay?”

“Just sayin’,” he says, and leaves it alone.

Of course, it doesn’t leave you alone. You’ve learned the best way to sneak up on a conversation with Melissa and Barbara is to come at it around a corner, so you’re hovering down the kindergarten hall, camera on the two women, when you hear your name, making you stiffen.

“You said that?” Barbara’s voice is incredulous, sharp. “What did she say?”

“Nothin’, really,” Melissa says, “she was on the clock, y’know.” The smile starts in her voice before it grows on her face. It’s a Cheshire smirk bigger and deeper than you’ve ever seen. “She got all flustered. It was cute. You think she knows I was shootin’ my shot?”

“I think you could have ‘shot your shot’ with a little more dignity,” Barbara says crisply. “Like an adult does. Politely. Pleasantly.”

“Soberly,” Melissa says. “Listen, if it works, it works. I just gotta find out if it did, y’know. Work. She’s kinda shy.”

“I didn’t know you cared for that.”

"What, the quiet ones?"

You have to pull away. You're going to miss the rest of the conversation, but your face is burning again, your heart is pounding, and you're grappling with the reality that Melissa and Barbara are talking about you, that you're subject enough between them to be chatted about so casually, that all this footage is... God, are you ever going to live this down?

You'll go shoot some Janine and Gregory. That's always a crowd-pleaser; the audience loves the sweet tension between them, the way the space between their bodies turns tangible the longer their eye contact holds. You try not to think about Melissa's gaze on yours last night. You try to do your job.

That goes as well as you might expect. Fifteen minutes into some uninspiring quiz-grading ("oh, I never fail anyone," Janine says, "I just give 'em a different colored star—they like the gold ones best, so—") Pedro comes to find you.

"Hey, listen," he says, "I need you to come take care of your Calabrian chili pepper."

"What?"

"You know, your spicy linguini. Your Italian ma—"

"Stop." Your head whips toward Janine at her desk and then back to Pedro. The only thing you can think of to say, your heart thumping all over again, is "She's Sicilian, not Calabrian."

"She's giving us nothing. You got to come do her talking head. She keeps trying to square up to Kai and he doesn't wanna fight her."

"What makes you think she won't fight me?"

He gives you a look over his glasses.

The change in Melissa is instant when she sees you approach. Those folded arms, her squared shoulders, her broad, foot-planted stance—it all melts. She leans into the wall, her head tipping, one booted foot lifting for her toe to play in idle lines along the floor, and, yeah. Whether you picked her or not, this is your Sicilian chili pepper, and you swallow hard as you approach.

"Heya, hon," she says, "who's this clown they got me workin' with? Don't they know I only do this with the professionals?"

You mumble a little as Kai looks between the two of you, rolls his eyes, and backs off.

"We were talking about her Friday night plans," Pedro says. "It's school game night and she's not going."

"Yeah, the kids are too easy to hustle," she says, "it ain't even fun. What, do I look like I wanna spend all Friday winnin' their, I dunno, their Yu-Gi-Oh cards?"

Now's when Pedro should prompt her, ask a question. You glance at him; he nods his permission. "Not sure those are a thing anymore," you say.

"Their Pokemon cards," she says. "Whatever. Point is, it'd be like taking candy from a... Jacob."

You don't look at her; you focus on the camera. It's easier than holding her green gaze. "Is that where you draw the line?"

"Gotta draw it somewhere," she says.

You can't help it. Cautiously you look up, try to make your voice neutral: "So how are you going to spend Friday night?"

She lolls her head to one side and looks at you. She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Prob'ly practicing tricks," she says.

"Tricks?"

"Yeah," she says. "With my magic wand."

You don't really remember the rest of the interview. You sure you babble some other questions, and she gives you some smirking answers, but your head is full of white noise and a singular image: Melissa Schemmenti with a vibrator between her legs.

You're sure other things happen that day. Pedro definitely ribs you some more, you and Kai go get lunch and he complains for a while, Gregory and Janine have one of their not-flirting conversations where he draws up a tightly-plotted itinerary for game night, trying to prove it's possible to run a children's event without delays (it all goes back to his father, of course), at some point you go home and numbly resume your post on the couch in front of your TV screen, trying to make sense of it all.

That picture won't leave your head. You think of the look she gave you that night at her house—intimate, caressing—and how she'd look deep in her pleasure, drunk eyes half-open, her face pink, her hair wild. Does she get naked when she touches herself? She seems too impatient—more like a jeans around her thighs kind of woman—but for a night she's planning ahead—a night she's set aside, just for her pleasure...

Your head drops back and you shut your eyes to see her more clearly. You can imagine the scattering of freckles over her shoulders and chest, the shift of her heavy breasts and the hard peaks of her pink nipples—how does she like to be touched there? Maybe she grabs one breast while she uses the vibrator, plays with a nipple, imagining the rough, confident hand of a lover. You can see the soft field of her belly, the abundance of her hips, her thighs, picturing her cunt, the head of the vibrator against her clit—she doesn't tease, can't tease herself, you imagine, not Melissa.

You can almost smell her sex, you think, until you realize it's yourself you're smelling. Your cunt throbs. You could shove a hand into your underwear now and just take care of it, but...

Your small toy collection lives in a box under your bed. It's nothing fancy, but you do have a small wand vibrator. You peel off your trousers and underwear and drop onto your bed, back against the pillows, holding the purple toy in one hand. Does Melissa have one this size? Or a big, classic one, the kind that could buzz your clit right off? You click the toy on and draw it up your thigh. As it nears the sensitive crease between your leg and your sex, your thigh twitches without meaning to, your clit aching, and you think, okay, no foreplay.

You can't help but wonder as you delve the thrumming head between your folds: does she know you're doing this? Was that the idea—plant herself in your head, grow over everything, including your common sense and your inhibitions, until your whole world flowers Melissa? Could she be doing the same—getting a head start on Friday's plans—thinking of you, right now? You're normally quiet when you do this, but that makes you groan aloud. Your clit pulses.

How does she do this, on a school night, like tonight? Back to the image of her with her trousers halfway down her legs, her hand and her toy crammed into the space between the fabric and her body. You can't help but see her in the outfit from today, that green, clinging top, the black blazer discarded somewhere, slacks caught just above her knees, her hair mussed and tangling against the pillows as she works the vibrator over her clit. No playing games for her, either; just getting the job done, hard and fast.

You come, watching her in your head, her name on your lips; you hope she comes tonight, too, thinking of you, of what she’s doing to you.

The next day, Janine, Gregory, and Jacob are in hushed conversation by the supply closet. You pick an angle from just inside the nearest classroom and train your camera on the slight crack of the open door and you can hear them, even though they think they’re being quiet—classic them.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” Janine is saying. “I think it’s kind of nice.”

“I think,” Gregory says, “it’s like…” He pauses, picking his words. “Like watching a dog shake a chew toy.”

“I think it’s very brave of Melissa,” says Jacob, and your heart drops into your stomach. “Considering the historical era in which she grew up and started her teaching career, being openly bisexual in the workplace must be a very—”

“Please don’t let her hear you call her ‘historical’,” Gregory interjects.

“It’s cute she has a crush on the camera lady,” Janine says. (“Cameraperson,” Jacob corrects.) “I just want it to turn out nice. You know, the vending machine guy didn’t work out, so. And now he doesn’t stock Gushers anymore.”

“Maybe she’ll be a little more relaxed,” Jacob says. “A little more… Open, fun—”

“She’s not going to start liking you because she’s dating somebody.” Gregory, with characteristic bluntness.

“One can hope,” Jacob says.

“The camera lady—person—is so quiet, though,” Janine muses. “Melissa is so intense.”

“Bet that’s what she likes,” Mr. Johnson says, making them all jump. He steps out from the supply closet; he’s holding a Teachers Without Borders coffee mug you know has to be Jacob’s. He takes a long, slurping sip, making sure everybody sees the logo on the cup. “Melissa gets a sweet little thang to take care of. Camera lady gets an Italian mama.” He says it eye-talian. (Where is everybody getting this phrase from?)

“Please don’t say ‘Italian mama’ again,” Gregory says, giving you a little flush of vindication.

“Why not?” Mr. Johnson says. “When I was on tour in Rome—”

That’s enough for you. You decide the rest of the conversation can go unrecorded. You check the time and it’s nearly lunch—thank God, because you don’t want to make eye contact with any of them for a while; you don’t know how to feel about them all talking about you. You know it’s not you, really, they care about. It’s Melissa, her caginess at odds with how boldly, openly she’s been flirting with you, an attraction so obvious even the younger teachers that she’d never confide in can see it.

Something light and effervescent swirls in your stomach, but there’s a leaden weight there, too. Nerves. And desire. You let Pedro know you’re taking lunch and leave your camera behind, finding Kai a block down, away from the school, hitting his vape. He passes it to you and you take a pull, letting candy-scented vapor out of your nose. You don’t really smoke anymore, but anybody would need a little comfort under these circumstances, you think.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks.

“What?” You didn’t know Kai cared about that. “I mean, I guess I’ll talk to her, maybe give her my number, then see—”

“For lunch.”

“Oh.”

You get hoagies together, eating them over a public trash can, standing up. Back at the school you scrub your hands clean in the bathroom and duck Pedro and your camera and you find your way down the second-grade hall to the classroom that's usually the noisiest. It's quiet now: the kids are at the library doing a reading circle with the librarian. Maybe it says something that you know their schedule.

She's in there, glasses low on her nose, working. You pause just on the threshold of the open door. You try to piece together everything you know about her, to make it all fit into the person you see, just a small woman with a love of pleather and a never-ending supply of high-heeled boots, a baseball bat taped under her desk (you've seen it), a guitar propped in one corner of the classroom (does she ever play?), how now she's focused and reading with scrupulous intensity, doubling back on a sentence from time to time, her manicured hand coming up to twitch away a lock of red hair.

You knock on the open door. You see her hand pass under the desk toward the bat before she realizes who's standing there. She cracks a grin, lifting her glasses up to the top of her head. Her eyes travel up and down your body in another look that feels like a touch.

"I was wonderin' when you'd stop by," she says.

You give a little hum. You cross the room to lean against a student's desk, just opposite hers.

"No camera?"

"No," you say, "I wanted it to be just us."

"Huh." She taps her pen on her paper a few times. "You here to let me down easy?" She lifts her chin. The look she gives you isn't intimate now: it's far-removed and challenging, like the gaze of a duelist across a plain. You've seen this before, the way she starts closing herself off, armoring up.

You shake your head. There's a shift in her expression, but the walls don't quite come down. "I guess I wanted to ask what you want."

"That ain't obvious?"

"I mean..." Your arms come up, folding over your chest. "You know, I was here last season, when you were dating that guy... Hulk Hogan."

It surprises a laugh out of her. "Yeah, Gary."

"You asked him out and it was... Different. I mean..." You can't think of how to say it. At last, you say, "Do you take me seriously?" No, that's not it. "I mean, are you just trying to hook up with me? Because, I..." You're starting to burn up again. You rub the back of your neck. "That's not the kind of... Listen, you're beautiful, and sexy, but that's not what it would—I mean, to me, it—"

"You're so cute when you're all shy," Melissa says, sounding equally mystified and amused. She stands. "Look... Maybe I did this all wrong." She circles the desk. "Kinda treated you like a piece of meat."

"Just a little bit," you say.

"I take you serious, hon." She doesn't cross the gap between you two, but mirrors your pose, leaning on the edge of her desk, arms crossed over her chest. "Look, Gare was a nice guy. But he didn't have, you know... He didn't make me wanna..."

You think of Gregory's metaphor. "Shake him like a chew toy?"

Another laugh. "Yeah, that. And I guess I felt... You know, I'd kinda uncorked the bottle, datin' him, when I thought all that part of my life was done, and when you were at my place the other night, you just looked so good, and I just wanted..."

You smile, eyes down. The cold uncertainty is trickling away and there's warmth pouring into the spaces it's left behind. "Okay," you say.

"Okay?"

When you look up, she's moved a little closer. You can smell her perfume again, warmed on her skin over the course of a long day. You've had the privilege of seeing her in detail, so many times: the fine, thin skin around her eyes, the creases at the corners of her mouth that forecast her smile, the tiny hint of gray growing in at her temples, the mellow warmth of her green gaze, the slope of her nose crooking slightly to her left. It's different with no lens between the two of you, when you're close enough to touch.

"Yeah, okay," she says to whatever she sees in your eyes. She lifts her chin and drops her gaze to your mouth. It's a clear request.

You answer it. You dip your head; there's a moment where your noses nearly bump, but you change your angle, catch her lips with yours. There's a tackiness from her lip gloss and an incredible softness underneath. The warmth of her almost shocks you, vivid past your imagining. Her hand pets at your jaw; you feel the other curl into the collar of your shirt. She pulls you closer by the fabric and you gasp.

You renew the kiss, lips sliding over hers. Your hand rubs down her lower back. You can feel the divot in her spine where it meets her pelvis, just above the generous curve of her ass. Before you can overthink it, your palm is gliding over that curve, your fingers digging into its lushness, Melissa gasping against your mouth as you squeeze.

"Oh," she says faintly when the kiss is over and you're catching your breath. "Huh." Her look is glazed and a little bewildered.

"I, um, I don't want to send mixed messages," you say, "but about Friday..."

"Friday?" she echoes.

"Yeah." You bite down on your smile, watching her try to remember what the hell you're talking about. "I was thinking... I know a few magic tricks of my own."

"Oh," she says again. You watch her eyes spark with understanding, her smile appear slowly, then all at once. "I guess you could come over and show me your stuff." Her hands tighten in your shirt and pull you back in for another kiss.

"Hey, gimme your phone," she says, much, much later, when you're wearing more of her lip gloss than she is. "I want to give ya my number." You don't think before you're unlocking it and passing it into her hands. She lowers her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose and thumbs her way around your phone, creating a contact for herself.

