blurb: after finding out your little secret, rafe is determined to have you
warnings: mentions of dark thoughts, smut, mdni, unprotected p in v, degradation, praising, spanking, tit play, oral (fem receiving), fingering, rough sex
wc: 2.2k
Rafe didnât rush. He waited patiently. Watched you walk around campus, in those little skirts that made him want to bend you and fuck you over right there. Sat behind you in class while you bit your lip in concentration, writing down perfect notes. Made eyes with you across the quad, smirking when you looked away and hurried off. You were so sweet he could almost taste it.Â
The opportunity presented itself mere days later. A group project in a class where you didnât have any friends. Fucking perfect. Just as you were about to tell the teacher you didnât have a partner, Rafe smoothly slid into the seat without you. Topper could figure out who to pair with for once. He didnât care.Â
âYou wanna pair up?â Rafe asked, keeping his voice casual. But he could already feel his jeans tightening from the way you blinked at him. You sure were good at keeping up the act. And he wanted it that way. No one else could know about those sensual videos youâd posted on your private page. Not one other soul deserved to see the way you moved that body of yours. So fucking tempting.Â
âUmâŚâ you murmured, looking around as if waiting for someone to step in. You really were so naive sometimes. As if anyone would save you from him. After a second, you had no choice but to nod. âYeah⌠sure.â
Rafeâs smirk shifted into a grin. He couldnât help it. âMy place or yours?â He watched as your eyes widened, taking in the options. You really didnât have another choice. Rafe didnât even mind. Both choices were sinful in their own way. He imagined fucking you stupid in your bed. Heâd bet your room would be so⌠soft, pink sheets and vanilla candles. And heâd ruin you right there, until all you could sob out was his name-
âYour place,â you finally answered, breaking Rafe out of his thoughts. He didnât give up on those fantasies just yet. There would always be next time. All he needed was for you to say yes. And youâd walked straight into the lionâs den.
The doorbell rang exactly at 5 pm. When you both had decided to meet up. Rafe took his sweet time walking down the stairs, wanting to make you squirm while you waited. Just like youâd teased him with those fucking videos.Â
He watched the way you froze as he opened the door, your eyes locking on his tanned, shirtless body. Of course that was intentional on his behalf. You blushed a bit at the sight of his toned muscles before looking away and stepping inside while Rafe held the door open.Â
âUpstairs,â Rafe murmured, directing you towards the stairs. He couldnât help but stare at your ass as you walked up, thinking about how good youâd look bent over. His jaw clenched.Â
Once you were both inside, Rafe closed the door, quietly locking it. If you noticed, you didnât show it, plopping down nervously on the edge of the bed after Rafe. âD-do you want to start?â
âSureâŚâ Rafe replied, trying his best to pretend he cared. The act lasted about ten minutes before he dropped it.
You were in the middle of going through your notes and making the poster or some shit when Rafe spoke up. âSo⌠I heard you dance,â he muttered casually.
You froze for a second at that, pen stilling before continuing. âI⌠No?âÂ
Rafe smirked, taking the pen out of your hands slowly. âYou know lying isnât a good look for you, sweetheart,â he teased.Â
With no excuse to occupy yourself with, you finally met his eyes. âI-Iâm not lying,â you mumbled, but it was weak.
âNo?â Rafe pouted mockingly. âThen letâs pull up that tiktok account of yours, princess.â He watched as your face flushed at the knowledge of being caught. âReally shouldnât be posting those videos for everyone to seeâŚâ he lectured, leaning closer, breath tingling your ear. âThereâs a lot of bad bad men out there.â
You pulled back with glassy eyes, trying to stammer out something. âI- I wasnât-âÂ
Rafe cut you off with a chuckle. âDonât need to keep up the act now, sweetheart,â he growled, moving your books off to the side. âNot so shy and innocent after all, are you?â
He watched you brace yourself with your hands behind you, giving him the perfect chance to push you back on the bed before climbing over you. The gasp that escaped you sent a thrill through him. You looked so fucking edible right now. All the things he wanted to do to you.Â
You didnât push him back when he moved closer, gently kissing the spot just below your ear before nibbling on the lobe. You shivered, whimpering softly. Rafe groaned at the sound. âSo fucking desperate, arenât you, huh?â
He gently stroked a hand through your hair. âYou donât want anyone else in class to know about those videos, do you, baby? Hmm?â You looked up at him, eyes frantic as you shook your head. Rafe smirked as you played right into his hands. âMm⌠thatâs what I thought. Youâll be such a good girl for me, wonât you?â
You nodded instinctively, savouring the feeling of his hands as they slowly moved to peel off the fitted tank top you had on. Rafe almost moaned at the sight of your bare tits all exposed to him. Fucking hell, you didnât even have a bra on. Were you trying to kill him?
You arched into his touch as Rafe leaned down, taking one into his mouth while pinching the other. âSo fucking pretty,â he groaned against your nipple, the vibrations sending another chill through you.Â
Rafe wanted to savour every second. Tease you until you begged. But he also knew that was fucking impossible, considering how hard he was right now. So he pulled back, licking his lips for your eyes only before ripping off your little skirt, leaving you just in your lace panties.Â
You tried to cross your legs shyly, earning a sharp slap from Rafe directly to your clothed pussy, eliciting a whimper out of you. âDonât fucking hide from me,â he bit out. âNot when you're teasing every man on the internet, sweetheart.â The words made your stomach flip.
Your panties were off the next second, discarded on the floor somewhere with the rest of your clothes. The sight of your pussy alone was something to be devoured. Fuck, Rafe was harder than he ever thought was possible.Â
âR-rafe,â you gasped as his finger trailed up your slit so teasingly, with just enough pressure to make you squirm.Â
Rafe smirked at your reaction. âSo sensitive, huh? And Iâve barely even touched you.â Another smack to your clit followed, making you cry out. âSuch a greedy little pussy.â
He didnât waste another second before licking a stripe straight up your swollen cunt, hands holding your hips down as you tried to buck up. He sucked on your clit hungrily, tongue assaulting the tight bundle of nerves. The little whimpers and cries you let out only fueled him further, causing him to suck harder at your entrance before pulling back. You whined needily.Â
âSuch a messy little slut,â Rafe growled, spreading your folds with two fingers, drenching his digits in the slick. âDripping everywhere.âÂ
He didnât give you a second to react before flipping you onto your stomach, lifting your hips with his hands. Your back arched, lips parting on another whine as his hand came down hard on your ass. Rafe reached down to roughly tug off his boxers and sweatpants, rubbing his hard dick through your wetness.Â
âYouâre gonna take all of me, arenât you?â he teased, pushing in just the tip. Rafe could feel the way you were already clenching so tight, nodding in response to his words. You were going to take it all whether you liked it or not. He pushed in with one deep stroke, bottoming out with a groan.
You let out a little sob into the pillow, hands fisting in the sheets as your pussy enveloped every inch of him. âYouâre so fucking tight,â Rafe purred, savouring the way your warmth swallowed all of him. He gave you another second before moving with a rough pace, sliding his cock all the way out before slamming back in.Â
âMm- Oh! R-rafeâŚâ The sobs of pleasure that fell from your lips were fucking sinful, a combination of quiet whimpers and muffled high-pitched moans. âActing so innocent but here you are. Taking me like a good girl.â Rafe growled, watching the way your pussy fluttered so prettily around his length. âLook at that. All mine.â
His hands fisting in your hair, pulling you back onto his dick. âRafe!â you squealed, feeling him press deeper at the new angle, your back arched further. He smirked, pounding harder, the sounds of skin on skin filling the room.
When his eyes fell on your phone on the nightstand, he had an idea, grabbing it with one hand, the other still tangled in your hair. âOpen it,â Rafe ordered, handing you the phone. You barely managed to hold onto it, let alone type in the pin, shaking with the way he was fucking you.
âThatâs it,â Rafe praised, speeding up his thrusts more as the bedframe shook. âOpen your tiktok.âÂ
You whined, but followed his instructions, pressing on the app icon, your eyes blurry with tears of pleasure. You dropped your head into the pillow to muffle a scream as Rafe hit the spot inside you.Â
Rafe smirked, knowing heâd found it before tugging you back up. He slowed down his thrusts painfully, biting down on your neck. âNow⌠save each one,â he murmured.Â
âRafe, please!â you sobbed, needing him to pick up the pace again. Rafe watched as you tried to push back onto him, but then he fully stopped deliberately, causing you to cry out. Oh, poor thing. You needed him so bad. Needed to come.Â
âNow, now⌠be patient. Do what I say.â Rafe growled, gently stroking your hair. His lips turned up as you nodded, having no choice but to earn you pleasure. You quickly moved through each and every video, saving it to your camera roll.Â
Rafe started moving again soon enough, making you whimper as you sped up your actions. Three dots. Save. Scroll. You tried but couldnât focus on anything, but the way hit that spot again and again, your moans slipping with each thrust.Â
When Rafe saw that you finally saved each one, he stopped again. You thought that was it, did you? You sobbed harder. âP-please! I needâŚâ
âYeah?â Rafe edged without making an effort to move. âSay it. Tell me what you need,â he coaxed gently, hand moving up your neck.
âWanna come,â you whimpered, begging. He could tell you were so close to release, juices dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets. Such a whore. âPlease, Rafe.â
Rafeâs smirk widened as his breath fanned over your ear. âMm? Thereâs just one more thing you have to do, baby. Then Iâll let you come,â he promised. You were his now. And Rafe didnât like to share.
You nodded, your brain turned to mush now. Heâd fucked you stupid after all. All you craved was his permission now. âPlease, Iâll do anything,â you sobbed, pussy aching around his cock. He had you just where he wanted you.Â
âDelete them all.â Rafeâs cold words made you freeze as his grip tightened around your throat.Â
âW-what?â you whispered, partially confused. Such a naive thing. There was no way in hell you thought heâd actually let you keep those up now that he had you like this.
âI said⌠delete. Them. All.â Rafe growled against your ear. Of course youâd fucking listen. âDonât make me ask again.â
He could see the hesitation in your eyes, and it pissed him off. He was getting impatient now. But when he started to pull out just a bit, you whimpered. âYes! Okay! Iâll do it.â
Rafe smirked, pushing back in. âThatâs a good girl.â With each video you deleted, you felt Rafe speed up his thrusts, aiming to hit that spot deep inside you every time. Those videos were for his eyes only now.Â
Rafe let you drop into the sheets as you deleted the final one, taking your phone and tossing it off to the side. âYouâre mine now, understand?â
You sobbed, nodding as his thrusts grew faster and sloppier as Rafe chased the high heâd been craving for weeks. âSay it,â he demanded, his grip on your hips bruising.
âIâm yours!â you screamed as he hit your spot one last time, sending you spiralling over the edge, coming hard. Rafe fucked you through your orgasm, reaching his climax in a few more strokes. âFuck!â He spilt deep inside you, white lines of his cum spilling when he pulled out, falling down on his back beside you. God, heâd never felt so spent.
Your eyes were hazy when he glanced over, pulling you close. You were almost asleep. Clearly exhausted. So sweet and shy. His now.
a/n: part 2 to the previously requested part 1! this one is a lott longer and i honestly love this sm 𼲠this might be the best smut ive ever written đ¤ let's ignore that ive only ever written smut twice but trust more is coming sooonnnn! đ⨠feel free to send in requests for fics, headcanons or moodboards âęŤáŞÝ
đđđđđđđ : after a long patrol, peter climbs through your window exhausted, bruised and still half in the spider-man suit. a stupid joke about whether spider-man could eat you out while hanging upside down turns into peter taking the question far too seriously, and what starts as teasing curiosity becomes a filthy little experiment neither of you wants to stop. 18k
đđđđđđđđ : 18+ . adult!peter parker x fem!reader . established relationship . porn with little plot . spider-man suit kink . upside down oral . cunnilingus . panties kink . overstimulation . multiple orgasms . spit + cum play . messy kissing . face licking . blowjob . handjob . riding . boob worship . nipple play . neck biting . vocal needy peter . floor humping . cum leaking . eating cum out
navigation : kofi .
PETER PARKER HAD DEVELOPED the deeply irritating habit of treating your apartment window like the front door, although calling it a habit made it sound newer than it really was. Somewhere during the months youâd been together, youâd stopped jumping whenever something landed against your fire escape after dark,
stopped reaching instinctively for whatever heavy object happened to be nearest when the window frame suddenly scraped upward, and started recognising the difference between Peter arriving normally and Peter arriving after the kind of patrol that had gone badly.
Tonight landed somewhere in the middle. There was a heavier thump outside than usual, followed by several long seconds of silence, then the faint metallic rattle of somebody getting their footing before your window finally began creeping upward from the bottom.
You were curled beneath a blanket at one end of the couch with some terrible action movie playing on television, and instead of turning around, you merely glanced toward the reflection in the darkened glass across the room as one red-gloved hand appeared around the frame.
Peter was apparently attempting to enter quietly, which mightâve worked considerably better if his shoulder hadnât knocked against the side of the window and made him mutter something irritated beneath his breath. You waited until half his body had disappeared through the opening, one leg still awkwardly outside while he tried not to catch the suit on the frame, before you finally called, âYou know normal boyfriends use the door.â
Everything behind you stopped. Completely. For a second, there wasnât even the sound of fabric moving, and when you finally turned your head slightly, Peterâs masked face had appeared around the side of the curtain, one white lens narrowed at you while the other remained slightly wider in a look that somehow managed to communicate exhausted offence without revealing an inch of his actual face.
He stayed like that just long enough to make your mouth twitch before finishing his climb inside, landing carefully with one boot against the floor and pulling the second over the sill. Peter straightened with a small roll of his shoulder, glanced down at himself as though checking he hadnât brought half the fire escape in with him, then looked toward you again.
âNormal boyfriends donât usually have to explain why thereâs blood on their shirt to the neighbour in 4B,â he said eventually, his voice slightly muffled beneath the mask and flatter than the dramatic defence youâd expected.
The word blood made your amusement disappear at once, your gaze dropping instinctively across the red and blue suit as you searched for whatever tear or stain he was referring to, and Peter noticed before you could even sit upright.
Both of his hands lifted immediately in a placating gesture, palms facing you while he shook his head once. âNot mine.â The tension left your shoulders almost as quickly as it had arrived, and even beneath the mask you could see the tiny shift near his mouth that told you heâd noticed.
Peter looked back toward the still-open window, hooking one hand beneath the frame before pulling it shut with considerably more care than heâd shown while climbing through it. âAlso,â he added as the latch clicked into place, turning back toward you with the faintest shrug, âthe windowâs faster.â
You snorted and sank deeper into the cushions, watching him pretend that was the entire explanation. âYou mean you donât want Mrs. Alvarez asking whether youâve eaten recently.â
Peterâs posture changed immediately, shoulders slumping by half an inch as though youâd found the actual weak spot. He stared at you for a second through the mask, then lowered his chin in reluctant defeat. âThat too.â
He reached behind his head and caught the edge of the mask between his fingers, peeling it upward with a tired exhale until his face finally appeared beneath it, and the teasing comment already sitting on your tongue died before it could leave your mouth. Peter looked exhausted.
Not badly injured, not dangerously so, but worn down in the particular way youâd become increasingly familiar with since Spider-Man had stopped being something he squeezed between all the other pieces of his life and started becoming the thing his life seemed to orbit around.
His hair was damp around his forehead, flattened beneath the mask in some places and sticking out stubbornly in others, and a faint bruise was beginning to darken along one cheekbone beneath a streak of grime that travelled almost to his jaw. Peter caught you staring almost immediately.
His eyes flicked over your face, registered the concern there and then moved away before you could say anything, one hand rubbing awkwardly over the back of his neck while the other folded the mask between his fingers. âIt looks worse than it is,â he murmured, even though you hadnât asked, his attention suddenly fixed on the crumpled fabric in his hands.
You didnât answer straight away. Instead, you slowly raised one eyebrow and let your gaze travel deliberately back toward the bruise. Peter caught the expression from the corner of his eye, closed his mouth and released a quiet sigh through his nose. His shoulders sagged a little more before he looked back at you.
âActually,â he corrected himself, voice softer now, âthatâs probably not true. It looks pretty much exactly as bad as it is.â The dryness of it made the corner of your mouth pull upward despite the lingering concern, and Peterâs expression softened when he realised heâd managed to get even that much of a reaction from you.
You shifted beneath the blanket and patted the empty cushion beside you, expecting him to drop there, but Peter only looked at the space for a moment before walking toward you instead. His steps slowed once he reached the couch, and for several seconds he simply stood between your knees, eyes lowered as if he were deciding whether he wanted to talk about whatever had happened outside.
Then something in him seemed to give. His shoulders dropped, his hands loosened, and Peter bent forward until his forehead came to rest against your stomach. The sudden weight of him made you sink slightly into the cushions, but your hands were already moving before you thought about it, fingers sliding through his sweaty hair and scratching gently against his scalp.
Peterâs eyes closed. His hands settled loosely against either side of your waist, not quite holding you and not quite willing to move away either. âBad night?â you asked quietly, your fingertips moving more slowly through his hair when you felt the tension still gathered at the base of his neck.
Peter remained silent for a few moments. You could feel him breathing against your shirt, each exhale gradually becoming less tight, before he finally muttered, âGuy threw a parking meter at me.â Your fingers stopped.
Peter mustâve felt it because one eye opened and he tipped his head just enough to look up at you without fully lifting it. âMissed,â he added quickly, almost sheepishly, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone.
You stared down at him for a long second, your expression caught somewhere between concern and disbelief, until the faintest smile finally appeared at the corner of his mouth. Your hand resumed its path through his hair, gently tugging a stubborn strand away from his forehead, and Peter let his face settle against you again.
Several quiet seconds passed before his voice came once more, considerably more bitter this time. âPigeon got my sandwich, though.â That finally made you look down properly. âAgain?â The question came out with enough disbelief that Peterâs eyes squeezed shut. His forehead pressed more firmly against your stomach like he was trying to hide from the humiliation entirely. âI donât wanna talk about it.â
Eventually you convinced him to eat the leftovers youâd saved, although convincing mightâve been generous considering all you really had to do was remind him they existed.
Peter disappeared into the kitchen with the heavy, reluctant steps of somebody whoâd only just become aware of how hungry he actually was, and when he returned carrying the container, he dropped onto the couch beside you with the quiet weight of someone whose body had finally realised it was allowed to stop moving.
He didnât change out of the suit. He didnât even remove his boots at first, stretching his legs out and settling them dangerously close to the edge of your rug until you turned your head and stared pointedly at them. Peter noticed after only a second.
His gaze moved from your face to his boots, then to the rug beneath them, before returning to you with a tired expression that made it clear he knew exactly what you were asking without you saying a word. âReally?â he asked, eyebrows lifting slightly as if tonight of all nights shouldâve granted him immunity. You merely continued looking at him.
Peter held your gaze for another second, then sighed and leaned forward, tugging both boots off before dropping them neatly beside the couch. âHappy?â He looked over at you while straightening, the exhaustion around his eyes making the question sound more resigned than annoyed.