You have a flash of nerves—what if she opens your Instagram and sees all the stupid accounts you follow? A vision comes of her seeing all the dog-using-buttons-to-talk videos you've liked, her libido instantly withering... Then she's giving you back your phone and smirking at you, wiping at your lip with her thumb. "Might wanna stop in the bathroom before you get back to work, hon," she says.

When you leave her classroom, it's like floating; you've never felt so light. You stop in the bathroom and you wipe all the lip gloss off your smiling mouth. You catch yourself humming as you and Kai catch some footage of Ava pretending to organize game night, Gregory trying to involve himself, Janine admitting to a little competitive streak.

Your phone buzzes, chimes. "Sorry," you say to Janine and Pedro, who's leading the interview. You wait until you can lower the camera lens to check the notification. You always keep it silenced during the day—did Melissa turn the ringer on?

Italian Mama iMessage

Your face burns. You take a corner away from Pedro and unlock the phone.

Italian Mama You made me real happy

Your blush intensifies; something flutters in your chest. The phone vibrates in your hand as another message comes.

Italian Mama Don't know how I'm going to wait until Friday

The echo of your own thought in her words makes your heart flutter again. You bite your lower lip and type back, Me neither. An electric spark of daring moves you, makes you send her, Maybe I'll practice some magic just to make sure I'm on top of my game.

Is that too much? You hope not. You've basically made a sex appointment with her for Friday—sex appointment, you think, and wince at yourself, your own awkwardness; it's a date—and you don't—your breath hitches as three dots appear on your screen, showing that she's typing.

Italian Mama Oh yeah?

Italian Mama Better practice hard

You feel a pulse low in your belly. You're ready to type a little more flirtation when another message arrives and makes you gasp aloud, quickly clamping your hand over your mouth before Pedro or somebody else can hear you.

She's sent you a photo. It's herself pulling down the scoop neck of the hot pink blouse she's wearing today. You can see just the tip of her nose, her chin, the proud line of her soft neck, her freckled sternum, and, holy shit. She's showing you her breasts cradled in a bra made of black lace. And you stare. And you stare.

Italian Mama Little incentive for you

Your mouth is watering. You can see the rosy shadows of her nipples against the lace. You barely register yourself typing back, You're perfect.

Italian Mama Thought you'd like em

You're typing before you can stop yourself. All I'll be able to think about now is what I'm going to do to you.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Appear, then disappear. Your confidence wavers.

Italian Mama I want you to tell me

You've never imagined you'd be turned on in the halls of Abbott Elementary, but suddenly you're so aware of your cunt, you can't stand it. You're throbbing. You peer around the corner; Pedro isn't even looking your way, he's talking something over about the schedule with another producer. You have time. You glance up and down the hall; nobody except an aide going into a room at the far end.

Your fingers fly over the keys. If you stop to think, you'll psych yourself out, so you blurt out every thought, the iMessage equivalent of babbling—what you'd be doing in Melissa's ear if you could have her right now, in your arms, again...

You're so fucking sexy

I've thought about you so much

I touched myself thinking about you the other night

I'm going to kiss you until you go crazy and you're so turned on you can't take it

I'm going to undress you and I'm going to kiss every fucking inch of you

I'm going to play with you until you're begging

Do you like it rough or gentle?

Three dots.

Italian Mama Little of both

You're typing again in a flurry. You can feel your heart pounding, your breath coming in harder. You probably only have a couple minutes left to really make her feel it.

I'm going to be so gentle with you until you beg me to be rough

I want to bite you

Do you like being bitten?

Italian Mama Yeah

I know you do

On your neck, on your breasts

I'm going to bite your thighs before I eat you out

"Homie, you coming?" Pedro says, with the best and worst timing—and phrasing—he could possibly have.

"Yeah, one sec," you say, and you're proud of how your voice doesn't wobble at all. "Let me just send this. Sorry."

I have to get back to work

Italian Mama Fuck you

Italian Mama How am I supposed to teach like this

Italian Mama Come here and finish what you fuckin started

You laugh, breathless and surprised. You text her, YOU started it! If she hadn't sent you that picture... You scroll back up and look again. In the bit of her face you can see, she's smirking, because of course she is. The luscious curve of her breasts—you can almost feel them, what it would be like to drag your nose down between them, mouth at the soft skin...

Pedro's waiting. You send her a bunch of blowing-kiss emojis and put your phone away again. You're still buzzing with arousal, but you feel a strange satisfaction, knowing that Melissa is a few halls away, squirming behind her desk, thinking about all the promises you've made.

The day passes, somehow. It's a strange mixture of slow, syrupy boredom and electric, frenetic activity as more preparations are made for game night, and your phone periodically buzzes with another message from Melissa. Thankfully (for your pussy—you think it might fall off if it keeps aching like that), the two of you leave the subject of sex, and just talk.

She asks you your birthday, your favorite food. Where did you grow up? What's your favorite color? Each one makes you smile. You feel like you're on the receiving end of a Schemmenti interrogation, a mob boss with her goons behind her. You get her answers back in turn: July 19. (You respond in shock, You're a water sign??? and you can almost hear her voice when she dryly responds, I got no clue what that means, hon.) Pasta con sarde. Grew up here in South. Pink.

Your heart flutters with every new thing you learn. Even though you go home (and rub one out) alone, she's a presence with you, not just in your fantasies; you find you're texting her until you fall asleep, phone sliding out of your hand onto the bedspread. And when you wake up the next day, preceding your alarm by a bit, you find a text from her waiting for you, just a few minutes ago: Good morning, baby.

You levitate all the way through Thursday. You spot Melissa a few times that day, but it's a packed day for her two classes, so mostly it's in the hall as she marches lines of students to and fro. She gets you back for yesterday, though: pauses in the doorway of her classroom as she's filing the kids in after lunch, and gives you an up-and-down look of such searing intensity that your body heats, scalp to toes. She smirks before she vanishes into her room.

She makes you crazy. God, she's incredible. You're texting her every chance you both can get, though she's sparser while she's with the kids; it's all light stuff. Get lunch here today, she tells you, Shanae made beef patties, and when Shanae slips you a couple of golden-crusted pastries, you bite into them, smelling warm, floral curry, savory beef on your tongue, and think of how Melissa it is, feeding you from a distance.

That afternoon, just after dismissal, she calls, "Hey," to you from her classroom door. You try not to jump to attention. "I gotta do a lot of work," she says, playing with the strap of her Apple Watch, "or I'd ask you over, but..." Strangely, her eyes drop. It's a hint of shyness and it makes your heart patter, tenderness and affection for her pouring into your chest. "I was thinkin', why don't we go out and get, like, food or a drink or somethin' tomorrow? You know, before you come over."

"Okay," you say. Her eyes flick up and as soon as she sees your goofy grin, her shyness melts away, turns back into the smirking self-assuredness you're more familiar with.

"You pick the place," she says, knocking the wind out of you at once.

Oh, crap. You remember what it was like with her and Gary: he tried to take her to a shitty spot for their first date, and she flicked him away from her like a bug. She's challenging you, you think, asking to be impressed.

You can do that. Dark horse, right? "Okay," you repeat. "I'll pick."

She leans back against the doorframe. All at once she's in that lolling, casual, flirtatious posture that she assumes for you and only you, her face tilted up, gaze intimate and a little sly. "You headin' out? I get a goodbye kiss, or what?"

"Okay," you say a third time, and you can barely kiss her, you're smiling so widely. You take your fill of her, in every sense, one more time before you leave for the day, nerves and excitement and that thread of arousal all tangling together, like a knot of live wires.

You're texting her later, because of course you're texting her later. Do you want it to be a surprise?

Italian Mama I dunno

Italian Mama Surprises never seem to work out for me

That gives you a little twinge. You find yourself running the tip of your finger up and down the side of your phone, the way you'd touch her hand or her cheek, if you could. How about just this one? you ask. And if you hate it, I'll never surprise you again?

You wish you could see her face. It would help you know if she's resigned or wary or scared. You don't want her to be antsy or nervous going into tomorrow; you want her to feel like she makes you feel: like you've got balloons and not bones, like a wind could catch you and carry you off, you're so light and so happy.

Italian Mama Ok

Italian Mama I'm gonna trust ya

It makes your heart do its now-familiar flutter in your chest. It's like there's a bird in there, some delicate fledgling thing eager to start flying. It wants to soar, holding its precious cargo: Melissa Schemmenti's trust.

The next day. Friday. Friday. Somehow, the school day rockets past you. Game night preparations have gone disastrously, and it's time for a patented Ava save, with the help of Janine and Gregory.

"Wow, who could've guessed," Kai mutters to you, and fidgets in the pocket you know holds his vape.

Your hand fidgets in your own pocket, around your phone. You and Mel exchanged good morning texts, a few kiss emojis, promises to meet up before dismissal to solidify your plans, but you haven't had a chance to see her at all.

"I don't know," you say, "I think they'll get it figured out."

"I think she's probably going to use it to mine Bitcoin somehow," Kai says.

Honestly, that sounds plausible. You shake your head anyway and make an excuse and scoot past Pedro. He's not encouraging Ava to stream game night live on Instagram, per se, but everybody knows that will guarantee some Coleman-style silliness, so he needs to get her there somehow. (Can you mine Bitcoin through Instagram?)

You don't need to send any directions to your feet; they're already walking you toward the second grade classrooms. Mel doesn't have lunchroom duty today, so you know she'll probably be catching up on two classes' worth of quizzes, or restocking art supplies, or prepping the next lesson's props and tools. Her door is shut and you peek in through the window.

She's writing on the whiteboard, looking back and forth from a worksheet in her hand, glasses on her nose. You knock. When she sees you, the narrow-eyed look of interrupted concentration melts away; she gives you a smile that shows her teeth, the kind that changes her whole face, turning her girlish, almost a little goofy. It makes your heart melt.

You open the door. "Hey," you say as she puts her glasses on top of her head and caps the marker. Being in the room with her, after not seeing her all morning, feels like coming out of the cold to a blazing fire. "Uh, hi. You look beautiful today." Then, for the third time, stupidly, adoringly, "Hi."

"You missed me, huh?" she says, putting down the marker and paper. "C'mere."

As soon as you're in grabbing distance, she takes two handfuls of your ass and pulls you in for a kiss. You're lost in it for long, long seconds.

She pulls back after giving your lower lip a bite that makes you squeak. She tucks her hands squarely in the back pockets of your jeans, holding you against her. "You look beautiful today too."

"Thanks," you say, barely registering the compliment, the way you're chasing more contact, kissing the corner of her mouth, nosing at her cheek. She's so warm in your arms. She's wearing one of her tough-girl outfits, a blazer and matching top in military green, and you sneak your hand under the jacket, finding a little stripe of bare skin between her shirt and her slacks. You touch her there with a teasing trace of your fingernail.

She shivers. Is she sensitive on her lower back? You file it away to investigate later tonight. The thought of being able to have her all to yourself tonight—hours and hours—sends sparks skipping through you. You have to kiss her again.

"You think it's unprofessional, doin' this at work?" Mel asks you breathlessly when you part again.

"I don't know," you say, "but whatever Gregory and Janine have been doing is worse, kind of."

"Yeah, that's for sure," Melissa says, and gives you a third kiss; this time, the delicate muscle of her tongue laps at you, little frissons of heat that go right between your legs.

"I came to talk about dinner," you say at last, when you think you can survive without kissing her.

"Oh, yeah," Mel says, "right. What am I wearin'?"

"Uh..." You hadn't considered it. You're just going in your usual date outfit—a button-up, a nice pair of trousers. "Business casual?"

"Okay, easy. Do I get a hint where we're goin'?" One eyebrow goes up. Her gaze acquires a competitive glint, one you've seen a hundred times through your camera. "I bet I can guess it."

"Here's your hint," you say, "it's not Italian."

"Smart cookie," Melissa says, which leads you both into another kiss, and then another. "It ain't a sandwich shop, is it?"

"No," you say, "I can't beat cousin Rocco."

"Soul food," she says.

"No. I'll come pick you up, is that okay?"

"Yeah, come, like, at five. I gotta change and do my face and stuff." She leans back, giving you a squint-eyed look of scrutiny. "Tell me it ain't French."

"It ain't," you promise, and seal it with a kiss. "I have to go. I'm pretending to be in the bathroom."

"Oh, shit," she says, eyes going wide, "we gotta catch up on this freakin' math unit and I forgot, I haven't peed in, like—"

"Go, go," you say with a laugh, letting her extract her hands from your pockets.

When you return, Kai narrows his eyes at you. You shrug at him and you're ready to get back to work, when he reaches across and plucks something off your shoulder: a single red hair. Crap.

"Damn," he says. "Dark horse."

"What's up?" Pedro glances over at you two. Fuck, you don't know if you can take his teasing today—you know he'll want all the details, and you love him, but you want to just get through work and get to Melissa...

"Nothing," Kai says, and drops the hair. He gives you a nod.

You nod back, warmth and gratitude making you smile. He doesn't smile back—you don't think you've ever seen him smile, actually—but you think you see the corner of his mouth curve up, just a little, as he peers into his camera.

Dismissal, a quick goodbye kiss with Melissa, home to get ready. You're normally an all-black kind of girl—it's just easy—but you pause in your closet and find a pink button-up. It's a mellow, soft shade, the same color as a silky blouse you've seen Melissa wear.

You put on your cologne, you style your hair. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s funny: this is the same face you’ve always had, but three days of Melissa have done something to you. Your eyes look larger, softer; there’s a smile on your lips, small but persistent, that’s been there all day.

You haven’t always been lucky with women. You have love in your heart—God, a lot of it. Sometimes it feels like the water of an ancient lake, going down almost infinitely deep, and yet somehow about to overflow. You spent years going around offering it to anyone who would take it, and once they’d drunk their fill, they just moved on, satisfied, never giving a thought to you, never thinking you might want something back, even just gratitude.