You smiled sweetly and adjusted the blanket over your legs. âVery.â Peterâs lips pressed together in a way that told you he had several responses and had decided none of them were worth the energy. Instead, he sank back into the cushions, shifted the food container into one hand and reached for your ankle with the other without seeming consciously aware that he was doing it.
His fingers closed loosely around you, drawing your legs across his lap before he adjusted the blanket over them with a small tug. It had become one of those quiet habits neither of you had discussed. Peter had grown quieter after patrol over the years, less inclined to fill every empty second with nervous chatter and half-finished thoughts, but the silence never meant he wanted distance from you.
If anything, he touched you more when he wasnât speaking. A thumb moving over your ankle. Fingers finding yours underneath a blanket. His shoulder resting against yours until he practically leaned half his body into you. Tonight was no different. He ate with one hand while the other remained curled around your lower calf, his thumb moving absently over your skin whenever his attention wandered from the television.
Several minutes passed before your gaze caught the flash of red beneath the coffee table. One of his gloves had somehow ended up there, discarded carelessly enough that you had no idea when heâd even removed it. You nudged his thigh with your heel, making his hand tighten reflexively around your ankle before relaxing again.
âYouâre leaving Spider-Man everywhere again.â Peter followed your gaze toward the glove. He stared at it for a second, chewing slowly, then looked back at you with an expression of complete seriousness. âEvidence.â You frowned, waiting for the explanation that clearly wasnât coming on its own. âEvidence of what?â
Peter swallowed, lowered the container slightly and considered the glove like he was seeing it for the first time himself. âThat Spider-Man has poor organisational skills.â The complete lack of expression on his face made you laugh before you could help it, and something around Peterâs eyes softened at the sound.
He glanced back toward the television, but you caught the tiny upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. âThatâs not exactly breaking news,â you told him, settling more comfortably against the cushions. Peter nodded once, accepting the criticism with surprising dignity. âFair.â
The movie had become mostly background noise by the time Peter finished eating, although he watched considerably more of it than you did. Every now and then youâd feel his thumb stop moving against your ankle whenever something particularly stupid happened onscreen,
and then youâd glance sideways only to discover him staring at the television with that increasingly troubled expression he got whenever inaccurate physics seemed to personally offend him.
Heâd mostly stopped correcting everything out loud after you threatened to ban him from choosing movies following one particularly unbearable evening involving a collapsing suspension bridge, but his face still betrayed him completely. When one character somehow survived being launched through a concrete wall, Peterâs brow furrowed so deeply that you could almost hear the lecture happening inside his head.
A few seconds later, his eyes slid toward you. You didnât even look at him fully. âNo.â Peterâs eyebrows climbed. He shifted slightly beneath your legs, his mouth opening as though he was genuinely offended by the accusation. âI didnât say anything.â You finally turned your head and pointed toward his face with one finger. âYour face did.â
Peter stared at you for a beat, clearly considering whether this counted as a fair argument, then pressed his lips together and looked back toward the screen. The movement didnât hide the little smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. A few minutes later another character ended up dangling upside down from the edge of a rooftop, their body swinging dramatically above several floors of open air, and your attention lingered there longer than it had on anything else in the movie.
Slowly, almost without meaning to, your gaze drifted toward Peter. He was leaning deeper into the couch now, one arm stretched along the back cushions while his other hand continued resting loosely around your ankle. The bruise remained visible along his cheek. His hair was still a complete disaster. The upper half of the suit remained annoyingly tight across his chest and shoulders, every shift of his body making the fabric move with him.
A completely unnecessary thought entered your head. You recognised immediately that it was unnecessary. You also knew that Peter would never let you forget it if you actually said it aloud. Unfortunately, restraint had never been your greatest quality around him. âCan you actually stay like that?â you asked eventually, nodding toward the screen while keeping your tone as casual as you could manage.
Peter followed your gaze. His eyes moved from the dangling character back toward you, and he tilted his head slightly as though making sure he understood the question. âUpside down?â You nodded, pretending you hadnât given the question much thought. Peterâs shoulders lifted in a small shrug. âYeah.â
You looked back toward the screen while his thumb began moving against your ankle again. âFor how long?â This time he didnât answer immediately. His brow furrowed slightly while he considered it, gaze drifting somewhere past the television as though he was mentally checking his own limits.
âA while,â he said finally. There was another pause. Peterâs lips pressed together, and then he corrected himself with the kind of reluctant honesty that always betrayed him. âProbably as long as I wanted.â
You hummed beneath your breath and kept looking toward the television, although you could feel Peterâs attention remain on you. He knew you too well. Worse, years of relying on tiny movements and split-second changes in body language to stay alive had made him obnoxiously difficult to fool, which meant your attempt at appearing casually interested had probably failed before youâd even opened your mouth.
Still, you pushed your luck. âWouldnât all the blood rush to your head?â you asked, keeping your eyes forward while you shifted one shoulder deeper beneath the blanket. Peterâs fingers slowed against your ankle. The scientific part of his brain visibly took over for a moment, his eyebrows drawing together as he considered the question properly despite the growing suspicion in his eyes.
âNot the way it would for you,â he explained, his thumb resuming its movement as his attention drifted briefly toward the ceiling. âCirculationâs different. Everything compensates pretty quickly.â You nodded slowly as though this information had been exactly what you were after.
For approximately two seconds, you almost got away with it. Then the corner of your mouth twitched. Peterâs hand stopped dead against your skin. You didnât look at him immediately, which only made it worse, because you could practically feel his gaze move over the side of your face.
Several long seconds passed before he finally spoke. âWhat?â There wasnât much amusement in his voice yet. Mostly suspicion. You shook your head, pressing your lips together harder in an attempt to flatten the smile. âNothing.â
Peterâs eyes narrowed slightly. His grip around your ankle loosened, but his hand remained exactly where it was. âThat wasnât nothing.â The certainty in his tone made you glance toward him at last, and you immediately regretted it.
Peter was watching you with the calm, patient expression of somebody who had already realised you were guilty and was simply waiting for you to confess. You shrugged and looked back at the television. âI was just thinking it could have practical applications.â Peter went completely still.
There wasnât an immediate joke, and that was the first thing that made warmth curl unexpectedly through your stomach. The younger Peter wouldâve stumbled over five different responses before eventually choosing one, but this Peter had learned how to let silence sit between words instead of panicking and trying to fill it. His thumb remained motionless against your ankle while he stared at you, face unreadable for several long seconds.
Then his gaze moved toward the television. After another beat it travelled upward toward the ceiling. You watched the tiny crease form between his eyebrows and immediately knew his brain had started working. âDonât,â you warned, sitting a little straighter beneath the blanket.
Peter turned his head toward you again, blinking once as if genuinely confused by the accusation. âI didnât say anything.â You gave him a pointed look, because silence had never stopped Peter Parker from being obvious. âYouâre thinking.â
One eyebrow lifted. He looked almost offended by the concept. âUsually happens.â You pushed his thigh lightly with your foot, but his hand closed more securely around your ankle before you could actually land the kick, the movement effortless and almost automatic.
A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth when you narrowed your eyes at him. âPeter.â Hearing his name in that warning tone only seemed to encourage whatever was happening behind his eyes. He looked toward the ceiling once more, gaze tracking the exposed beam crossing part of the room before returning to you.
âWhat practical applications?â The question was delivered so calmly that for a second you simply stared at him. Your confidence began disappearing now that he was actually making you explain yourself. Peter waited. He didnât rush you or start talking over the silence. He simply watched, fingers resting warm around your ankle while his expression remained deceptively neutral.
âYou know what I mean,â you muttered eventually. Peterâs eyebrows rose another fraction. âI really donât.â He absolutely did. The amusement had already started showing around his eyes even if the rest of his face remained composed. You stared him down for another few seconds before releasing a defeated breath through your nose.
âI was wondering if Spider-Man could eat pussy upside down.â The words came quickly once you finally forced them out, and the second they landed between you, your face heated enough that you immediately covered part of it with one hand.
The apartment fell painfully quiet except for the dramatic soundtrack still playing on television. Peter didnât move. You could feel him staring at you through the spaces between your fingers, and embarrassment rushed in quickly enough that you groaned. âForget I said anything.â
Peter didnât laugh. Somehow that was considerably worse. Instead, his gaze slowly travelled upward toward the exposed support beam running across part of your ceiling, and his expression became genuinely thoughtful.
You lowered your hand enough to peek at him through your fingers, disbelief replacing some of your embarrassment when you realised he was actually considering it. âOh my God.â
Peter glanced toward you. There was the faintest pull between his eyebrows, like he didnât understand why his reaction was surprising. âWhat?â
You dropped your hand completely and sat straighter. âYouâre actually thinking about it.â His mouth pressed into a line that was very obviously concealing something, although whether it was amusement or embarrassment you couldnât immediately tell. Peterâs gaze drifted back toward the beam for another second before settling on you. âYou asked.â
You let out a disbelieving laugh and shook your head. âAs a joke.â Peter didnât answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on yours, and something quieter shifted behind them. Eventually, he tilted his head slightly. âWas it?â The question was soft enough that your body betrayed you before your mouth could, heat climbing further into your cheeks while you shifted beneath his stare.
You crossed your arms defensively. âYes.â Peter gave one small nod. âOkay.â That shouldâve been the end of it. Instead, the ease with which he accepted your answer irritated you instantly. Your eyes narrowed. âWhy did you say it like that?â His brow furrowed, but the movement was a little too innocent. âLike what?â
You stared at him in disbelief. Peterâs thumb had started rubbing against your ankle again, slow and absent, while he tried very hard to look like he genuinely had no idea what you were talking about. âLike you donât believe me.â
For a second he looked down at where his hand rested against your skin. When his eyes returned to yours, his expression remained calm, but the smallest spark of amusement sat behind it. âBecause youâre blushing.â Your mouth fell open. Peter gave you a tiny shrug. âObservation.â
You grabbed for the nearest cushion without thinking. Peter caught it before you got halfway through the swing, one hand closing around the edge with ridiculous ease. A quiet laugh escaped him as your expression sharpened, the sound warm and surprised, like he genuinely hadnât expected you to resort to violence.
âYouâre annoying,â you informed him, tugging once at the cushion before giving up when he didnât budge. Peter pushed it gently back into your lap. âYeah,â he said, settling back against the cushions with a tiny smile. âIâve heard.â
The teasing shouldâve ended there, but Peterâs attention travelled toward the ceiling again, and this time you watched him properly. His eyes tracked the exposed beam, then the distance between it and the couch, and something in his expression shifted so subtly that you almost missed it.
The Spider-Man part of Peter had always been different from the Peter everyone else met. Not a separate person exactly, but a version of him stripped of some of the hesitation that followed him through ordinary life. Lately, the line between the two had become thinner. He didnât need to posture or brag about what he could do.
Confidence simply settled over him whenever he knew exactly what his body was capable of. âIt would work,â he said eventually. The statement came so casually that it took you a second to realise what he meant. You blinked and shifted your legs slightly across his lap.
âWhat?â Peter looked back down at you, as though the answer shouldâve been obvious from the entire conversation. âWhat you asked.â His fingers loosened from your ankle and travelled absently higher along your calf before coming to rest near your knee.
The movement wasnât overtly sexual, but your attention dropped toward it anyway. âPhysically, I mean.â Your stomach tightened slightly at the matter-of-fact tone. âYouâve put thought into this remarkably fast.â Peterâs shoulders lifted with a small shrug. âOccupational hazard.â
You stared at him until his expression finally cracked, the corner of his mouth pulling upward. âAnd youâre the one who asked.â Your eyes narrowed. âIâm starting to regret it.â The response came before Peter could stop himself.
âNo, youâre not.â It was quieter than everything else heâd said, immediate enough that both of you paused. Peter seemed to hear himself a second late. Something shy flickered over his face and his gaze dipped toward your legs before returning to you. He cleared his throat softly.
âI mean,â he added, suddenly looking far less certain than he had two seconds earlier, âyou donât look like you regret it.â There he was underneath the maturity, still Peter enough to talk himself straight into embarrassment and get faintly pink around the ears once he realised it.
âYouâre getting awfully confident for somebody who climbed through my window ten minutes ago complaining about a pigeon,â you murmured, and the comment made Peter breathe out a laugh as he gently shifted your legs away from his lap.
He pushed himself upright and stood, stretching one shoulder until something clicked quietly beneath the suit. His face tightened for half a second at the feeling before relaxing again, and then he looked down at you.
âThe pigeon caught me off guard.â His delivery was so completely serious that your mouth twitched. You gave him a pointed look anyway. âSure.â
Peter stepped closer until his knees nearly touched yours, and the humour remained in his expression even as something warmer started settling underneath it. He rested one hand against the back of the couch beside your shoulder, leaning forward only slightly, but enough that you had to tip your chin upward to keep looking at him.
Up close, you could see every sign of the night heâd had. The small cut near his temple. The bruise along his cheek. The shadows beneath his eyes that told you sleep had probably been optional far too often lately. Yet his attention had narrowed entirely onto you now.
âYou know,â he murmured, his gaze flicking briefly over your face, âyouâre making fun of me, but this was your question.â You tried to maintain the same unimpressed expression even as your pulse picked up. âA hypothetical question.â
Peterâs eyes dropped toward your mouth. They stayed there for one brief second before returning to yours. âRight.â You swallowed without meaning to. His gaze sharpened immediately, because of course he noticed that too.
The corner of his mouth lifted. âVery hypothetical.â You placed one hand against the centre of his chest and pushed lightly, though he barely shifted beneath your palm.
âDonât be smug.â Peterâs brows lifted, his expression instantly innocent. âIâm not.â You gave him a look. Peter lasted approximately another second before his mouth twitched. âMaybe a little.â
His hand moved from the back of the couch to your jaw slowly enough that you felt every second of it, fingertips settling lightly beneath your chin while his thumb brushed once across your cheek. There was nothing rushed about Peter anymore when he touched you like this.
Even when some lingering patrol adrenaline remained beneath his skin, even when you could feel the strength he constantly kept restrained whenever his body moved near yours, there was a deliberate patience to him that hadnât existed when he was younger.
He leaned closer until his forehead nearly touched yours, but he stopped just short of actually kissing you. His eyes moved between yours, waiting. You were the one who closed the distance. The first kiss was soft, almost frustratingly so considering the conversation that had led to it, Peterâs mouth moving slowly against yours while his fingers remained warm beneath your jaw.
Your hands caught the front of his suit and pulled him closer, bunching the material beneath your fingers, and a quiet breath escaped through his nose as he let the kiss deepen. His other hand settled against your knee, palm warm through the thin fabric covering you, before sliding gradually higher along your thigh.
He stopped well before reaching anywhere intimate, but the weight of his hand there was enough to make your body shift beneath him. Peter noticed. You felt the tiny pause in his mouth against yours before he pulled away just far enough to look at you.
His lips remained close enough to brush yours whenever either of you breathed. âStill hypothetical?â he asked softly. Your eyes opened fully and found him watching you with restrained amusement, his thumb still moving slowly against your cheek.
You tightened your grip against his suit. âYouâre enjoying this way too much.â Peterâs eyes dropped toward your mouth again while he considered that. âA little.â Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, followed the line of your jaw and stopped beneath your ear. His breath warmed your skin there, and when your shoulders shifted involuntarily, Peterâs hand flexed lightly against your thigh. âMostly Iâm curious.â
âYouâre such a fucking nerd,â you whispered, although there wasnât much conviction left behind the insult with his mouth still lingering against your neck. You felt him smile rather than saw it, the movement pressing faintly against your skin before he lifted his head. âYou brought science into it.â
You laughed softly and let your hands slide higher along his chest. âI asked whether you could eat pussy upside down. I didnât exactly submit a research proposal.â Peter looked at you for one long beat, his eyes darkening with amusement before he murmured, âCouldâve fooled me.â You pushed his shoulder again on instinct.
Peter caught your wrist automatically before your hand travelled more than a few inches, his fingers closing around it with almost insulting ease. He didnât pin it anywhere or tighten his grip. Instead, he turned your hand over slowly and pressed his mouth briefly against the centre of your palm.
The affection of the gesture caught you so completely off guard that whatever retort youâd been preparing disappeared. Peter seemed to notice the way your expression softened, because his own did too before he released your wrist.
He stayed standing between your knees, close enough that the fronts of his legs brushed yours whenever either of you shifted. âThere are variables,â he said after a moment. You stared up at him. âThere absolutely are not.â
His brows rose, and some of the scientist returned to his face. âThere absolutely are.â He wasnât babbling through the thought process anymore the way he once mightâve. Instead, he considered each thing before saying it, gaze moving briefly around the room as though he were actually planning the logistics.
âHeight,â he said first, looking toward the ceiling. His eyes moved downward again, briefly measuring the space between you and the beam. âAngle. Where youâre sitting.â Then his gaze returned to your face and lingered there. âHow much you move.â
Heat rushed into your cheeks immediately. âHow much I move?â Peter nodded once, maintaining complete seriousness for approximately half a second before the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
âThat seems relevant.â You stared at him. âYouâre impossible.â His expression softened into something almost unbearably fond. âYou like me.â
Before you could give him the satisfaction of answering, Peter stepped backward and tilted his head toward the ceiling again. His gaze locked onto the exposed beam, and in that instant there was another subtle change in him, the tired boyfriend whoâd been sprawled across your lap quietly making room for the man who spent every night calculating distances in fractions of seconds.
He lifted one wrist. The movement was casual, practised enough that he barely needed to look before firing a strand of webbing upward with a sharp thwip, the line attaching cleanly around the beam overhead. Peter gave it one firm tug, testing the hold, then glanced toward you when you immediately sat straighter on the couch.
âPeter.â His hand stopped around the web. He looked at you over his shoulder, expression open but carrying that small spark of amusement heâd been trying and failing to hide for the last ten minutes. âWhat?â
Your eyes travelled from his face to the line stretching toward the ceiling and then back again. âYouâre seriously doing this.â Peter didnât answer right away. His gaze dropped briefly toward your legs, then moved back to your face, and despite all the quiet confidence from seconds earlier, a faint flush began creeping along the tops of his ears.
That tiny betrayal made your mouth curve. He caught the smile immediately and narrowed his eyes just slightly. âYou started it,â he reminded you, voice softer now. Then Peter caught the web firmly with one hand, planted the other palm against the wall and stepped onto the vertical surface as naturally as somebody else might climb a staircase.
There wasnât any theatrical flourish to it. One second he was standing beside you, and the next his body moved smoothly upward, muscles shifting beneath the suit as his hands and feet stuck effortlessly to the wall. You watched him climb, your eyes travelling farther than you intended before Peter stopped halfway toward the ceiling.
He turned his head and looked down at you. His gaze immediately caught yours somewhere around his waist before you could drag it back toward his face, and the little smile that appeared told you heâd noticed exactly where youâd been looking.
Peter adjusted his grip around the web, briefly glanced toward the ceiling as though genuinely checking the logistics one final time, then looked back down. âFor the experiment,â he started, trying for clinical and failing because his voice had gone noticeably lower,
âIâm probably gonna need your underwear out of the way.â The words hung there for a second. Peterâs expression shifted almost immediately afterward, confidence giving way to sudden self-awareness as he visibly replayed the sentence inside his head.