So you pulled away. You just hurt too easily: keep them at arm’s length, never close enough to bruise. The quiet one, the shy one; that’s who you became over time, knowing that if you gave out of your abundance, you’d only be depleted. No one’s ever filled your cup.

You find yourself chewing your lip, staring at yourself. You want this to be different. You want this to be something else. Can it be?

You park your car in front of Melissa’s and find yourself wondering: text, or knock? You’re starting to get out of the car when the front door opens, and a rush of surprise and pleasure comes at the thought of Melissa waiting, watching for you. Then your breath catches hard in your throat.

She’s wearing a little red dress that… “Wow,” you say, before she’s even close enough to hear. The square neck of the dress is cut lower than her usual wear, and shows an abundance of skin that makes your mouth water. There’s a princessy quality to the cap sleeves, a delicate detail that’s perfect for Melissa: blazing, challenging red, with a hint of sweetness. The hem stops just above her knees. The fabric shows her body in intimate detail, the delicate rounding of her stomach and the flare of her hips, straining across the perfect shape of her thighs.

Her hair is down. Even late in the day it has a bit of curl. Her green eyes are like gemstones in the early evening light. Her heels have got to be four inches, but she walks with the steadiness of a queen. She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

You circle the car to get the passenger side door. “Hey,” she says, surprised, coming closer, “it’s pink,” and touches your sleeve. It’s not even contact with your skin, barely contact, period, but it sends tingles up and down your arm. “That’s my favorite color.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, grinning like a fool.

Her eyes drop—that hint of shyness again, that tenderness that makes your heart strain against your chest, trying to reach her—before they flick back up. “How do I look?”

“I could look at you for hours,” you tell her honestly.

"I'd kiss ya, but you'd mess up my face," she says. "Here, you get one." She turns and offers her cheek.

You're smiling as you lean down to kiss the offered skin. She's soft and warm, and you get the powdery scent of her makeup, the richness of her perfume.

"Now, c'mon, feed me," she says, and you laugh and open her door.

You drive. She's exactly the kind of passenger you expected: "Hey, check it," every time she sees a car nosing out past a stop sign, or "On your left," when you're trying to merge. "Hey," she barks when somebody cuts you off, a gesticulating, accusatory hand in the air, "cazzo, you wanna watch where you're fuckin' going?"

Melissa. Abrasive, loud, bossy, and you don't feel bulldozed at all. You feel charmed. The smile won't leave your face. You don't know if she could be more herself than right now, in your ancient Volvo, wearing the sexiest outfit you've ever seen on her, looking simultaneously bold and delicate and delicious, and hollering out the window like an angry truck driver.

She's checking her phone as you pull up outside the restaurant, and doesn't look up again until you're opening her door. "Oh," she says, surprised, looking at the place: it's a red brick building, no sign; just a single hanging red lantern beside a white door. You can see her trying to puzzle it out, glancing at you and back to the door.

"It's a bar," you explain. You open the door to your favorite izakaya. Low, golden light and warmth spill out with the Jrock playing over the speaker system.

Melissa cocks her head and looks at you curiously. You only notice that her hand's in her clutch purse when she draws it out again; you hear the rattle of her keys dropping back to the bottom. "Thought you might'a been about to take my other kidney," she says. "I was gonna fight ya."

You blink. It's one of those Melissa-isms, delivered in her dry voice, that you think might be a joke, but it might not be, either. "I wouldn't win if you did."

"You sure as hell wouldn't, baby," she says, and lets you hold the door for her as she steps inside.

You love this place. It feels a bit like your first apartment after you left home, a lot of exposed brick, shoddy white paneling creating an accent wall, and decor that's a little vintage, a little silly: a big, ornate mirror that might have once decorated a cheap theater, brass sconces for lights, Gojira posters in the style of classic ukiyo-e. There's booths on one side of the room and a mirrored bar on the other, with a wall of sake and Japanese whisky.

The hostess recognizes you, waves hi, gestures toward the room for you to seat yourself. It won't start filling up until a little later, so you have your pick of the booths; you take the side that puts your back to the door, letting Melissa have the sightline to the exit.

The low light flatters her. Any light flatters her, but there's something about the dim, intimate, golden warmth of it that makes you stare as she studies the menus, first the drinks, then the food; her eyelashes cast delicate shadows on her cheek, the curve of her lips carving lines there.

She looks up and catches you. The thoughtful twist of her mouth turns into a smirk. The question, though, isn't what you were expecting. "What made you pick here?"

Huh. "I..." You rub the back of your neck, dropping your gaze. "I really like it." That's a start, but not all of it. "I thought you might not have this kind of food all the time. I never see you eating it and I wanted you to have a nice change. And..."

"I come here alone a lot." You shrug. "I have... Good memories here." They are good memories: people-watching, trying new drinks and food, chats with the bartenders, a karaoke night where you fell in with a group of laughing, drunk women who all worked at the same office, who tried to persuade you to bar-hop with them until last call.

But it's always been you, alone; sometimes folded in with somebody else out of goodwill, sometimes noticed for your familiar face and your generous tips, spared a few more minutes of a busy mixologist's time, but always a separation, a glass wall between you and the rest of the room. No one's been on this side of it with you before.

"I wanted you to have a good memory," you say, finally. "I wanted to share it with you."

You glance at Melissa. She's watching you with a look you recognize. It's the one she gave you that night at her house—just earlier this week, but it feels like a lifetime ago. It's tender and intent. It's encouraging. Like she's watching a flower bloom.

"It's already a good memory for me, hon," Melissa says. Something nudges your ankle. It's her foot in its killer heel, gently insinuating between both of yours. You feel her knee against yours, your calves aligned together. She smiles at you. "We're here together."

Your heart does one of its aerial flips.

"You sure get shy for somebody who was talkin' about suckin' my tits before, though," she says.

You choke on nothing. Your face and ears burn. She laughs, her head dropping back, the light glinting on her saints' medals.

"Biting," you squeak, when you can get air. "We were talking about biting."

"Biting," she says, "right. How come you can say all that to me but you're nervous tellin' me you like a bar?"

It's not a bad question. You trace the grain of the wooden tabletop for a second or two, eyes down. "I'm used to giving other people what they like," you say. "I don't mean—it's not that I was lying or faking. No way. I meant it, I mean it, everything I say to you. So much, Melissa." You dart a look up to make sure she understands. "I mean, it's easy for me... For other people, I can express..."

Her hand finds yours on the table and stills it. Her manicured finger gently swipes along the curve below your thumb, down to the sensitive inner skin of your wrist, and traces slowly there, back and forth. She's giving you that look again, gentle and focused and intimate. "I get it," she says simply.

A rush of relief fills you, settling the rattle of your anxious nerves. You turn your hand over and hers settles into yours.

The server appears for your drink orders. You order the house sake, and Melissa says, "Yeah, me too." With your small glasses of sake, the two of you pore over the menu, picking a few things Melissa knows, a few things she's never had before.

The first few plates come out: shumai, hamachi, a bowl of spicy pickle. She gets pieces of toro, unagi, and salmon, and you get a roll and a plate of chashu buns. She gives those a look of pure lust.

"Take one," you say, and push the plate toward her.

She doesn't hesitate. At her first bite, she lets out a guttural moan that goes right between your thighs. You're suddenly much more aware of her ankle still caught between both of your own.

"You think I could get this recipe?" she says of the chashu after the bun has vanished.

"I think you can get whatever you want." Especially from you, especially if she keeps making those noises.

"I sure can," she says with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes.

You've seen Melissa eat before, scraping the last bite of salad out of a tupperware or sipping from a Stanley Tucci mug, but it's different like this, sharing a meal. You love watching her small, plump hands with her chopsticks, her drinks; you love her expressive eyes, the way they widen or flutter shut at a perfect bite. Everything she tries she makes you try—insistent, "Here, you taste," like you're not the one who's had the whole menu before, and you oblige, trying to taste it for the first time, like her, letting each one blossom over your tongue, letting yourself fall under her spell.

The bar is packed by the time you're through and she's nibbled her way through a couple of frozen mochi. "We gotta come back here," she declares as the two of you leave, hand in hand. "I wanna try more. You got good taste."

"Yeah, I do," you say, looking at her. It's full dark now, but the streetlights and the moon illuminate her, outlining her red hair in silver, the shape of her hips.

"You gonna take me home now?" she says. She moves closer. "You made a lotta promises, you know."

"I know." Your hands settle on her hips. She tilts her head up; you catch her lips, tasting the plum wine you two shared. It's your first real kiss of the night, and she's mellow, soft, delicious. Still, you tell her, "We don't have to, tonight. I want to, but I don't want you to think..."

"I know," she says, and gives you another kiss. "If I thought you were buyin' dinner to make me put out, I would'a had way more food." Another kiss. "Come on, let's go. Or maybe you don't wanna get lucky?"

You drive back to Melissa's place, her hand on your thigh the whole way. Back over the welcome mat that reads GO AWAY, into the picture-lined place where it all started over a glass of wine.

Melissa takes your coat and her own and gives you her back, hanging them up in a closet by the front door. "I can get you another drink," she's saying, but all you can see is the back of her dress: the silver line of the zipper running from collar to hem, almost invisible.

You move closer and she stiffens when she feels you there, your chest to her back. You gather her hair, move it aside. Above the collar of the dress you can see the line of her nape and the muscle where her neck and her shoulder join. You lean down and kiss it.

Breathing in, you can smell her perfume again, her makeup again. Now, her skin. It's a scent you couldn't begin to describe, something living and animal and sensuous. And her hair: warm, intimate, a little bit of hairspray. You kiss the side of her neck.

"You have no idea," you say quietly. You nose against the shell of her ear. Its soft cartilage is cold from the night air outside, but warming quickly, flushing pink as you kiss it. "You have no idea how gorgeous you are. You don't know what you've been doing to me."

You lift your hands and find the tongue of the zipper. Her breath hitches. You slowly draw it down. The rasp of it is loud between your bodies.

The band of her bra. Red lace. Down her back to the luscious curvature of her hips. You're holding your breath. Her panties are red lace, too, a high-waisted thong that hugs her belly and hips but, oh, fuck: leaves her ass almost totally fucking bare. Of course, in that clinging dress. Couldn't risk panty lines.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you say, and slide the dress fully off her body. It's a puddle of red fabric on the floor. You push her chest-first against the closet door and drop to your knees.

"Oh my God," she says weakly as you hold her hips and kiss your way up the back of one thigh, then the other. The flesh here is dimpled with cellulite, a mark of her perfect abundance. You nose over the curve of her ass and bite one cheek and she squeaks and gives a weak, "Huh," afterward, like she'd surprised herself, and you bite the other cheek and her hips rock back into you.

She's still in her heels. You're starting to smell her sex. You think about having her bend over and put her hands against the door and let you eat her from behind until her knees shake and give out. Fuck, you want to, but you've been making promises; you have plans.

You straighten back up, brushing kisses up the line of her spine. "I want to see your bedroom."

"Fuck," she says dizzily. "Okay. Uh..." She starts to step away from the closet door and for the first time all night, she wobbles in her heels. She gives a little growl of frustration that's so Melissa you can't help but laugh, making her glower your way as she toes out of the shoes.

She leads you up to her bedroom. The big bed is made, but there are plenty of signs of life: the vanity against one wall, scattered with makeup; the bedside table with a dog-eared book and a pair of her glasses; there's a bra tossed over the cracked closet door.

She turns to face you, unself-conscious, and grabs you for another kiss, deep, dirty, her tongue licking into your mouth. "Can't believe you wore my favorite color," she says breathlessly, and starts fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. "God, you look so hot."

Your shirt's halfway open when you get your mouth on her neck. She groans, hands loosening on the fabric. Soft, right along the line of her jaw, under her chin, down her throat where you feel a moan vibrate through the skin. "Harder," she says.

You stay soft. The hollow of her throat, her clavicle. You nose one strap of her bra. She whines, "Harder," and grips your hair.

"I told you," you say. "I'm going to make you beg." She gasps. Your cunt pulses. You wonder if the same thing happened in her classroom that day, if she sat at her desk squirming, little hitches of her breath betraying her.

You squeeze her ass and she sways into you. Your hands shape her hips, up her sides, over her back, feeling the landscape of it, the valley of her spine. You trace the band of her bra. It's so pretty, you almost don't want to take it off.

"Where's your vibrator?" you ask.

"Huh?"

"Your vibrator," you patiently repeat, and lean back. You see in her eyes when it clicks. She leans away from you toward the nightstand, pulling open the top drawer. Inside, there's a pack of melatonin gummies, a lavender and chamomile room spray, a mini bottle of Jack Daniels, and a hot pink wand vibrator. Her sleep aid drawer, you realize.

You pick up the toy. It has a good weight, and the silicone is almost as soft as her skin. You find the power button, click it on, and cycle with a few presses through the three strength settings. You settle back on the first one and test it against the inside of your wrist, feeling the rumble against the sensitive skin there.

You look up again and Melissa's sitting on the edge of the bed. She's breathing hard, staring at you, and she's blushing.

"Lay back against the pillows for me, baby."

She scoots back, gives you a challenging look, and spreads her legs. You can really smell her, a thick, rich, saline scent that makes your mouth water. The drawer's still open and you spot a small bottle of lube; you take it out just in case, then slide the drawer shut.

"You gonna get naked?" she says as you join her on the bed.

"Not yet," you say and kiss her again. And again. The vibrator sits on the mattress, turned off, and you want to make her forget it's there. You take your time, licking at the serrated edge of her teeth, sucking on her lower lip until she's whimpering.

You couldn't have imagined that sound coming from Melissa Schemmenti. You chase it, have to have it again. Her lipstick is smeared, almost gone. She keeps tugging on your hair as you kiss her, starting to squirm beneath you, saying things like "More," and "Harder," but not please—not yet.

She slides down against the pillows, laying herself more fully under your body, and the motion makes the vibrator roll down the mattress to bump her side. Her breath speeds up all over again, and her eyes flick from it to you.

You pick up the toy and click it on. "Keep your legs spread."

"Oh, fuck yes," Melissa says, then whines aloud when you touch the vibrator not to her clothed pussy, but to the inner crease of her thigh. "Fuck, c'mon."

"C'mon, what?" You trail the vibrator up the inside of her thigh, toward her knee, and back down again.

"You know—" her breath stutters when you switch legs. "You know what I want."

"And you know what I want."

That makes her moan. Her head drops back, her chest heaving. You lean down to kiss her sternum, to finally nose against one perfect breast, the way you've hungered for it since that photo. The lace of her bra scratches your cheek. You can feel her nipple through the cup, taut against the fabric. You bring the vibrator up and tease its rumbling head over that peak, making her shudder, then replace it with your mouth, letting her feel the heat and wet, just barely, still separated from you by her bra.

"God, fuck," she says, "fuck you," and you switch breasts, teasing her other nipple to aching stiffness. You nuzzle the skin that her bra offers up, the plump perfect roundness of her breast, part your lips, drag your teeth over it. She's so soft here, so much, and it's perfect. Your hand drops with the vibrator and you trace it over her hip toward her sex, making her squirm, as you busy yourself with soft bites and sucks.

You change your angle a little, propping a hand against the pillows so you can lean over her. Your body casts a shadow and her green eyes look up at you from beneath it, somehow both pleading and mutinous. You idle the vibrator back up along the waistband of her underwear and then slowly down toward her cunt, playing it over the plumpness of her mons.

"Fuck," she says, "fucking fuck you, okay, please," and you smile. "Please, I said please, will you fucking please—"

You bring the wand down over her pussy. Her head rolls back and she groans, starting to squirm. "Pull down your bra for me," you say.

"What?" Her voice, face, are foggy and vague, but after a few seconds she understands, lifting her hands to tug down the bra's cups, showing you her perfect breasts. They're begging for your mouth, and you promised her you'd give her what she wanted when she begged, didn't you?

You drop your head. Kiss over one breast, then the other. Mouth at the flesh—so fucking soft, so good against your lips, sucked into the wetness of your mouth. The tops of her breasts have a small scattering of freckles that you have to dust in turn with adoring kisses. Her hard nipple brushes your cheek and you draw it past your lips as you trace the wand vibrator up and down, from her clit to the entrance of her cunt, back again, never letting it linger.

You switch to her other nipple, leaving her breast damp and reddened from your mouth. Her head tosses back and forth against the pillows as she whines, squirms, moans, says, "Fuck," and, voice breaking a little, "You're still fuckin' teasin' me—please, please, I said it, please—"

The words, her need, are electricity surging straight to your aching clit. Your voice is a rasp to match her own when you lift your head and breathe in her ear, "You sound so good like this, Melissa." She gives a broken whimper. "You're so perfect. I'll give you more. I promise. I'll take care of you. Take your panties off for me, sweetheart."

With a grateful sob she lifts her hips and shoves her underwear down her thighs, no further. You flash on that fantasy you had of her, getting off after a school day, slacks and panties around her knees as she fucked herself. Looks like you were right.

"You might need," she starts to say, but you're already reaching across to pick up the bottle of lube. You click off the vibrator and let her watch you drip the lube over your fingers, slicking them up. She's panting harder and harder just watching you.

With your other hand freed from the vibrator, you can pull the thong all the way off her legs, leaning back on your knees to do it. You push one thigh then the other wide apart. Her pussy is plump and gorgeous, red and swollen, her own wetness gleaming from between her spread labia. You add to it: the softest touch of your fingertips against her sex, trailing up and around the peak of her clit, not touching it directly.

She makes a noise you can barely describe, a groan of misery and arousal and desperation. Sliding your fingers back down toward the heat of her cunt, slipping one slowly inside, watching her as you do it. Her eyelashes flutter, her lips parting. Once you're sure she's wet enough, you add a second finger. The lube and her own gathering wetness makes a slick, dirty sound as you begin to stroke inside her, all delicacy, all torment.

"Oh, fuck," she says, "don't stop, Jesus Christ, please, don't stop, I need it, I, I..." Now she's babbling, the way she's made you do, one hand fisted in the bed covers, the other grabbing your wrist. "I need it so bad, I need you to fuck me, I've been waitin', please..."

"You've been waiting?" It occurs to you that this version of Melissa, already begging, might be willing to tell you some embarrassing truths. "How long?"

"Since we met," she gasps. "Since—oh, fuck..."

Since you met? That was the very first day of shooting—getting all the establishing shots, the very first moments and interviews. She intimidated you—her and Barbara both did—but Barbara, at least, gave a little, showed a bit of herself to the camera. You remember how Melissa was, arms folded over her chest, cool and hostile with Pedro as he tried to coax her out, get her to introduce herself.

Her eyes had moved from him to you, looking past the camera. "You Sicilian?" she'd asked you. She smiled at you that day and it transformed her sullen, cagey face, turned her, however momentarily, sweet. "Italian?" she'd continued, then her eyes darted from you to Pedro, over to the boom mic guy, trying to get a read on all of you. "You from South?" Her smile vanished. Her voice tightened up again: "Okay, you guys workin' with the cops? 'Cause you gotta tell me."

You reward her for the honesty with a press of your palm against her clit. Her hips jerk up. "I remember that day."

Her head drops back again, her eyes squeezing shut. The words leave her in a breathless rush: "You were so cute'n I hated the cameras but whenever you were there I would just—and you were always so, you were gentle, and—I always knew when you were lookin' at me—"

"I was looking at you every chance I got." You watch her face as you begin to ease a third finger inside her. This one has to burn a little; you can feel her body, resistant at first, starting to stretch to take it, and you don't push; you wait to see her eyes open again, their needy, yielding look. She lets go of the covers to grab one leg under her knee and pull it wider apart to help you. You add a little more lube, just in case, not wanting to hurt her.

"I was always looking at you, Melissa." She stares up at you. There's a crease between her brows, her swollen lips parted; she looks stunned, overwhelmed, face pink, as you slide that third finger inside her.

"I was always looking at you," you repeat, and begin to gently fuck her. Her cunt opens for you and desperately clenches against your fingers, grasping and irregular, trying to keep you. "You're so beautiful. I always wanted you. I thought you were the sexiest, meanest—" that surprises a panting laugh from her—"woman I'd ever seen. You were so smart, so funny—you protected everyone, and you took care of everybody—" her eyes squeeze shut. "Let me take care of you now."

You reach over and pick up the vibrator. You click it on. Her eyes open again at the sound of its buzz. You press the button again, then a third time, bringing it to its strongest setting. Melissa's eyes are huge. She's panting, staring, knowing what you're about to do, and the look of vulnerability and desire on her face, her smeared lipstick, her messy hair, she's perfect, so perfect, and you need to make her come now.

"I need it," you tell her, holding her gaze. "I need it. Let me feel it, Melissa." You bring the vibrator to her swollen, begging clit.

A moment of nothing but her breath caught in her chest and her wide-eyed gaze on yours. Her pussy clamps down around your fingers and you feel the ripples of her orgasm start before she drops her head back and gives a wounded, animal cry.

You chase the waves of her climax, fucking her through them, coaxing them toward you; you rub the head of the vibrator along her slippery clit. Her head tosses back and forth on the pillow like it's too much, but her hand still grasps your wrist, keeping you right where you are, and her hips are working, riding your fingers.

"I can't," she starts saying when she can heave a breath back into her lungs, "I can't, I can't, oh, please—" you click the vibrator off and throw it aside; it nearly rolls off the mattress. You spread the lips of her pussy wide and you lean down and bite one shaking thigh, then the other, then seal your lips over her swollen, tender clit.

Fuck the vibrator: this is your new favorite toy. You play with it and play with it and Melissa comes again, or keeps coming, you're not sure which. One leg goes over your shoulder and her hips twitch and writhe until you have to hold her down.

"Oh my G—oh my God, oh, baby," then, just chanting over and over again, like you could ever tell her no again, like you can deny her anything in the world: "Please, please, please..."

Anything she wants. The whole fucking world, if it were yours to give. You suck and lick at her cunt as her hands find your hair and yank.

How long can she go for? How many times can you make her come? You want to know. You want to fuck her until she faints. But that's not for tonight—not without planning, not without her consent—so when she starts making airy noises that are weak and almost pained, you ease off, slowing your mouth and fingers, letting her come down.

You rub her hips and thighs and her soft belly, and give light kisses to the mound of her pubis. She stops pulling on your hair, grip going slack at first; then, as she comes back into herself by slow degrees, she scratches her nails gently against your scalp.

Kisses for her stomach, her ribs. "Here, baby," you whisper, and reach under her body; she lifts up so you can unhook her bra, sticky fingers brushing her skin. You ease it off and drop it to wherever her panties went. She's nude under you now, flushed all over, body loose and relaxed against the mattress; you pet every inch of her you can reach.

You cup her cheek. Her head turns into the contact. There's sweat gleaming along her hairline and her upper lip. Her eyes, mascara and liner blurred, open to meet yours; her gaze is bleary at first, then sharpens.

You expect another fuck-you, or a joke, or even a "thanks, I needed that," but what she says is, "Now you sit on my face."

Your mind whites out. It's possible you forget the English language for a second or two. When you're back from wherever your soul departed to, she's pulling on the buttons of your shirt, brow knit and wearing an impatient little scowl, yanking the last ones open. "What?" you say weakly.

"I said," Melissa says, fully herself again, no longer the begging, needy, squirming creature of minutes ago, "now you sit on my face. C'mon. Get this off." She grabs the buckle of your belt and works the tongue out of it with a metallic clink.

"I," you say, "I," and she drags your trousers down your legs. You have to lean back off her to get them and your underwear all the way off. Your shirt still hangs open, showing your bra, your bare stomach. She leans up to kiss your sternum with an open mouth, tongue flickering hot against your skin.

"I told you," she growls against your neck, "to sit on my fuckin' face," and there's no more of anything in your world but her, you scrambling up onto your knees, spread wide, her sliding down the bed to get under your cunt.

You falter for a moment; she grabs your hips and yanks you down. There's no playing, no teasing. She drags the flat of her tongue up the folds of your pussy and takes your clit into her mouth and sucks. Her green eyes are open and staring up at you and you see your own dazed pleasure reflected in them.

It takes about five embarrassing seconds before you come in her mouth. She moans loudly against you and tries to hold you where you are, but your legs are shaking badly; imagine if you broke her nose the first night, God—you lift one knee so you can get off of her and drop onto your back.

She follows you. Clambers on top of you intently but unsteadily, still wobbling from her own orgasms, and kisses sloppily down your stomach to get back to your pussy.

"Melissa—" you're gasping, and she's putting her tongue inside you, angling her head to get it in as far as she can. She licks, sucks, wraps her arms around your hips and holds you against her as you try to buck away. The wet noises of her mouth against your cunt are obscene.

You come again, and maybe one more time, you're not sure; your mind blanks again. When you can think, feel, process again, she's giving little kitten licks to your sensitive sex that send shudders up your whole body.

"Okay," you say. Your throat hurts a little—how much noise were you making? You clear it. "Okay. You win." You tap out on the mattress like a boxer. She's wearing a look of supreme satisfaction as she lets you go, her face covered in slick wetness, her makeup a disaster, her hair a messy tangle. She's so beautiful. Your heart does a now-familiar backflip.

She crawls up your body and flops onto her side next to you, curling onto your chest. There's long minutes of just you two breathing, the sound filling the room, a tingling starting in your pussy that you know is the herald of after-sex soreness, her damp fingertips tracing idly on your skin.

You start to smooth out her hair. It'll take a shower and a comb to really fix—maybe you'll suggest it. You trail your fingers down and follow the freckled curve of her shoulder, the roll of flesh on her side along her ribs, the dip of her waist before it opens onto the perfect field of her hips and ass.

Her eyes flick up to yours. They're softer and happier than you've ever seen them; the look on her face is gentle and content. You bring your questing hand up to cup her cheek. She kisses your thumb.

"I'm hungry again," she declares.

A laugh bursts out of you, full of affection. "What?" she says, clearly about to be offended, but before she can go any further, you pull her fully into your arms, wrap around her and squeeze.

You press your face into her neck and inhale, smelling her sweat and skin and sex. "You're perfect for me," you say into that warm curve, muffled against her skin. "You're just perfect." You peck a kiss onto her jaw and lean back to touch her cheek again. "Should we make something? Do you want pasta?"

She grins at you. It's that big, Cheshire smile you saw on her face a few days ago, telling Barbara about how she shot her shot, full of preening satisfaction. She leans in and brushes your nose with hers.

"I knew I picked right," she says, simply, happily. She laces her fingers with yours. "Come on, I got a robe you could wear. You like carbonara?"

She leads you off the rumpled bed. You can see you've left a blurry pink bite mark on one cheek of her perfect ass. She brings you a fuzzy shortie robe ("I like your legs, baby, lemme see 'em") and puts on a silk one herself, and takes your hand again as she opens the bedroom door.

You feel good. You're happy. You realize as she brings you to the kitchen, to the very heart of her home, that you're not alone anymore.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Author's Note:

I received the following prompt from an anonymous reader on Tumblr:

"can you write some fluffy smut for Mel x reader where everyone thinks Mel would be in charge in the bedroom because she’s so tough and reader is so shy. but actually reader takes care of Mel."

Back when Season 2 was airing, I saw a few fan posts saying that Lisa Ann had suggested there was a cameraperson on the crew that Melissa thought was cute, which led to the rare scenes where Melissa opens up to the camera. I'm not sure if this is accurate to what she said, but that idea has stuck with me. When I received the above prompt, it went into a blender with that thought, and this is the smoothie that resulted.

I hope I've done justice to this lovely prompt!

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti #as an FYI: this is my longest fic yet and may be easiest to read on AO3 :)

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sylvestris123 · 9 months

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What does the pre-Fall scene actually mean?