His lips pressed together. His cheeks warmed another shade. Then he looked off toward the wall and muttered, âThat sounded better in my head.â
You shouldâve laughed at him, because the faint colour spreading over Peterâs cheeks after his own terrible choice of words was painfully endearing, but the amusement caught somewhere in your throat when you realised how fast the atmosphere in the room had changed.
The oversized shirt youâd thrown on earlier suddenly felt considerably less innocent where it hung loose around your body, its hem barely covering the tops of your thighs and leaving nothing underneath except the soft cotton panties already clinging wetly to your cunt.
There wasnât a bra beneath the shirt either, because there hadnât been any reason for one when your original plans involved a couch, leftovers and probably falling asleep against Peter before the movie finished, but now you were painfully aware of your nipples tightening beneath the thin material
and the way the shirt shifted against them whenever you breathed. Peter noticed too, because of course he did, his eyes dropping for half a second before flicking guiltily back toward your face as though getting caught staring somehow mattered after the conversation youâd just had. That tiny flash of embarrassment only made the heat curling through your stomach worse.
You shifted against the cushions without meaning to, thighs pressing together beneath the hem of your shirt, and the movement made you feel exactly how wet youâd become. Your panties were warm and damp against your pussy, slick spreading through the cotton where it pressed between your folds and dragging against your clit every time you moved, making the ache beneath it noticeably sharper.
It had happened gradually enough that you hadnât properly noticed at first, beginning as nothing more than a little warmth when Peter started taking your stupid question seriously, building every time his voice dropped or his hand lingered against your thigh or that quiet Spider-Man confidence replaced the awkward embarrassment in his face. Now there was no ignoring it.
Your cunt felt swollen beneath the thin fabric, your clit throbbing against the soaked cotton, and squeezing your thighs together only forced the material tighter against you in a way that made your breath catch. Peterâs eyes dipped toward the movement, and the way his jaw tightened told you he knew exactly what was happening.
He was still clinging halfway up the wall when his gaze settled on your thighs properly. You watched the exact second he noticed the damp centre of your panties beneath the loose hem of your shirt, because his expression changed so slightly anyone else mightâve missed it, the amusement fading into something heavier while his mouth parted around a silent breath.
You swallowed beneath the weight of his stare and slowly let your knees fall apart by a few inches, the oversized shirt sliding higher over your skin until more of your bare thighs were exposed to him. Peterâs eyes followed the movement helplessly before darting back to your face, almost like he was trying to pretend he hadnât just stared straight between your legs.
You let him struggle for another second before tilting your head and asking, âYou gonna keep analysing it from up there, Parker, or are you actually planning on proving something?â
The words came out more confidently than you felt, and Peterâs lips parted immediately like some smart response had occurred to him, only for his gaze to fall between your thighs again and apparently wipe the thought straight out of his head.
He forced himself to look toward the ceiling instead, taking one slow breath that expanded his chest beneath the tight suit while he visibly tried to collect himself.
The pink across his cheeks didnât disappear, but something else settled over his expression, quieter and more focused, that familiar shift where Peter stopped looking like the tired man whoâd climbed through your window and started looking like Spider-Man calculating exactly what his body needed to do.
He tightened one hand around the strand of webbing heâd attached to the exposed ceiling beam and planted his opposite palm firmly against the wall, fingers adhering instantly to the surface. Peter gave the web a hard downward tug to test the hold, then another, his forearm flexing beneath the suit while he checked the angle and distance above you.
Even though both of you knew his webbing could support far more than his weight, he still treated the setup seriously, eyes travelling along the line to the beam before returning to the open space in front of the couch. Watching him turn something so filthy into a genuine logistical problem made your pussy pulse again.
Once Peter was satisfied, he pushed himself upward. One foot stuck to the wall, then the other, his knees bending as he climbed higher with that unnerving ease that always reminded you his body didnât obey the same rules as yours.
He moved slowly enough that you could watch every controlled shift of muscle beneath the suit, hands and feet alternating against the wall until his head was nearly level with the ceiling. Peter paused there, twisted enough to look over his shoulder at you and immediately caught your gaze somewhere lower than his face.
The suit had pulled tight across his stomach and hips from the position, leaving very little to the imagination, and the slight lift of his eyebrow told you he knew exactly what youâd been looking at. He didnât tease you for it, though. He only swallowed, glanced down toward your spread thighs again, then deliberately turned his attention back to what he was doing before either of you embarrassed yourselves further.
Peter shifted both feet from the wall onto the ceiling itself, one after the other, until he was crouched completely above you like gravity had simply stopped mattering. Both palms pressed flat against the ceiling while his knees bent beneath him, and his messy brown hair had already started falling away from his forehead.
He repositioned one hand, then slowly rotated his hips, moving one foot and then the other until his back faced the wall and his body was aligned directly above the space between your knees. The movement was controlled and strangely graceful, every adjustment precise enough that you could tell he was already thinking about where his mouth needed to end up.
Then Peter caught the webbing again with both hands and released his feet from the ceiling. His legs unfolded above him as his body gradually lowered beneath the beam, gravity pulling him straight until he hung fully upside down in front of you.
His hair dropped toward the floor immediately, soft brown strands hanging messily away from his forehead and making him look unmistakably like Peter despite the Spider-Man suit covering everything else.
He gave the web another firm pull, tested his weight, then released one hand and twisted his shoulders slightly to make sure he wasnât going to rotate once he started moving against you. His free palm briefly pressed against the wall beside him, steadying his body while he adjusted the webbing around his wrist and lowered himself another few inches.
Peterâs eyes narrowed in concentration as he measured the distance between his face and the edge of the couch, then looked at you, down toward the floor from his inverted perspective and back toward you again. âToo high,â he muttered quietly to himself, releasing a little more web until his upside-down face was almost level with your knees.
The seriousness of it shouldâve been funny, but there was something obscene about watching Spider-Man carefully calibrate the exact height he needed so he could eat your pussy comfortably.
You couldnât help smiling at him while he made one final adjustment, and Peter caught it from the corner of his eye. His brows pulled together as he stretched one arm toward the wall again, using his palm to stop the last slow swing of his body before becoming almost perfectly still.
âWhat?â he asked, a faintly defensive edge slipping into his voice as though he suspected you were about to make fun of him. You shook your head slowly, letting your gaze wander down his inverted body again because there was something unfairly attractive about how comfortable he looked hanging there.
âNothing,â you murmured, and Peterâs mouth twitched because neither of you believed that for a second. Once he was satisfied with the position, he released the wall and let both hands drop toward you, flexing his fingers experimentally while checking whether maintaining the position took any actual effort.
Apparently it didnât. He looked almost irritatingly relaxed hanging upside down in front of you, like this was simply another perfectly reasonable way for him to spend an evening.
âOkay,â Peter murmured eventually, and his voice had gone noticeably rougher than before. His eyes travelled from your face down toward the oversized shirt pooled around your thighs, then lower still until his gaze settled on the damp cotton between them. You watched his throat work when he swallowed.
The change in him made you scoot forward without being asked, the couch cushions compressing beneath your weight as you moved toward the edge, and Peter immediately adjusted in response. He released tiny lengths of webbing at a time, lowering himself inch by inch until his face lined up perfectly with the space between your thighs.
Every time you shifted forward, he compensated automatically, like some part of his brain was mapping the distance before you even stopped moving. Youâd watched Spider-Man judge impossible gaps between buildings in fractions of seconds, twist through traffic and catch himself midair without hesitation, and now every bit of that ridiculous coordination was being devoted to putting his mouth exactly where you wanted it.
When you finally reached the edge of the couch, Peterâs upside-down face was directly between your knees. His hair almost brushed the floor beneath him, and his shoulders hovered close enough that your thighs could touch them if you spread a little wider. The humour disappeared from his expression the moment you did.
You let your knees fall apart slowly, deliberately, watching his reaction while the hem of your oversized shirt slid higher and exposed more bare skin until the soaked centre of your panties was completely visible to him. Peterâs eyes followed every inch of the movement.
His lips parted when he saw how dark the cotton had become between your legs, and his breathing changed before he said anything, one deeper inhale expanding his chest before he released it slowly through his nose.
You felt another warm pulse of slick leak from your cunt into the fabric under his stare, making the already damp cotton cling more tightly to your folds.
Peter looked back toward your face for a moment, then down again like he simply couldnât stop himself. When your own gaze travelled down the inverted length of his body in return, tracing the suit over his chest and stomach before reaching his hips, you immediately noticed the shape beginning to push against the fabric between his thighs.
Peter was getting hard just from watching you spread your legs for him. His cock thickened beneath the suit until the material stretched visibly tighter around it, the outline becoming harder to ignore every time his eyes returned to the soaked cotton covering your pussy.
Seeing that reaction made your cunt clench. Peter noticed where you were looking and let out a tiny, embarrassed sound in the back of his throat, but the flush crawling over his upside-down face did absolutely nothing to stop his cock from straining harder against the suit.
He reached for you carefully once you were settled. Both hands slid around the backs of your thighs, palms warm against your skin as he gently pulled you a little closer toward the edge until your covered pussy hovered only inches above his mouth.
The strength in his grip was obvious despite how careful he was, fingers spreading against your thighs while he adjusted you into exactly the position he wanted and then immediately loosening again. His eyes returned to your panties.
Peterâs tongue dragged slowly over his bottom lip before he hooked two fingers beneath the waistband at one hip, his knuckles brushing your skin and making your stomach tighten. âLift up for me,â he murmured,
and the slight roughness in his voice made the request sound considerably dirtier than it needed to. You planted your hands against the couch and raised your hips, watching Peterâs gaze darken as he started pulling the cotton slowly downward.