I’ve been thinking about that first scene, with pre-Fall Crowley. We are all swooning over how sweet and innocent Angel!Crowley is, and how smitten Aziraphale is, but on reflection there is something odd about this scene.

The action takes place before the rebellion, before the Fall, when bad things hadn’t even been invented yet. So why is Aziraphale already worried about Angel!Crowley getting into trouble for asking questions? Shouldn’t he also be a cute innocent bundle of fluff without a care in the world?

There is a meta that examines this (sorry, I can’t find it, I’m useless at this), which comes to the conclusion that Aziraphale later on is suffering from guilt (that he might have unwittingly prompted Crowley to seek answers and hence fall), but this still doesn’t explain why Aziraphale knows that asking questions might be a Bad Idea, and Angel!Crowley doesn’t. After all, Angel!Crowley has apparently been working “very closely with Upstairs”. Shouldn’t he be a bit more clued up?

This leads me to think that there are 2 possible explanations for this.

1. Angel!Crowley has been so far out of things playing with stars that he really is clueless about everything (possible but doesn’t really match up to the Crowley that we know today).

2. This is not a true record of events.

Either: it is one of Aziraphale’s memories, but coloured by what he knows today, so the conversation that actually occurred might have been quite different. Maybe it is because of Aziraphale’s less than perfect recall, or maybe the memory was tweaked (e.g. by the Metatron) to emphasize the innocence of Angel!Crowley and the injustice of his later fall.

Or: IT NEVER EVEN HAPPENED AT ALL. Their true first meeting was as S1, on the walls of Eden, and it is all a false memory planted by the Metatron. (This could also explain why we don’t get to hear Angel!Crowley’s name. It’s not actually known, so can’t be added to the ‘memory’). Why would he do this? It could be to make Aziraphale think that Angel!Crowley was so full of joy that he should be reinstated to recapture that innocence.

There are plenty of theories about the other flashback episodes in the series, all of which could be interpreted as showing off Crowley’s 'good' side, to make the thought of his reinstatement as an angel more plausible or even necessary to right an ancient wrong.

If any or all of this is the Metatron’s doing, what is the motive? He clearly loathes Crowley. Maybe reinstatement as an angel would automatically wipe out his memories of being Crowley and all of his Earthly experience, so you would end up with a cute innocent (and ultimately useless) angel with no memories of his friendship with Aziraphale. Or perhaps it was a way to get him to come up to Heaven where he could be ambushed and imprisoned.

Or maybe the Metatron always knew that the very concept would go down like a lead balloon and that its aim was to make Aziraphale and Crowley part in such a way that they would be less likely to try to contact each other later.

There are so many pieces to this puzzle. Just when I think that a couple might go together I find others that don’t fit with the patterns already made, and which sometimes seem to belong to a different puzzle altogether. I’m sure that I already have 5 corner pieces.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #good omens 2 #neil gaiman #good omens analysis #good omens meta #before the fall #Why is Aziraphale aware of bad things before they were invented #angel crowley #too many questions #good omens theories

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theresattrpgforthat · 2 months

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Hello!! Do you know any TTRPGs surrounding translation or languages? 😊 (thanks for all your work btw!!!)

THEME: Language / Translation Games

Hello friend! As someone who studied linguistics in university, I absolutely love talking about all of the funky things languages do! I hope these recommendations tickle your fancy!

Dialect, by Thorny Games.

Dialect is a game about an isolated community, their language, and what it means for that language to be lost. In this game, you’ll tell the story of the Isolation by building their language. New words will come from the fundamental aspects of the community: who they are, what they believe in, and how they respond to a changing world.

Dialect uses a deck of cards to help minimize the amount of choices you have to make in character creation, by dealing three cards to each player and having the players choose one from just those three. You track the change of your language over a series of turns, using prompts to help you navigate the conversations that arise in your community as the world around them changes.

Dialect has been very highly regarded as a game that really delivers on the experience that it promises. The grief that accompanies language death really shines through this game, so if you want to combine the wonder of creation with the pain of losing something so integral to your sense of being, this is the game for you.

Tiny Frog Wizards, by @prokopetz

You have mastered the secret arts of sorcery

The very primordial energies of creation and destruction are yours to wield as you will.

You are two inches tall.

Tiny Frog Wizards is a game about tiny frogs, wielding magic using the power of words. When you want to do something magical, you will roll somewhere between 1-3 dice, and use the values of your rolled dice to determine how the range, magnitude, and control of your magic.

What’s important in terms of this game recommendation is the Control aspect, because how well you are able to wield your magic depends on how many words you are able to use to make things happen! It’s a lot easier to use a spell with precision if you have enough words to detail where you want a magical pen to write, or what you want to throw a tiny magic missile at. Not enough words? Then the GM has license to cause some humorous side effects, or, if you roll poorly enough, cause your spells to really go off the rails.

If you like games where you need to choose your words carefully, Tiny Frog Wizards is worth checking out - especially since it’s in free playtest!

Xenolanguage, by Thorny Games.

Xenolanguage is a tabletop role-playing game about first contact with alien life, messy human relationships and what happens when they mix together. At its core, you explore your pivotal relationships with others on the mission as you uncover meaning in an alien language. The game gives a nod to soulful sci-fi media like Arrival, Story of Your Life and Contact, but tells its own story. It’s a game for 2-4 players in 3-4 hours.

In Xenolangauge, you play as a group of people bound together through a shared past with unsettled questions. Your task is to understand why the aliens have come and what they are trying to tell us. You will soon discover the key to understanding lies in your memories together.

This is definitely an in-person game, as it is meant to come with a modular channeling board that will provide you with alien symbols that you will use to help you interpret messages. This is more than a game about language, it’s about relationship, shared memories, and connection.

Xenolanguage was kickstarted at the beginning of this year, but you can check out the above link to pre-order the game if this sounds interesting to you!

Star-Spawned, by Penguin King Games.

One unearthly night, a ray of colourless light descended from the stars, and under its warping radiance, creatures unlike any the world has ever seen were born. They do not know the world, and they do not know themselves. Unfortunately for the world, they're quick learners!

Star-Spawned is a GMless, oneshot-oriented tabletop RPG in which you don't know what your own traits do when play begins. The names of each group's stats are randomly generated using morpheme chaining, and characters are created while having absolutely no idea what they mean; figuring that out forms the greater part of play.

Star-Spawned is more about self discovery than it is about language, but the use of morpheme-chaining in character creation is intriguing to me. You will randomly roll three pieces of a word, and then chain them together to create a unique Facet, available to the players as stats. These Facets don’t have a meaning when the game begins - you need to play to find out what they mean. If you like playing around with semantics - the meaning of words - this might be a game for you.

Degenerate Semantics, by Mikael Andersson.

Degenerate Semantics is a role-playing game for 1-5 players and one Game Master (GM). The players will each portray a character who live in Emmaloopen's poverty-stricken lower city. They are young, wild, ambitious, and independent. This way of life is threatened by other factions, and the players will need to have their characters work together to survive and thrive.

In the process of playing the game, the players and GM will define and flesh out a language called Bandethal. A collection of street terms and slang, Bandethal is used both as a way to talk openly about illicit activities without alerting authorities and to establish street cred. The terms are liberally mixed in with plain English, or when the language is mature enough, can be used entirely on its own. The characters' success is in large part based on how proficiently the players wield the language.

A friend of mine ran this game for me three or four years ago, and it’s been sitting in the back of my head ever since. Degenerate Semantics was created for a Game Chef competition in 2014, and has remained in the same state since then. I don’t think there’s any more work being done on it, but the game is there for anyone who wants to give it a go - and while there’s a setting that comes with the game, that setting is highly flexible, depending on what your group is interested in. Our group decided to use a lot of gardening metaphors, and undertook a plant-based heist as our act of rebellion! If you want a game about the power that language can give a tightly-knit group, this is the game for you.

I've Also Recommended...

DROWWORD, by Ursidice.

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #game recommendations #dnd #asks #languages

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rageserenity · 3 months

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It's 2024. Are you still thinking about movieverse!Cherik? Because I am.

For the past several months, there's only been a very slow trickle of posts/fics in the xmcu cherik tag. Let's try to breathe some life back into this incredible pairing!

With one clear winner of my poll, here's thirty prompts for the thirty days of April. (This is a super chill, laid-back event---do these in any order, interpret them as loosely as you like! Create in any medium! Fic, art, gifs, meta, incoherent screaming about the otp…all winners in my book.)

The only rule here is to cherik too close to the sun. Alright. Here are the prompts.

Mutual Pining

Doesn't really even need elaboration! Write that horrifically slow slow-burn. Gif every time McAvoy made insane fuck me eyes on screen. Make a playlist of songs about impossible love.

2. Alternate Meetings

There are endless quotes about how these two complete each other in a way no one they'd met before or after ever did. How else could they have met?

3. Erik Has A Telepathy Kink

This is basically canon. Let my boy get freaky!

4. Canon Fix-It

All the times Fox fucked it up. There are endless options.

5. Hurt/Comfort

Put them in that Situation. Put them in that Blender. Break them apart and put them back together ❤️‍🩹

6. Canon Compliant

Draw that missing scene! Gif your favourite cherik moment!

7. Beach Divorce

Make it worse. Make it better. Show it to us exactly how it was. Break it down in a 3,000 word meta. Go wild!

8. Domestics

Sometimes you just want to see them doing normal couple things. Erik put the gun down.

9. Found Family

The real heart of x-men!

10. Time Travel

There are SO many possibilities here. Stick them in a time loop. Give them a chance to change their past.

11. AU

Love a good AU!

12. There Is Only One Bed

Had to get this one in here. What better way to amp up the tension?

13. Genosha

By some miracle, cherik actually did end up together at the end of 2019s trash bag disaster Dark Phoenix. We aren’t making a big enough deal about this.

14. Declaration(s) of Love

Who says it first? How do they say it and when? Have they said it…without saying it?

15. Jealousy

Need I say more.

16. Reunion

These two have absolutely no chill.

17. Soulmates

Classic prompt, had to get this in here too.

18. The DOFP Aircraft

The TENSION here. Break it down for me. How does Charles feel about his injury? How does Erik feel about his injury?

19. Gay Mutant Road Trip

You already know.

20. Body Swap

SO fun when people have superpowers.

21. First Kiss

When? How? Who initiated it?

22. The Mansion

Mansion!content is a genre of its own.

23. Conflicting Ideology

Give me your theses. Who’s right? Can they ever reconcile completely? Write a fic where it drives them apart.

24. Sebastian Shaw

A trope unto himself.

25. Team As Matchmaker

They had to have known something was going on, didn’t they?

26. Cooking

Charles deserves a good meal. Also, imagine Erik using his powers in the kitchen. The sheer domesticity…

27. Hurt No Comfort

Plenty of scope with these two 🥲

28. Growing Old Together

Giving Sirs Ian Mckellan and Patrick Stewart their props as well!

29. Making Up

*pushes chess board across the table* sorry babe

30. Charles Xavier Did More For Mutants Than You'll Ever Know

Rising to each other’s defense. Only I can insult this man.

I will be tracking #revivecherik to reblog stuff! Here’s a fic collection for the same. Let’s get this ball rolling! Please feel free to send me an ask if you’ve got anything to say! And most importantly, let’s all have fun 😁

*I know a few of you preferred something like a gift exchange because of the commitment factor—I’m super down to organise a tiny one for the handful of us! If this promptathon doesn’t flop horribly, we can hopefully do a whole bunch of stuff :)

If you read this post all the way through, please reblog for reach! Thank you! Hoping you participate come April.

Shoutout to @inmymagnetoera for reaching out and helping with this!

#revivecherik #cherik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #xmfc #james mcavoy #michael fassbender #x men days of future past #x men #charles x erik #magneto #professor x

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pandoraslxna · 4 months

Text

Lo‘ak x female omatikaya reader x Neteyam

⋆｡° ✮ Minors dni 🔞

⋆｡° ✮ Masterlist

⋆｡° ✮ Warnings: explicit smut, slight cnc warning, restraints, pred/prey play, teacher / student dynamics, in public

⋆｡° ✮ There was almost no way I could think of any other pairing for this prompt than the Sully bros with reader and it’s all thanks to @tallulah477 and her amazing fic "hunting the tawtute" so make sure to give it a read, it’s one of my fav fics 😩🩵

⋆｡° ✮ Translation: sevin = pretty

The distant calls echoing through the forest didn’t belong to either one of them. It belonged to one of the other tsamsiyu [warrior in training] who were participating in todays lesson of hunting down and killing wild prey.

You however, were playing your own game and had moved out of the training area almost immediately, melting into the dense underbrush like a nantang. Because, unlike the others, you weren’t actually hunting. In this special case, it was you that was the prey. You were being hunted.

You'd taken off at a lope, covering distance quickly before slowing and taking care to hide your tracks.��You had headed west, remembering a stream they had mentioned to all numeyus [students] the night before, telling you all that this was the border of the training area.

You hadn't seen the slightest sign of either of them and given how long it had been it was likely that they still didn’t know where you were. Better keep it that way, you thought to yourself as you crouched at the base of a tree, making your profile as small as possible. You knew the outcome if they would find you. After all, there was a reason you were their favorite numeyu out of them all and your lessons usually ended just a little differently than it ended for the others. A little more… personal.

For a moment, you were completely still, breathing slowly, silently, listening for anything you could use to pinpoint how close they were. Nothing. You must’ve been so far away from the rest of the group that you couldn’t even hear the other students anymore. So you edged your way through the trees, abandoning the cover of the underbrush in favor of putting even more distance between them. There was a rather thick trunk of a fallen tree ahead, tall enough that you could get a good vantage from the top. You rounded the trunk to get to the other side that was hopefully less covered in moss and easier to climb, and there he was, leaning against it, deceptively causal.

Neteyam.

"Shit", you yelped in surprise and immediately turned to run. You knew you couldn’t outrun him over distance, but you were light and agile, could loose him in the trees if only you could get up there, but he was quicker to react. Neteyam kicked your legs out from under you, tackling you to the ground. The fall knocked the air from your lungs and he immediately dropped his weight onto you, twisting one arm behind your back.

"Caught you, my little numeyu." Irritatingly smug.

He leaned close and you could feel his breath on the back of your neck, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear and you knew exactly what was about to follow.

"Come on, Neteyam, please", you squirmed, "Let me go."

Footsteps crunched behind a few bushes and before you knew it, your other karyu (teacher) crouched down next to your face and brushed a strand of stray hair behind your ear.

"Too late for that, baby."

You bared your fangs at Lo‘ak, barely able to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

Both of them then flipped you over, before Neteyam placed your hands near the top of your head, pinned your wrists there with his knees while he bound them together. They were still keeping their thoughts to themselves, but Lo‘aks shit-eating grin wasn't hard to interpret. It caused Neteyam to chuckle, brushing his fingertips over your cheek as he shook his head in disappointment, "Poor thing. You really thought you could outrun us. You have so much left to learn."

You rolled your eyes at him, testing the strength of your restraints once more and Lo‘ak grinned even wider. Neteyam then leaned over you, brought his mouth down rough against yours, hot and slick. His tongue pushed into your mouth and you couldn’t help but moan into the kiss. "I think it’s time we claim our prize for hunting such special prey, don’t you agree?" He spoke against your lips, to which you nodded in agreement, already drunk of lust just from a kiss.

The oldest of the two pulled back, the kiss all too brief and flicked his eyes up to his brother who kneeled between your thighs. "Hold her still, bro", Lo‘ak says to him.

You lift your head up as much as you could to look at him. Lo’ak then bent over you, brushing his lips over yours, licking at your mouth, your chin. He caught your lower lip between his sharp teeth, distracting you from the way he harshly yanked your loincloth off of you.

Neteyam reached forward and hooked his hands under your knees, and then Lo‘ak was pushing into you, one long steady drive, splitting you open, nestling himself deep inside you. You whined and he moaned with you, the sound rising to a harsh gasp as he drew back and thrust into you harder, smug grin finally sliding from his face as his mouth went slack with pleasure. The younger brother didn’t keep his movement slow for very long, as Neteyam passed your thighs into his arms so he could use them as leverage to fuck you hard and fast and deep, making you cry out with every thrust.

Your own mouth soon fell open too, just to be filled to the brim seconds later when Neteyam pushed his leaking tip past your spit slicked lips.

"That’s right, sevin", he groaned lowly once you snapped out of your lustful haze and started swirling your tongue around his length as best as you could from your current position. "Just like that, fuck." His hips soon begin to move on their own accord, thrusting into the warm wetness of your mouth while his brother seemed to let loose all that pent up adrenaline from chasing you down.

"Shit, baby", Lo‘ak moans, throwing his head back in bliss as he feels your walls squeeze around his length. When he glances back down at you, he’s met with the sight of your pretty pussy creaming around his cock, making a mess where the two of you are fused together. "You’re so tight. So wet for us. Dirty girl, loves being our prey so much she’s drenching my fucking cock", he chuckles.

You make wet sound around Neteyams cock, slurping the salty pre-cum leaking from his tip as if it’s a reward for your efforts. One of his hands tangles itself into your hair then, helping you move your head over his length as he begins to fuck your mouth at a faster pace. Your eyes remain fixed on his, blinking the tears away even as he repeatedly hit the back of your throat. "I won’t last if you keep that up, sevin", he growled, his breathing heavy. "Will you be a good girl and swallow it all for me?"

You hum your response, the vibrations against his cock sending a shiver up his spine and a moan tumbles from his parted lips, alongside whispered curses. The sight alone makes you clench harder around Lo‘ak, both of them seemingly reaching their peak soon while you were also not very far away from your pleasure high.

What sends you over the edge is Neteyams hand reaching between your thighs and rolling your oversensitive clit between two fingers. You cry out around his cock, Lo‘ak fucking you through your orgasm with precision, aiming to hit that sweet spot deep inside you that he knows will make you see stars. They both guide you through that high together, their hands not leaving your skin for even a second until both men loose themselves inside you, filling you with their seed as soft praises and low groans are being whispered between you and them.

Excitement fills every fiber of your being once you’re untied, redressed and sent off to the rest of the group with teasing claps to your ass and a wink by your teachers. Their filthy promises for tomorrow’s lesson about handling knives makes you clench your thighs in anticipation, and you can’t wait for them to turn this lesson into another very personal experience, just for their special little numeyu.

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softevnstan · 1 year

Note

(nsfw) random prompt event generator for bucky!!

Bucky and Y/N going back to one or the other's house after a date, where they eventually end up dry-humping on the couch. Y/N only intends this as foreplay, but Bucky is already getting overwhelmed. Y/N finds this amusing and endearing, leaning close to whisper something teasingly into Bucky's ear. It turns out that Bucky is more excited than Y/N thought, and hits orgasm without any further stimulation, to the surprise of Y/N and the embarrassment of Bucky. What happens next?

pairing. bucky barnes x gender neutral! reader

summary. After a date night out with Bucky as you explore your new relationship, you unintentionally wind up taking your makeout session a little too far. Quickly you learn it's been far too long since Bucky has had a partner.

warnings. SMUT - minors DNI. kissing, praise kink, dirty talk, size difference, beefy bucky, dry humping, masturbation (bucky and you), implied/referenced trauma, reader has v but still gender neutral. p with plot, recovering!bucky barnes (half-way).

a.n. ok, i have other things to write and originally i was gonna let this wait... until i read the prompt again and saw this as an opportunity for some mild bottom/fluffy bucky. (bucky is a bottom you can't change my mind, but i'll write top for you all i promise) starts a little fluffy at first because idk how to not write some sort of context to situations, and bucky is still in recovery reasonably so

w.c. 7.6k howdidthishappen

Your date with Bucky exceeded your expectations. Wary that things would potentially be a little rough around the edges while the soldier was still trying to put himself back together, you were pleasantly surprised when he picked you up at your apartment with a bouquet of flowers - specifically an interesting combination of sunflowers and roses. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had bought you flowers, and after running them inside so as to not ruin them by taking them on the trip, Bucky held your hand all the way to his motorcycle and helped you settle comfortably before embarking on the evening together. No awkward pauses or tense, heavy moments with Bucky; It was sweet and a dream come true that you didn’t even know you’d had.

He’d surprised you on where you both were going initially. Blindly trusting Bucky with wherever he chose your date location, he decided that the Art Museum was the safest choice. Dinners could be awkward - what if you don’t like the way someone chews their food? Movies hardly left time to actually get to know one another, instead just sitting in the dark with occasional spared glances. Anything too physical could be exerting and hinder you from another date with Bucky. So after indecisively pondering, Bucky had chosen that an art exhibit was the best way to go.

You loved it.

So many classic paintings and countless mediums of art filled the halls as you two strode hand in hand. Bucky was on the quieter side, but not enough to deter you. He’d smile and watch the twinkle in your eyes when you both came across a particularly marvelous work of art that you loved. Bucky had listened smittenly as you gushed about the way some pieces of art made you feel or the message you interpreted behind it all. Eventually, Bucky had begun to open up throughout the night to do the same. What felt like hours of enriched conversation and two people simply being in the moment.

Sometimes people don’t need candles and rose petals, sometimes people just need someone to talk to and feel just as down to earth with.

Unfortunately, neither of you had finished going through the whole museum together in one sitting.

Bucky had used that as the opportunity to salvage the situation; “I guess that means we’ll just have to come back together.” He’d said fondly when you both stopped at the mini-cafe built in the museum before you both left.

Instead of letting the date die down when the museum began closing for the night, you offered to bring the party back to your apartment instead. Tempting Bucky with a bottle of wine sitting in your kitchen so you two could just spend some more time together, he didn’t need too much convincing. Any excuse to stay close to you, to steal some of your time just a little longer before returning to his dull apartment.

‘How could I say no to you, doll?’ He had said, and you’d beamed at the small victory.

Truly, you hadn’t meant for it to end up where it was (not that you were complaining). When you asked Bucky to come into your apartment building, when you’d walked together hand in hand, you didn’t think you’d wind up like this. But somewhere between being plastered against Bucky’s backside and having the privilege to let your hands wander and explore tight leather hiding thick arms or the adrenaline of feeling the wind whipping in your hair, you’d started to become insatiable on the trip back.

Bucky had this way with you that made you feel like a teenager in love all over again.

Sure, he was quiet, but he was misunderstood. Soft and sweet, he had a compassionate heart and an intelligent mind, the gentle giant.

It’d taken some time to help Bucky bring down those walls initially - countless weeks you’d spent just trying to be his friend before he finally caved and agreed. He was a private person, you learned, but once peeling back all the layers, Bucky was amazing and worth all the work that went into opening him up. Creative and smart, a book-lover and funny, he was gentle and tender and emotional in every way that a man could be if they let themselves. He wasn’t afraid to be honest, but was instead afraid to voice that too loud. He wasn’t afraid to be emotional or vulnerable with those he trusted - not the unfeeling machine that so many had made him out to be. Bucky had simply needed someone who understood him - or was willing to if nothing else.

Once you’d gotten past all of it, all of the rough nights and moody days, it was worth it. You’d watched Bucky become something he never was before…

He was the one who had taken your relationship a step further.

Tentatively and timidly, might you add. Always endearing. He’d been anxious asking you to come out with him - as though he’d been fighting with himself for a long while on whether or not he should even ask. When he finally called you and asked if you’d like to go out on a date with him tonight - yes, he’d used date - you’d been elated.

And sure, you were moving a little too fast at that moment, but life is short and he’s already on seventy years of borrowed time. Bucky deserves to be loved.

Warm hand had rubbed up the length of Bucky’s bicep, and you gave his shoulder a squeeze when getting off of his motorcycle with a teasing glint in your eyes.

When he walked with you into the building, you hugged his left arm to your side - refusing for any additional space to come between the both of you as you prattled on about 'Birthday', by Dorothea Tanning and how you interpreted it as the door into the imagination, and Bucky was busy trying to remember which painting it was you were talking about - it was 'the winged scared cat-creature on the floor' that rejogged his memory.

Bucky was just happy you clung so easily to the cold and hard metal of his vibranium arm as if it were his own.

Turning into your hall, you’d begun to pull Bucky by the arm. Turning on your heel and offering him a smitten smile when you tugged him closer to your body in a backward walk. His eyes crinkled at the corners with his smile, his smile wide and showing off pretty white teeth. Even the sheepish duck of his head was precious when you led him into your apartment, finally excited to have time where it could be just you and Bucky without prying eyes.

"If you were eager to get home, you could've just said so," Bucky teased you, and you gave a playful smirk in response.

"M'not, I'm just excited to finally be alone with you." you'd cooed, attempting to make the words seductive but honestly they came more sentimental than anything.

The door gave way behind you when you twisted the knob with your one hand, the other still clutching to Bucky's sleeve. It didn't give Bucky a chance to respond to your retort when you tugged him right on into your apartment. Instead, it earned a chuckle that snapped into a gasp with your pull.

It was when that door shut that something came over you. Tucked into your own little corner of the world, you didn’t fear overwhelming Bucky with affection that made him uncomfortable. No worries about people gawking and making him feel out of place (or him being afraid of gawking, really).

When you both were just past the threshold of your apartment, you turned and used your foot to push the door shut. Fingers sliding up Bucky's arm, you used the moment to grab the lapels of his leather coat and step back - coming flush with the door and dragging Bucky right on into your tight space.

Hardly giving him a chance to protest. Wide cobalt eyes study you when you both are finally still, Bucky's hands hovering a little uselessly briefly and while shocked, still pleasantly surprised by your bravery.

"Someone is a little impatient," Bucky comments, expression softening. "Not impatient, just excited." You defend with a loving smile. "I could've sworn there was a bottle of wine mentioned..." Bucky trails. "Can you even get intoxicated?" You rhetorically question with a curious tilt of your head and a knowing grin. "Can't I drink for the taste like most people do?" Bucky retorts. "Touché."

You both fall into a small fit of giggles and soft laughs, the small talk helping to alleviate some of Bucky's nerves. His hands slowly come to settle on your sides since you're not budging from where you'd pressed flat against the door. Enjoying being wedged between a door and Bucky - you'd be crazy not to.

Despite the way, your mind is running a million miles a minute and your gaze can't seem to draw away from Bucky's pouty lips, Bucky doesn't seem to be picking up as easily on your advances. That's okay. He's always been worth the wait.

“...Did you have a good evenin’, doll?” he asks, flesh hand smoothing down to delicately rest on your hip.

“I was with you, wasn’t I?" Bucky looks at you for a beat as if slightly unconvinced... "Yes, Bucky. One of the best dates I've ever been on... ‘S a shame, I don’t want it to end.” You coo, drawing Bucky in closer until you’re both flush against each other. His left-gloved hand lifted to push your hair from your face tenderly.

“Who says it has to end right here?” Bucky hums with his signature playboy grin - no wonder why he had every girl in Brooklyn creaming their panties.

The low husk of his voice strikes you to your very core, allowing your imagination to run wild with the countless thoughts of what the man before you could really do if he tried. Really, it wouldn’t take much; Bucky already had you curled around his finger, whether he knew it or not was another question.

“I thought you’d never ask,” pleased, you lay your hands flat on Bucky’s chest. Feeling under his open coat and hands finding the expanse of muscle. You tilt your head back, biting your bottom lip seductively with a cheeky grin.

You aren’t ready to find Bucky’s eyes watching you so intently. The way he wets his bottom lip before worrying it between his teeth and releasing that pouty lip of his. Eyes boring right into you and keeping you pinned between him and the door. Ever so carefully, Bucky cups your cheek in his large gloved palm. There’s hardly a missed beat when you turn your head and nose affectionately into his palm, able to hear the soft whirring of the machinery before pressing a chaste kiss to leave behind.