The panties peeled away from your pussy with a damp little drag that made heat rush straight into your face. Peterâs eyes snapped toward the movement, watching the fabric separate from the slick caught between your folds before he guided the waistband over your ass and down your thighs.
You lifted one leg, then the other, allowing him to slide them completely free, and cool air hitting your bare cunt made you inhale sharply. Your thighs twitched around his head while your pussy clenched around nothing.
Slick immediately gathering glossy between your swollen folds now that nothing covered them. Peter stared. For several seconds he didnât seem capable of doing anything else, your panties held loosely in one hand while his eyes traced every wet inch of you.
You expected him to throw the panties somewhere. Instead, his attention dropped to the fabric in his hand. The centre was visibly soaked, dark with your arousal, and Peterâs fingers tightened around the cotton almost without him realising it.
His eyes flicked toward you briefly, something embarrassed already creeping across his expression, before he lifted the panties toward his nose and inhaled. His lashes fluttered shut.
The pathetic little whimper that escaped him sounded completely involuntary, soft and needy enough that his entire body went still the instant he heard it. Peterâs eyes opened again, cheeks burning while he stared at the underwear still held against his face like he couldnât believe his own reaction.
You bit your lip to stop yourself laughing, but Peter caught it immediately. His eyes narrowed in warning, though whatever dignity he was trying to recover disappeared when he pressed the soaked cotton more firmly beneath his nose and took another slower breath. His mouth parted.
Another tiny, broken sound caught somewhere in his throat, and his cock visibly twitched beneath the suit at the same time. âPeter,â you breathed, his name coming out somewhere between disbelief and a moan, and the sound made his eyes snap back toward yours.
There was embarrassment in them, plenty of it, but there was something hotter underneath now, a kind of needy fascination he clearly couldnât hide.
He lowered the panties from his face but didnât let them go. Instead, Peterâs gaze travelled between your legs again, settling on your exposed pussy where your folds were already shiny with slick.
Your lips were swollen from arousal, parted enough that he could see the wet little opening lower down and the way your cunt clenched every time his eyes lingered there.
Peter stared openly. His tongue moved across his bottom lip while his breathing grew a little heavier, and you watched another visible throb travel through his cock beneath the suit. âFuck,â he whispered almost absently,
the word slipping out before he seemed aware heâd actually spoken. When your pussy clenched again in response, a fresh bead of slick gathered at your entrance and began sliding downward through your folds, and Peterâs eyes locked onto it instantly.
He leaned closer, but instead of putting his mouth on you immediately, the hand still holding your panties moved between your thighs. Peter folded the soaked cotton loosely around two fingers, his eyes lifting toward yours as though checking your reaction before he touched you.
The first drag of fabric over your clit was almost unbearably light. Damp cotton brushed across the swollen little bud, carrying your own slick with it, and your hips jerked forward before you could stop yourself. Peterâs lips parted around a quiet breath. He did it again, slower this time, rubbing the wet fabric directly over your clit in a small circle while watching your face with intense concentration.
The texture made everything feel filthier. The panties were already soaked from being pressed against your cunt, and now Peter was using that same wet patch to stroke your clit, dragging the soft cotton over it until the fabric became even slicker.
Your thighs spread farther around his head, and Peterâs cock twitched visibly beneath the suit when he saw you deliberately open yourself wider for him. He rubbed the panties against your clit again, applying a little more pressure this time, and a shaky moan slipped out of you before you could swallow it.
Peterâs expression changed immediately. Something pleased and slightly wrecked moved across his face, his eyes dropping toward the way your pussy glistened beneath the fabric.
He shifted the panties lower for a second, dragging the soaked cotton through your folds and pressing it lightly against your entrance before pulling it back toward your clit.
The sensation made your cunt clench against the fabric, smearing more slick into it, and Peterâs eyes went almost painfully dark when he watched your body wet the panties even further.
He brought them back toward his face without thinking, took another breath against the newly soaked cotton and whimpered again, louder this time. The sound made your stomach tighten so hard it almost hurt.
Peter looked genuinely pathetic about it, hanging upside down with your panties clutched in one hand, cheeks flushed, cock straining against the suit and eyes half-lidded because apparently smelling and touching your wet cunt at the same time had overwhelmed whatever remaining dignity he possessed.
âYou like that way too much,â you murmured breathlessly, watching Peterâs expression tighten in embarrassment before his gaze returned between your thighs. He didnât deny it. Instead, he dragged the panties once more across your clit, slow enough to make your hips chase the pressure, then let the fabric fall away from you while keeping it clenched in his fingers.
Your pussy looked even messier now, slick spread over your swollen folds and clit from the rubbing, and Peter stared at the shine covering you. His mouth opened slightly. The tip of his tongue appeared against his bottom lip. You could practically see the moment restraint disappeared.
Peter leaned closer without touching at first. Warm breath rolled across your exposed cunt, making your thighs twitch around his shoulders, and his eyes lifted toward yours from between them. The look on his face made your pulse jump.
There was still a little awkward Peter beneath it, still that faint flush along his cheeks, but the confidence had settled back over him now that he knew exactly what he wanted to do.
He closed the remaining distance and pressed his mouth directly against your pussy. The first contact was open and wet, his lips settling over your slick folds before his tongue dragged slowly from your entrance upward.
He started at the wet little hole already leaking for him, catching the slick there with the tip of his tongue before flattening it against you and licking all the way through your folds. When his tongue passed firmly over your clit, your entire body jerked.
One hand flew into Peterâs hanging hair and closed around a fistful of it while your thighs threatened to clamp around his head. Peter groaned straight into your cunt when you pulled him closer, the vibration travelling through your clit
and making your hips buck hard enough that both of his hands immediately returned to your thighs. He steadied you with effortless strength, fingers digging carefully into the soft flesh while his mouth stayed exactly where you wanted it.
Being upside down didnât hinder him in the slightest once he found the angle. If anything, Peter seemed fascinated by figuring out what worked from the position, lowering himself another fraction on the web and turning his head until he could bury his mouth comfortably against you without straining his neck.
His tongue pushed between your folds again, licking through the slick coating you before dipping lower toward your entrance. He collected everything your body gave him before dragging it back toward your clit, smearing your arousal over the swollen bud with broad, messy strokes.
You could hear how wet you were every time his mouth moved. Soft, filthy sounds filled the apartment beneath your breathing, and Peter seemed to fucking love every one of them.
His nose brushed against your clit when his tongue slid lower, nudging it accidentally before he realised the reaction it caused. Your hips jerked. Your fingers tightened painfully in his hair. Peterâs eyes opened wider and immediately did it again on purpose, pressing the bridge of his nose against your clit while his tongue worked lower through your folds.
The combination made a broken sound tear from your throat, and Peter groaned directly against your pussy like hearing you lose control was affecting him just as badly. His cock jerked visibly inside the suit. Even upside down, you could see the thick outline trapped against the fabric, painfully hard and twitching every time you moaned his name.
When Peter finally wrapped his lips around your clit, your back arched away from the couch. He sucked slowly at first, tongue pressing against the sensitive little bud inside his mouth while your thighs shook around him.
Your grip in his hair tightened until you were practically using it to hold him exactly where you wanted him. Peter let you. More than that, the pathetic moan that vibrated against your cunt when you pulled his hair told you he fucking liked it.
His hands spread your thighs wider, fingers firm but careful, and he buried his face deeper between them until his mouth and chin were shining with your slick.
Every time you forced yourself to look down, the sight made the pleasure worse. Peter looked obscene hanging upside down between your legs, messy hair falling toward the floor while his mouth worked relentlessly against your cunt.
Your pussy was visibly swollen around his face, wet folds spreading around his tongue every time he licked upward, slick coating his lips and gathering along his chin.
Whenever he pulled away just enough to breathe, you could see your arousal glistening across his skin. Then his mouth would immediately return, like even a few seconds away from tasting you was too long.
Peterâs eyes were half-lidded but intensely focused. Whenever you made a particularly desperate sound, they opened wider and fixed on your face, watching for the exact movement that had caused it before he repeated whatever heâd done.
His tongue slid back down to your entrance, circling it slowly before pushing inside just enough to make your cunt tighten around him. Peter whimpered when he felt you clench. The sound came muffled and needy against your pussy, followed by another little twitch of his hips in the air as if his body was searching automatically for something to grind his cock against.
Your gaze travelled down his inverted body again, following the tight suit over his stomach and hips until you found the thick outline straining between his thighs. Peter was fully hard now. Painfully hard from the look of it, the fabric stretched tight enough around his cock that every involuntary twitch was obvious.
He hadnât touched himself once. He was getting that worked up purely from being between your legs, from licking your cunt and smelling your wet panties and feeling your pussy clench around his tongue. The knowledge made another rush of slick spill from you.
Peter caught you staring at his cock. His eyes followed your gaze as much as his inverted position allowed, and for a second embarrassment flashed visibly across his face. It didnât last long.
Something filthier replaced it, something hot and needy and almost proud when he realised you were watching exactly how hard eating you out had made him. He held your gaze as he lowered his mouth back toward your pussy. Then he wrapped his lips around your clit again and sucked hard enough to make your whole body arch.
The cry that tore from you was loud enough that Peterâs eyes widened for half a second. Then something pleased flickered across his face. He sucked again, slower this time, tongue pressing insistently against your clit while his lips pulled around it.
Your thighs shook so badly against his hands that he tightened his grip enough to keep you comfortably spread. Your fingers twisted deeper into his hair, and you ground shamelessly against his mouth, using him while he hung there between your legs. Peter moaned like the idea of being used for your pleasure was doing something terrible to him.