“I had fun tonight,” You reiterate to him softly - the drag of your lips accentuated with every word against his palm.

“M’glad. You look good when you’re happy.” Bucky murmurs, but he seems distracted. Cobalt eyes follow every drag of your lips, Bucky exhales a shallow breath.

“I bet I could think of a few ways you could make me even happier, Bucky,” you singsong, hand sliding up over Bucky’s that hold your cheek to press affectionately into his touch. Always grateful for anything, nuzzling into him like a needy kitten.

Part of you is waiting for the next step. For him to make the next move - that’s the dance between you two. You step, and Bucky steps one more further. Playing off of each other. It doesn’t come.

“M’sure you could, sugar,” Bucky starts, and you’re waiting for the ‘But’... “But,” There it is. “Maybe we should slow down just a little. It’s been such a good night…”

“We could make it better,” you offer, and Bucky flushes slightly at the implication.

“...I don’t want to move too fast,” Bucky says after a pause in a hushed whisper - as though scared if he speaks any louder, the universe may come in and rip this good thing away from him as it has a history of doing.

“Listen, I care about you. And I had a really, really good time with you - I’m still so happy you agreed to come out with me. But you’re not- Not some dame. I’m not just trying to get into your pants, Y/N…” Bucky elaborates tentatively, and you watch him with understanding in your gaze.

“I know,” You softly lament. “You’re not that kind of fella, Bucky…” “I want you to feel comfortable with me - happy,” Bucky emphasizes, and for half a moment your heart hurts for the man in front of you. So convinced he’s still capable of doing harm, even after all of this time. “I can’t think of a time I’ve been uncomfortable around you at all, actually,” Softly you contest, and Bucky offers you a briefly amused smile.

“We can take our time,” Bucky presses; You can tell it’s more for him than it is for you. “Anything you need.” No questions about it. Nuzzling into Bucky’s palm, your lips form a chaste smile. “You’re too good to me, sugar…” “Funny, I’ve found myself thinking that all night.” Bucky finds humor in the words; expression softening and some of the tension that had begun to rebuild in him falling away. Bucky laughs. Soft, but rich. He leans in and presses a lingering kiss to your temple; Protective and loving. “Earlier, you said you had fun… So did I. This was one of the best nights in a while for me,” The admission comes with the feel of Bucky’s lips ghosting your skin. It’s distracting.

“I’m glad; You deserve good things, too, Bucky.” Something you tend to try to remind Bucky of often; You’ll slam that fact into his head until he one day decides to believe it for himself and see what everyone else sees. “You are my good thing,” he whispers even quieter; Unintentionally dropping the tone of his voice and sending shivers down your spine.

No words are exchanged when your hands lift and find Bucky’s defined jaw; cradling him gently and drawing him in for a deep but loving kiss. The first of many tonight.

Both you and Bucky had soon migrated from the door in the foyer to your cozy living room. You both struggled to keep space between one another; Lips meeting together over and over again. The only sound was your own heart pounding in your ears and the soft breaths between you and Bucky.

You were planted in his lap. Sat on strong, thick thighs - your arms draped around Bucky’s broad shoulders. His hands sat comfortably on your sides; gloves abandoned on the coffee table when he’d wanted to feel you. Not leather obstructing him from feeling the proper warmth of your flushed skin. His head tipped back to accommodate the way you had gained a few inches on him upon being seated in his lap.

Despite the way you two were entangled, it was nothing more than kisses. His hands hadn’t dared to venture below your belt, and while the kisses were definitely full of passion, it wasn’t the flame you were yearning and burning for. To respect Bucky’s request though, you didn’t proceed any further. Content with the taste of Bucky on your tongue, the warmth of his breath, and the barely there noises you were able to draw out of him that rumbled in his chest. His lips were soft and moved naturally against one another - It was a moment of euphoria.

Just the way your mouths slotted together alone was enough to rile you up; It’d been so long, and no one was as tender a lover as Bucky was with you. Each time he touched you, it was with consideration and care for what you wanted, what would feel good. Never in the means of his own self-gain. It made you that much more desiring of him; the connection that you both maintained had been there for months, it was simply that you both had finally begun to act on it.

You’d told yourself you’d be slow. Take this at your own pace. No one wants to rush into a relationship that has the potential to end messy. But there you were; Necking in your living room with Brooklyn’s finest bachelor since 1936. Truly, you were only human, and it hadn’t escalated further than that. Breathing each other in, heated and heavy. You hadn’t even done it intentionally.

One could only fault you so much when your hips rolled into Bucky’s. Formerly nestled still in his lap, you found yourself moving without thought. Grinding down into the soldier’s lap, it elicited a deep groan from his throat, and tilted his head down to pull your lips apart. His hands instinctively moved to your hips; Clutching moderately tight to still your ministrations. You relished in the subtle pressure that came with Bucky’s hands securely enough to hold you still for hardly a moment. It was enough time for you to have realized the mistake you’d made.

“Shit, I’m sorry–” you stammered between the both of you, and Bucky instead took a shallow inhale. “No, no– It… It was good. It felt good, it’s-... It’s just… been a while.” Bucky timidly expressed, cheeks flushed and breathless. You noticed how he struggled briefly to maintain a heated gaze with you, eyes averting before pinching shut altogether.

“Do we need to stop? It’s okay if we do, Bucky…” Let him know that he had that out if he needed it; You wouldn’t be upset.

That option left Bucky shaking his head profusely. “No,” he rasps out, and you can feel his breath fanning your face. Can still taste him on your lips. You’re both still so close… You can feel the faint flex of his fingers holding you. “I want to keep going… Just… Give me a moment, alright?” He requests, and you give him a comforting smile and an understanding nod.

Your fingers card up into Bucky’s disheveled locks and brush thick hair back from falling in his face. Some of the tension leaves his body when you press a chaste kiss to his temple.

“Whatever you need,” you softly let him know. You’re both still for a minute or two. Simply letting Bucky hold your hips while you kept some of the pressure on your knees - dug into the cushions on either side of his thick thighs. Soothingly rubbing your fingers through Bucky’s hair and giving him a tender hug he relishes in.

Then, slowly, he pulls you back down. Guiding your ass back into his lap and bodies coming flush together. The moment is experimental and you allow Bucky to take all the time he needs even if there is a burning in your thighs from the awkward position. Basking in the relief with a soft sigh and nosing into Bucky’s hair. His hands experimentally dare to explore a little further down. Rubbing from your waist down over your hips to the tops of your thighs. His hands feel like that of a bear's paws in comparison to your physique.

“How are we feeling…?” You ask, checking in on him. “A little better… I’ve been using that 4-7-8 breathing method my therapist recommended, actually,” Bucky says, and you can tell for a moment he just needs to play it by ear. Even if you both don’t do anything tonight, he’s worth the wait.

“Really? That’s good,” Indulging in the moment of chit-chat as his hands still continue the back-and-forth motion. Hypnotizing and leaving your thighs tingling.

Bucky’s reply comes in a soft hum, tilting his head down to nudge his nose at your neck. You tilt your head enough for him to burrow in the hollow of your throat and nose affectionately there. His warm breath makes your skin break out in goosebumps. You let out a shaky exhale before a sappy grin spreads across your face.

He begins to slowly mouth at the sensitive skin of your throat. Gentle kisses and the faint scratch of his stubble that initially tickles enough to make you wiggle in his lap.

“Bucky!” You squeak and you feel the grin against your skin.

“Easy, easy…” Bucky lowly tells you and it burns into your core. It’s easy to go lax when he’s the voice coaxing you back. “Good doll,” Bucky says with a chuckle - clearly teasing but it makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“M’ticklish,” You defend as your arms squeeze around his shoulders. “I can tell. Might come in handy one day…” His lips still ghost over your skin; ever so distracting.

“You wouldn't.” “I might,” Bucky says, his voice smooth but thick like honey.

A playful pinch to Bucky’s shoulder makes him surrender with a laugh before tipping his head up to press your foreheads together again. This time you’re surprised to find his eyes meeting yours head-on.

“Thank you for being understanding,” Bucky addresses the elephant in the room, traces of anxiety in those gray eyes. “I’m still trying to learn how to let myself be with someone else…”

The words feels so raw; A hushed confession and a moment Bucky is being fully honest with you. Not hiding from it or skirting around it - communicating his boundaries and being able to give himself the time he needs. Your chest swells with pride for the man before you in his growth; You’re so inlove.

“It’s okay, really. I’m not here just to get into your pants, Bucky. I care about you, and we can go as fast or as slow as you need.” You affirm, always wanting Bucky to know that. That he’s safe with you the way you are with him.

“I know,” he whispers, tipping his head up a little further to let your lips brush. “It’s why I like you so much…”

You smile, unable to help but feel a fluttering in your chest. Bucky draws you the rest of the way to press your lips together again. Starting from scratch so that Bucky is able to be more expecting and prepared this time. The build-up doesn’t bother you in the slightest, and it doesn’t take the both of you long to build up where you once were. Bucky’s comfortable kissing you. It’s everything else that daunts him.

Bucky is the one who holds your hips tight against his lap as he gives an experimental roll of his hips up into your ass; feeling the semi-bulge through his jeans. You gasp against his lips, and he seizes the moment to lick hot into your mouth. He doesn’t do it again; Teasing you and inviting you to take the next step. Experimentally, you return the gesture when you grind against Bucky’s lap. It draws a noise from both of you at that time.

“Yeah..,” Bucky huskily groans. “That’s good, fuck…” Bucky’s praise eggs you on to keep pressing down into Bucky. Rotating your hips to allow both of you to grind through your clothes; Traces of Bucky’s arousal evident in his jeans.

He steals your breath with a claiming kiss. Strong hands trailing up your thighs to test the waters. Feeling over the swell of your ass and encouraging you to keep pressing down into him. Rutting against his constricted and half-swelled cock. You’re unsure what to do with your hands other than planting them firmly on Bucky’s chest as you grind your sexes together. Fingers curling into bunch fabric of his shirt as Bucky’s head tilts to deepen your kiss further.

With each second that passes, you feel dizzier. High on the endorphins and lack of oxygen - your chest felt warm and fuzzy. Kissed senseless as Bucky’s firm hands squeeze the globes of your ass and rips a needy keen from your throat, drawing your grinds to a controlled halt. Right when you fear as though you might be too light-headed from the lack of air, Bucky shows some mercy. Freeing your lips and leaving you to gasp; Bucky licking his lips with a satisfied grin.

“I think I taste mint, did you pop a tic-tac earlier when I wasn’t looking…?” Bucky breathlessly teases, both of you so close that you can feel his smile. In that moment, you’re simply trying to return to Earth for a moment between soft, airy breaths.

When you will yourself to finally look at Bucky again, his eyes are blown. His black pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes; leaving behind a thin ring. Something inside of him looks livelier than you’ve ever seen, Bucky’s cheeks flushed and lips swollen.

“Jesus, Bucky,” is all you manage, earning a cheeky grin from Bucky - proud. “Speechless? I’m relieved to know after nearly a century I haven’t gotten rusty… It’d be embarrassing if I was 107 and didn’t know how to kiss,” Bucky jokes, and something inside of you feels so warm and fuzzy.

That you both can joke while still being in the moment and grinding into each other moments prior.

“Cocky, are we soldier?” You hum after regaining some of your composure, hands lifting to hold his face. Before Bucky has a chance to speak, the wiggle of your hips draws a reminder of the length in his jeans. Bucky chokes on a stifled groan low in his throat at the way you frott into him.

“Very funny,” he asks, still slightly out of breath.

“You took me by surprise,” you admit softly, “You never seem so brave…” “Frankly, sugar, it’s… Been a really long time. I’ve spent a too long runnin’ and not getting to actually feel alive - I’m not just surviving anymore. It’s taken time and it’ll still take more, but you make me feel better.” Bucky confesses fondly, and you snort with amusement. Pressing a loving kiss to his lips.

“Sap.” You murmur between soft pecks. “Only you could turn something hot into something sweet.” “Can’t we have both?” Bucky cooes. “Absolutely.”

This time, you take lead. Pecking kisses down from Bucky’s lips, over his stubbled cheek and defined jaw. His head tilts back to accommodate the way you nudge, leaving open-mouth kisses in your wake. Sucking the salty skin to leave behind loving bruises that will only last so long with Bucky’s healing factor. He groans; Adam’s apple bobbing when you stamp kisses back up his neck to the juncture of his ear and jaw. A soft kiss before you take a playful nip at his earlobe and send shivers racking through the man under you. “Oh, babydoll,” Bucky sighs airly, taking it upon himself to guide your hips. You move on your own accord as Bucky grinds you into his lap; Moving you back and forth to rut together through your clothes. You don’t have to do any of the work, instead just taking some time to give Bucky the loving he deserves.

When you peer at his face, his eyes are closed. Lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks and lips parted with soft breaths; the occasional clench of teeth pulls out a gravelly rumble from his chest. All of it has you so hot, so riled up. It’s just the two of you alone in the apartment; The air is charged with electricity between the two of you. The scrape of your teeth makes Bucky’s lips curl into a devious grin.

“You’re doin’ so good for me,” Bucky praises. “My pretty baby, yeah… God– Do you feel what you do to me, honey…?” Bucky’s voice was hoarse, the friction working him up just as much as it was you. The throbbing between your legs was becoming insatiable - your answer coming in a whimper as you sucked another purpling bruise into Bucky’s throat.

Your hips move enthusiastically. Trying to meet Bucky for every grind; Becoming too much for him to handle at one point.

“Sl-Slow down, baby… Easy, we’ve got time,” he attempts to coax, but you’re busy chasing that high at that moment. You want to make Bucky feel good - this is doing that for him; Pleasing him.