His cock twitched again. Hard. The movement was obvious enough that you couldnât stop staring, and when Peter noticed your eyes drop there, another pathetic little sound vibrated against your cunt. âFuck, Peter,â you gasped, voice breaking around his name while your hips rolled harder against his tongue.
He answered by dragging one long stroke through your pussy, licking from your entrance all the way over your clit before immediately repeating it. Your own slick coated his tongue, lips and chin, and every time he licked you clean your body seemed determined to make another mess for him.
He looked completely gone on it now. Flushed, breathless, hanging upside down with your soaked panties still twisted around one hand and his cock straining desperately beneath the Spider-Man suit while his tongue worked over your cunt like he couldnât make himself stop.
Every few seconds his fingers tightened around the panties, almost like heâd forgotten he was still holding them until the smell reached him again. Once, he brought them briefly back beneath his nose while his mouth hovered inches from your pussy and took another deep breath, eyes closing as a shaky whimper escaped him. The sight was so fucking filthy that your cunt clenched hard enough for Peter to see it.
His eyes snapped open. He watched your pussy contract around nothing, slick shining at your entrance, and immediately dropped the panties away so he could put his mouth back on you. His tongue pressed against your clit with quicker little strokes now, then slowed deliberately whenever your hips started moving too frantically.
Peter was learning you too easily, teasing without even seeming to mean to, changing rhythm every time he felt your thighs tremble or heard your breathing break. The pleasure tightened lower in your stomach, hot and heavy and increasingly difficult to ignore.
Your head fell back against the couch. The oversized shirt had ridden high over your stomach from all the movement, leaving most of your thighs and lower body completely exposed while Peter kept you spread open for him. Your mouth stayed open around helpless sounds that only seemed to encourage him.
Every time you whispered or moaned his name, Peterâs cock jerked beneath the suit and another needy sound escaped into your pussy. He was so hard from eating you that it looked genuinely uncomfortable, but he still never reached down to touch himself.
When your thighs began shaking harder around his head, Peter tightened his grip just enough to steady them. His eyes lifted toward your face from between your legs, his expression flushed and desperate despite the control in every movement of his mouth.
His lips were wet. His chin was slick. Your panties were still clutched in one hand. His cock was painfully hard beneath the suit. He looked utterly wrecked by your pussy and somehow still completely determined to keep going until you were worse.
Whatever stupid joke had started this had disappeared completely. There was nothing hypothetical about Peter hanging upside down between your legs anymore, mouth buried against your dripping cunt while your thighs trembled around his head and your fingers pulled at his hair.
The experiment had stopped being about whether Spider-Man could eat pussy upside down somewhere around the moment heâd whimpered into your soaked panties. Now it was just Peter licking, sucking and grinding his mouth against you with his cock painfully trapped inside his suit, apparently determined to find out exactly how badly he could make you fall apart before he finally had to come back down.
Peter was so completely lost between your thighs by that point that whatever embarrassment heâd carried into the whole thing had burned away, leaving him flushed, needy and devastatingly focused on your pussy. His tongue kept working over your swollen clit in slow, wet circles before flattening firmly against it, and every time your thighs trembled around his head his fingers flexed into the soft flesh to keep you spread exactly where he wanted you.
Your hips had stopped pretending to stay still, grinding shamelessly against his mouth whenever he found the right pressure, and Peter took every movement without complaint, letting you push yourself harder against his tongue while he moaned beneath you. The slick noises coming from between your legs were impossible to ignore now, wet and messy every time his mouth dragged through your folds, and Peter seemed to get more worked up with every sound.
Your gaze kept slipping down the inverted length of his body toward the cock straining inside his suit, and this time you noticed the fabric over the head had begun to darken. A tiny wet spot had appeared where his tip pressed against the material, followed moments later by another glossy bead of precum soaking through when his cock twitched violently at the sound of you moaning his name.
Peter noticed exactly where you were staring, his eyes following your gaze as much as the upside-down position allowed, but instead of becoming shy again, he let out a pathetic little whimper directly against your cunt.
The vibration rolled through your clit and made you jerk against him, your fingers tightening in his hair while another bead of precum seeped through the suit, leaving the fabric visibly damp around the head of his cock.
He hadnât even touched himself, hadnât reached down once despite how painfully hard he looked, and knowing that eating your pussy alone had him leaking into the Spider-Man suit made your stomach pull tighter with pleasure.
Peter felt you getting close before you managed to tell him. Your breathing had become uneven and broken, your thighs trembling constantly instead of occasionally, and every slow circle of his tongue made your cunt clench helplessly around nothing. Your fingers twisted harder into his hair when his lips closed around your clit, and Peter answered with a hungry moan, sucking the swollen little bud while the tip of his tongue rubbed firmly over it.
Your stomach tightened painfully. Heat gathered lower and lower until your entire body felt wound around the sensation of Peterâs mouth, and when he sucked again while his tongue flicked against you, the pressure finally broke. Your orgasm hit hard enough that your body went rigid before immediately falling apart beneath it, hips bucking into his face while your pussy clenched and pulsed through each wave. Peter didnât stop.
He groaned against you as you came, keeping his lips and tongue pressed against your clit while fresh slick spilled across his mouth, coating his tongue, lips and chin as he licked you through every trembling aftershock.
Your thighs tried to close around his head, but his hands held them apart with gentle strength while you cried his name and ground against him, too overwhelmed to care how messy you were making his face.
The sight of you cumming seemed to hit Peter almost as hard as it hit you, because his cock jerked sharply beneath the suit and another wet bead of precum pushed through the fabric, joining the dark patch already spread around the tip.
By the time the orgasm began fading, your whole body had gone loose and shaky against the couch, your clit still twitching with sensitivity every time Peterâs tongue passed over it. You had to tug gently at his hair before he finally understood that you needed him to stop, because heâd become so absorbed in licking the last of your slick from your folds that he seemed genuinely reluctant to pull his mouth away.
Peter left one final kiss against your pussy before lifting his head, and the sight of him made something hot stir inside you all over again despite how sensitive you still were. Your slick was smeared all over the lower half of his face. His lips were wet and slightly swollen from eating you, his chin glistened beneath the light from the television, and there was even a faint shine along the edge of his cheek where your arousal had spread while you ground against him.
Peter looked up at you from his inverted position, breathing heavily, hair hanging messily toward the floor and expression completely satisfied with what heâd done to you. You reached toward him before youâd even fully decided what you wanted, fingers sliding beneath his jaw and turning his upside-down face slightly toward you.
His eyebrows lifted in question, but Peter stayed perfectly still when you leaned forward and dragged your tongue slowly across his chin. The taste of your own slick hit your tongue immediately, warm and intimate from where it coated his skin, and Peterâs mouth fell open around a soft sound when you licked another stripe upward toward the corner of his mouth.
You cleaned your arousal from his face slowly, tongue passing across his jaw, chin and swollen lips, deliberately gathering every wet trace heâd left there until his skin was almost clean.
Peter watched you the entire time. His eyes were darker now, following the movement of your mouth with obvious hunger while his cock continued twitching helplessly inside the damp suit. You licked the final streak of slick from his bottom lip and sat back just enough to let the mixture of your arousal and saliva collect deliberately in your mouth instead of swallowing it.
Peterâs expression shifted as he realised what you were doing, his eyes widening slightly before dropping toward your lips. You kept one hand beneath his jaw and tipped his face toward yours. âOpen your mouth,â you told him softly. Peter obeyed immediately, lips parting and tongue visible while he looked at you with the same needy openness heâd shown when heâd sniffed your panties earlier.
You leaned closer until your faces were only inches apart, held his gaze and spat the slick mixture straight onto his tongue. Peter made a quiet, breathless moan when it landed in his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he closed his lips, swallowed everything youâd given him and then ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip like he didnât want to waste even the taste left behind.
You watched his throat move as he swallowed, and his cock jerked beneath the suit hard enough that another tiny bead of precum soaked through the already damp material. The reaction pulled a satisfied smile from you, and Peter looked almost dazed when you brushed your thumb across his wet lower lip before telling him, âCome back down.â
Peter reacted immediately, although he was noticeably less composed than heâd been when he originally positioned himself above you. He reached upward along the webbing and pulled himself toward the ceiling with one arm, the muscles across his stomach tightening beneath the suit as he brought both feet back against the surface above him.
His palms adhered beside them while he twisted his hips and shoulders, carefully turning himself from the inverted hanging position into a crouch against the ceiling. He released one hand, planted it firmly against the wall and transferred one foot onto the vertical surface before the other followed, movements still controlled despite the obvious erection trapped painfully between his thighs.
Peter climbed downward quickly, peeling one hand and foot from the wall at a time while the remaining limbs kept him anchored, until he was low enough to simply push away and land softly on the floor in front of you.
He had barely straightened before you stood. Your legs immediately betrayed you, knees wobbling from the orgasm strongly enough that Peterâs expression changed and one hand shot instinctively around your waist to catch you.
A quiet, breathy laugh escaped him, but it lasted barely a second because you grabbed the front of his suit, pulled him toward you and kissed him hard. Peter stumbled half a step before recovering, one arm tightening around your waist while the other hand slid behind your neck, and then his mouth opened against yours without hesitation. You could still taste yourself faintly on his tongue when it met yours, the knowledge of what heâd just swallowed making the kiss feel filthy in a completely different way.
There wasnât any of Peterâs earlier shyness left once you were standing together. He kissed you with an open hunger that made it obvious how long heâd spent desperately hard while concentrating entirely on you, tongue pushing against yours while his hands moved restlessly over your waist and back.
Your body pressed flush against his, and the instant his cock was trapped between your stomach and his suit you could feel exactly how hard heâd become. You slid one hand down between your bodies and covered the thick bulge through the fabric, pressing your palm firmly against his cock. Peter immediately broke the kiss with a loud, helpless moan against your mouth, hips jerking forward into your hand before he could stop himself.