“What’s wrong, big guy?” You ask with an airy giggle, nosing up to Bucky’s ear. Your lips press against the shell of his ear; “I can’t get enough of you touching me, Bucky. I just want to make you come, thinking about it turns me on so much…”

You don’t realize until it’s too late what the words do to him, whispered out right in his ear. Bucky’s nose scrunches up and his jaw goes slack. His body becomes taut underneath you; Hands clutching hard and leaving a dull ache in your bones despite the way you’re still trying to move. Bucky’s hips stutter harshly, and suddenly he’s gasping out. Moaning low and breathy as he rides out his orgasm with half-hearted bucks up into your ass.

Your eyes widen with a sense of wonder as Bucky comes undone in those short few seconds. His lips curl into a perfect ‘o’ and he shudders, eyes pinched shut. “Ohhhh fuuuck,” Bucky moans, long and drawn out, and there’s not a hotter sight than Bucky Barnes coming because of you. You smile; Pleased with yourself and priding yourself on the fact of being able to be the one to do this to Bucky. You continue the grueling roll of your hips into his hard dick - little left to the imagination while your fingers tangle in his hair and you hold him close. Watching his face all the while; Not wanting to miss a single moment.

Bucky rides it out until he’s left with beads of sweat misting his hairline, panting with the rise and fall of his chest. Taking his time, licking his lips before seemingly becoming sheepish of how easily he’d just fallen apart. No warning; It’s been so long since he’s had another sexual partner to experience these things within a positive environment.

Your hips only stop when he’s well and done, knowing that most guys half the time are one-and-done. “That… That felt really good, m’sorry, it’s– it’s different. With, y’know, someone else… Versus alone…” Bucky manages awkwardly, and you simply draw him in for a lingering kiss.

“I understand,” You murmur comfortingly against his lips. “You can clean up in the bathroom; I don’t have anything in your size for underwear, unfortunately, but I can find a pair of flannel bottoms that might fit…” “What about you?” Bucky asks, raising a brow. “Me?” “You.. You didn’t get to… Y’know.”

It’s oddly endearing how he worries about the fact that you weren’t able to get off the way he had. “What, we’re afraid to use adult language now?” You tease, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “M’bein’ serious. I want you to feel good…” Bucky says, rubbing your thighs soothingly. “I can get it up again if you give me a minute.” He adds, and for a moment you’re confused before placing the answer upon a super soldier refractory period.

“You’d be comfortable with that..?” You ask with a curious tilt, and Bucky bites his lips together; you can see the lingering daze in his eyes from the post-orgasm haze. “No,” he answers almost nervously. “I… Tonight has been a lot already. I don’t think I want to go there yet…” And you expect it to end there, but: “I have something else in mind, though.”

“Oh, do you now…?” you muse, curious. “Have you ever heard of mutual masturbation…?”

You’re both sat facing one another on the couch; One of your legs tucked under your body and pants long abandoned to the floor leaving you in nothing but your underwear. You’d felt far less reluctance than Bucky had when it came to stripping down; The layers shed easily as your anticipation festered more and more to the surface.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t excited. You’ve known Bucky for a while now, and let’s not lie to yourself - He’s a good-looking man who can do things with a single look. The ‘Barnes Charm’ he was so popular for when he was young was still there; Showing itself in small flickers of moments from time to time. The only instances in acting on it on your behalf were in the comfort of your bedroom, alone in the sheets. No one’s business but yours.

But now you’re there with him and no one else. No one to disturb your private moment.

Touch was something that was hard for Bucky - he’d expressed that to you when he stammered over what he’d been asking of you. That he’d rather watch one another right then.

Bucky had no problem drinking you in, either. His eyes were fixed on every movement you made - when you’d peeled your shirt off his eyes followed the expanse of glowing skin and studied it all. Every curve and slope of your body; There was no question of how enamored he was with you. It was the first time in a long time you’d felt truly seen. Someone who wasn’t just trying to get into your pants but found you breathtaking.

It was flattering; You could feel the heat in your cheeks and the way it flustered you to be looked at in awe. There was something about Bucky that made you feel perfect. He was a man that was genuine in everything he did; Not much of a people-pleaser if he doesn’t have to be. Arguably a little stubborn, actually. You knew nothing about the way he looked at you was feigned.

He chews his lip as his eyes study you. Leaned more forward from where he’s sat sideways on his half of the couch. Left hand clutching the back of the couch cushion, Bucky had that familiar bulge in his jeans (which were now unbuttoned and peeled open to show off his navy blue briefs).

“You look so perfect, doll…” Bucky murmurs lovingly after a moment, and your heart melts in your chest.

The words felt too intimate for you to accept easily, but you didn’t want to reject the compliment either. So rather than reply verbally, you leaned back into the cushion propped up behind you and drew your right leg up; Pressed into the back of the couch. Your right leg dangles off the side of the couch and leaving you exposed to Bucky. A welcome invitation if he decides to change his mind and wants to touch you.

Bucky breath hitches; shuddering out a slow exhale through his nose. His gaze is hungry, his hand thoughtlessly moving to his own groin to palm the returning erection.

“I’ll love you right, one of these days, sugar.” Bucky promises with a lick of his lips. “This is just fine for tonight, Bucky,” You reassure him, and his gaze racks up to your face. “Thank you again for understanding,” And the softness in his hungry eyes sends a cold desire to your core - something more intimate about that look than the one threatening to eat you whole. “Anything for you.” You tell him, meaning every word.

With that, you make a deliberate show of teasing your fingers down your chest and tummy before slinking between your legs.

“Aww, that’s it, sugar,” Bucky hums fondly with a breathy chuckle. “Eager little thing, gonna put on a pretty show for me..?”

“Only if you promise to do the same; This is just as much for me as it is for you,” You tease affectionately, mood defiled when you trace your hole with your middle and ring finger. The pads of your fingers are cold on sensitive skin, leaving you to shiver and sigh out an airy moan.

“M’not in nearly as a rush as you are, sweetheart.” Bucky hums, and you catch the way his hand slides down to palm at his cock through his underwear. “So excited to be on display, are we?” “Just for you,” you exhale, preening at the way he looks at you while experimentally dipping the tips of your fingers into your wet and wanting hole.

“Thank God, might have to wring someone by the neck if I gotta share a sight as sweet as this...” The tone is playful and joking, but there are traces of genuine possessiveness in Bucky’s voice. The idea alone is enough to have you showing off; gathering the wetness and making a deliberate show of smearing it over glistening skin. Bucky licks his lips with a look as though he wants to eat you alive.

Atleast it’ll give him something to look forward to for when you both do get to the point you can be physically comfortable with intimacy. You can have more than enough fun with this.

“Mother, mary, n’ joseph…” Bucky drawls; that Brooklyn accent of his coming through thick with the rumble of his words. He relaxes back into the couch while you continue the steady stroke of teasing yourself, playing with your clit and leaving your cunt throbbing. Bucky properly slides his jeans down his thighs and bunches his briefs along with them.

The evidence of his previous orgasm smeared in his soiled briefs, his cock thick and bobbing at the cool air. Bucky hisses through his teeth before spitting into his hand and stroking himself off languidly.

“Don’t stop, sweetheart. Keep touchin’ yourself for me, I wanna see how you like it…” the words were hummed low, squeaking a moan out of you with just the way he spoke to you alone. “Aww, did you like that, baby? Like the way I talk to you..?”

You bite your lip, swallowing back the noises and answering Bucky’s question in a profuse nod. Fingers still insistently tracing yourself to that sweet spot, you could feel the slow knot building in the pit of your tummy.

“Ah, ah, ah… If m’gonna talk, I wanna hear those sweet noises, babydoll. Sing for me,” Bucky cooes with a breathy chuckle, still fucking his fist on the length of his cock. Pre-come beading at the slit and making the tip glisten with the signs of his arousal.

“Oh, Bucky,” You wantonly mewl out, surprising yourself with how helpless you sound. Trailing your slick fingers down to press the tip of your middle finger into your weeping cunt. Experimentally pressing in, having been pent up for what felt likes ages and aching for relief.

“That’s it, baby,” Bucky’s hand begins to speed up over his aching cock; His thickness jerking in his palm whenever you make a particularly sweet noise. “Show me how you stuff that needy cunt; I wanna see how you - fuck - take care of yourself…”

You moan for Bucky; needy and high and airy. It just feeds into his own arousal as he jerks off across from you. His own groans deep and rough - Piercing gaze keeping you pinned to the couch. Unable to look away from the way Bucky’s gaze bore into you.

His eyes watch you expectantly; Waiting for you to do what he’s asked. You oblige.

Your fingers press knuckle-deep into your cunt; Experimentally thrusting into your channel and leaving your back to arch slightly off the arm of the couch.

“Oh,” you mewl out, fingers driving into your hole, stretching your tightness and leaving your arousal to spill out.

Bucky jerks his thick cock, hand sliding easily and the ministration made easier by the pre-come that spills over his fist. He shifts his hips, licking his lips and grinning at the way you fuck yourself open.

“Look at you, such a pretty baby,” Bucky breathes low between pants for air. “If I didn’t know any better I’d have thought you – mmh, god - were waitin’ for this. So eager to get that hole wet…”

The way Bucky talks to you makes your chest flutter. Your face feels hot, gasping as it drives the way you fuck your hole. Watching the up-stroke on Bucky’s cock - imagining the length sliding home into you and whimpering at the thought. Your eyes screw shut, the room filled with the slick sounds of your fingers in your hole.

“Oh no, babydoll, open those pretty eyes. I want you to watch me,” Bucky demands, and your eyes open on command. “Yeah, that’s it… Good baby, see this?” Bucky stops the stroking of his dick to let his fingers wrap around the girth and give a little tap of the tip to his thigh. Showing off the girth and his thick balls.

“Yeah, yeah this is all for you, honey. M’so hard for you, all for you…” The rumble of his voice was soothing as it was arousing.

“Bu-Bucky,” you squeak past trembling lips. Thighs softly quaking — Bucky’s words could get you off alone. Who knew he was such a filthy talker?

“I’m right here, sugar. ‘S okay, make yourself feel good. Don’t gotta hold back for nothin’, show me, pretty thing. I wanna see it all…” It’s permission if you’ve ever heard it, and suddenly at that moment, you realize how dependent Bucky’s say was over your building orgasm. As if your body knew it was waiting on his approval before you could let yourself come undone.

Your legs draw up to clench your thighs – Stopping yourself when you remember Bucky’s eyes are still fixed upon your flushed body. Watching the hypnotizing display of the quick work you made fingering your needy cunt while he relished int he display. Stroking his cock languidly before building up a pace that matched your own; Wanting to follow your arousal with you.

Just because you both weren’t touching doesn’t mean he couldn’t work with you.

It doesn’t take much; Not that it surprises you. You’d been pent up from the previous grinding into one another; hot and bothered by kisses that gave you a hint of what more could be like.

While your one hand is busy playing with your nub, your free hand smooths up to ruck up your shirt. Bucky’s dilated eyes light up even more when your hand moves under your top; Rolling a nipple between your fingers and drawing even more whorish noise from your swollen lips.

Bucky downright growls, hips arching subtly off the couch as he fucks up into his fist.

“Fuck, you like to play with your nipples, baby? Aww, bet you’re so sensitive… Mm, fuck, yea… M’gonna love gettin’ my hands on you when we’re ready. Gonna learn every nook n’ cranny of you; Wanna worship that pretty body of yours.”

He keeps talking like that; each word straight to your aching core and leaving you soaked. Bucky picks up on it in the way you get louder — noisier.

“You like that? Of course you do — who knew you were so fuckin’ filthy, sugar? Aw, m’gonna come, baby,” Bucky’s voice even until it begins to find a sense of urgency towards the end. A sharp breath from him, both of your hands moving while you watch one another. Pleasuring yourselves and being your most intimate selves; On display for one another.

Your jaw is slack, gasping and moaning out pitiful squeaks while you touch yourself. Bucky’s hand moves smoothly over his arousal, the sound of skin on skin as he jerks himself off.

“Oh, oh fuck, please, I-I’m gonna come, Bucky,” you cry out, and Bucky thumbs at the tip of his cock; wrist twisting towards the head.

“Come for me, baby. C-Cream all over your pretty fingers — come for me, come for me,” Bucky’s words drive you over the edge.

Your walls flutter emptily; begging to be filled as you come undone under your fingers. It’s cloud nine, riding out your high on your familiar fingers. Thighs trembling and soaked with your wetness, hips canting up into nothing as you finish on your fingers. Gasping and squealing out until you’re reduced to pathetic whimpers.

Bucky watches you all the while. Fucking his fist and growling out through his bared teeth when you come. Reaching his own orgasm and painting his fist in thick stripes of creamy white that you want to lick clean. He pants, face flushed as his cock spills his heavy load. Staining the denim of his jeans and leaving a mess (though he’s careful of the couch).

You both slump into the couch, still facing one another when the high has passed. Panting for air, the smell of sex and sweat heavy in the air. You’re the one to break the quiet with an airy giggle, which Bucky grinds widely in response to.

“Are you alright, honey..?” Bucky asks curiously, his own voice hoarse and quiet. “Perfect. How’s about a shower…? You’ve already seen me from the stomach down, I’ve already seen your dick. That’s practically all we have. Nothing to hide,” you offer with a roughness to your own voice, swallowing thickly. You smile, still lingering in the soft air of the post-orgasmic haze.

“Sounds perfect, baby. I’ll go get the shower runnin’, okay?” Bucky offers, tucking his mess back into his underwear (he won’t be wearing them much longer anyways). Scooting forward, he uses his clean hand to cup the back of your head and press a gentle kiss to your temple.

You nod with a soft, ‘mhm’. Enjoying the settling moment's peace and serenity despite the cooling wetness coating your thighs. Moving will be awful but it was well worth it.

Bucky certainly leaves an impression. Kicking off the evening with flowers and a ride to the art museum, strolling the halls lovingly with him while partaking in art, only to come back to your apartment and masturbate together. Bucky might be more full of surprises than you thought. You couldn’t be more excited.

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