Heâd never been particularly quiet when sex was involved, and now that the embarrassment was gone he didnât bother holding back anything. Every slow stroke of your palm over his cock pulled another sound from him, sometimes a rough groan from deep in his chest, sometimes a higher broken moan when your fingers rubbed directly over the damp fabric covering his sensitive head.
You could feel the heat of him even through the suit, his cock solid beneath your hand and twitching hard whenever your thumb circled the tip. Peter rested his forehead against yours for a second, eyes squeezing shut while his mouth remained open around another needy sound, then immediately kissed you again like he couldnât stand being separated from you for even that long.
You kept palming him while you kissed, fingers tracing the full outline of his cock through the suit from the base to the leaking tip. The wet patch of precum had spread enough that the material felt faintly damp beneath your fingertips, and when you rubbed over it Peter shuddered visibly.
His hips rolled forward on instinct, pushing his cock harder against your palm while his hand tightened against your waist. âKeep doing that,â he breathed against your lips, voice rough and broken, and you barely gave him time to finish before dragging your palm slowly down the length of him again.
Peter moaned openly into your mouth, completely unconcerned with hiding how good it felt. There was something incredibly sexual about how expressive he was, the way every touch pulled an immediate reaction from him, whether it was his breathing catching, his stomach tightening beneath the suit,
his cock jumping against your hand or another sound spilling straight into your kiss. The shy colour remained faintly across his cheeks, but it wasnât embarrassment anymore. He wanted you to know what you were doing to him.
The oversized shirt still hanging around your body suddenly felt like far too much clothing. You pulled back just enough to catch the hem with both hands and dragged it slowly upward over your stomach, and Peterâs attention immediately dropped toward the movement.
The fabric rose past your ribs, exposing more bare skin, and his breathing changed when the lower curves of your boobs appeared. You pulled the shirt completely over your head and tossed it somewhere behind the couch, leaving yourself naked from the waist up in front of him. Peter went completely still for a second.
His cock was still pressed against your hip through the suit, his lips remained wet from kissing you, but his eyes dropped straight toward your boobs with such naked appreciation that your nipples hardened beneath the attention alone.
His hands lifted slowly, almost reverently, palms settling around the soft weight of your boobs before his thumbs brushed across both nipples. The contact made you inhale sharply, and Peterâs eyes immediately lifted toward your face to watch your reaction before returning to your chest.
He touched your boobs like he couldnât get enough of them. His hands squeezed gently, thumbs rubbing across your hardened nipples before his fingers spread underneath and lifted them slightly in his palms. Peter leaned forward and kissed the upper curve of one boob, then another kiss lower, then another closer to your nipple until his tongue finally dragged slowly across it.
Your fingers slid into his hair as his lips closed around the sensitive bud and sucked, and Peter groaned softly into your skin when you pulled him closer. His free hand kept kneading your other boob, thumb circling the nipple before pinching it lightly enough to make your back arch toward him.
He switched sides after a moment, kissing his way across your chest and taking the opposite nipple into his mouth while his hand returned to the first. Peter looked almost drunk on touching you, mouth warm and wet over your boobs while his cock repeatedly twitched against your body.
Every little sound you made encouraged him, and between kisses he murmured how soft you felt, how pretty your boobs looked in his hands and how badly heâd wanted to get your shirt off since youâd spread your thighs for him earlier.
Eventually you had to pull him away by the hair because Peter seemed perfectly willing to spend the rest of the night with his face buried against your boobs. He lifted his head reluctantly, lips swollen and damp, eyes unfocused for a moment before landing on your face.
Your fingers travelled down the front of his suit, and the second Peter realised you were trying to get it off, his own hands immediately joined yours. He peeled the upper half away from his shoulders first, dragging the tight material down his arms and exposing his chest and stomach inch by inch.
You ran your palms over the warm skin as it appeared, feeling the lean muscle underneath while Peter breathed harder beneath your touch. The suit gathered around his hips, and he hooked both thumbs under the fabric before pushing it farther down.
You helped, dragging the material over his hips and thighs while Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other until the suit finally released what it had been compressing for the last several minutes.
Peter sucked in a sharp breath the second his cock sprang free. It was hard enough to stand heavy against his lower stomach, thick and visibly flushed from being trapped inside the suit while he ate you out. The head was darker than the rest, glossy with precum, the slit wet enough that another clear bead gathered while you stared before slowly rolling over the rounded tip.
A thick vein ran visibly along the underside of his shaft, disappearing near the base where dark curls spread above it, and every few seconds his cock gave another involuntary twitch toward his stomach. The skin looked stretched tight around how full he was, his balls drawn close beneath the shaft from how painfully aroused heâd become without touching himself.
Peter looked down at you watching him and let out a shaky breath, but there was no attempt to cover himself or hide anymore. His chest rose and fell quickly, his hair was still ruined from your hands, his lips remained swollen from your kisses and your slick, and another bead of precum had already formed at the tip of his cock by the time your eyes returned there.
You watched it swell slowly at the slit before dragging your gaze back up Peterâs body and meeting his eyes. His throat moved in a hard swallow when he saw the expression on your face, and without breaking eye contact, you slowly lowered yourself onto your knees in front of him.
Peter went completely still when your knees touched the floor, his entire body seeming to lock around the sight of you looking up at him from beneath your lashes. For all the confidence heâd carried once he had his mouth between your thighs, this was different, because now there was nowhere for him to hide from how badly he wanted it.
His cock stood hard and heavy in front of you, thick enough that your fingers barely looked like enough when you wrapped one hand around the base, and the heat of him against your palm made your stomach tighten all over again. Another bead of precum gathered at the slit while you watched, glossy and clear, swelling slowly before beginning to slide down over the flushed head.
Peterâs breath hitched when you leaned forward instead of touching it with your fingers, and the sound broke into a low moan the second your tongue caught the bead from his tip. He tasted salty and warm, the precum spreading across your tongue as you dragged it slowly around the head, taking your time with the sensitive ridge until Peterâs hand shot out and braced against the wall beside him.
His mouth had fallen open already, eyes fixed on you like he couldnât look away even if it killed him, and when you licked over the slit again, his hips jerked forward so sharply he immediately choked out, âSorry, sorry.â The apology only made you smile around him, because he looked ruined before youâd even properly started.
You kept one hand around the base of his cock while the other settled against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense beneath your palm as you dragged your tongue down the underside of his shaft. He was so hard that every vein stood out beneath your mouth, the thick one underneath pressing against your tongue when you licked slowly from the base back to the tip.
Peter made a broken sound above you, not quiet or restrained, just openly needy, his fingers spreading against the wall as if he needed something solid to keep himself upright. You circled the head with your tongue again, then kissed the slick tip in a deliberately soft, filthy little gesture that made his cock twitch against your lips.
âDonât tease,â he breathed, voice rough and already unsteady, and when you glanced up at him, his face was flushed so deeply that even his ears were red. You rewarded the plea by taking the head of his cock into your mouth, lips sealing around him while your tongue pressed firmly against the underside.
Peterâs reaction was immediate and loud, a full moan spilling out of him as his head tipped back, throat exposed, chest rising hard with every breath. The sound made your pussy clench even though he wasnât touching you anymore, and you hummed around him just to feel the way his whole body shuddered.
The vibration nearly took his knees out. Peterâs other hand flew into your hair, not pushing, not forcing, just grabbing like he needed to hold onto something before his body forgot how to stand. You took him a little deeper, jaw stretching around the thickness of him while your hand stroked what your mouth couldnât fit yet, twisting slowly at the base.
His cock was hot and heavy on your tongue, precum smearing against the roof of your mouth as you worked him in shallow, wet pulls. Peter kept making sounds with every motion, soft gasps turning into rougher moans whenever your lips tightened or your tongue dragged over the sensitive head on the way back up.
He tried to watch you, but every few seconds his eyes squeezed shut like the sight was too much, only to open again almost immediately because he clearly couldnât stand missing it. Your free hand slid higher up his thigh, nails lightly dragging against his skin, and his cock jumped in your mouth hard enough to make you pause.
Peter looked down quickly, breath catching when he saw the way your lips were stretched around him, and the hand in your hair tightened before loosening again in the same second.
You pulled off just enough to breathe, letting your lips drag slowly over the head before he slipped free with a wet sound. Peterâs hips twitched toward your mouth again, desperate for the warmth heâd just lost, and you looked up at him while stroking him with your hand instead.
His cock was slick now from your mouth and his own precum, your fingers gliding more easily as you pumped him from base to tip, thumb circling the flushed head each time you reached it. âLook at you,â you murmured, voice low as your gaze travelled over his flushed face, his open mouth, the way his chest kept lifting quickly. âYou were so noisy eating my pussy, and now youâre even worse.â
Peter let out a strained laugh that broke halfway into another moan when your thumb pressed directly over the slit. âCanât help it,â he admitted, his voice rough and breathless. The honesty in it made heat lick up your spine.
He wasnât trying to be controlled now, wasnât trying to make some awkward joke or act composed, and when you leaned forward to lick a slow line up his shaft again, he moaned your name so openly that you felt it between your legs. You took him back into your mouth before he could say anything else.
This time you pushed deeper. Your lips slid down over him inch by inch while your hand tightened at the base, and Peterâs entire body went rigid above you. His fingers threaded through your hair again, trembling slightly as he fought the instinct to buck into your mouth, and you could feel the restraint in every tense line of him.
You hollowed your cheeks and dragged upward slowly, then sank back down, wet heat closing around him while your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock. Peter swore under his breath once, sharp and helpless, then immediately fell into a string of broken sounds that barely formed words at all.
His hips began moving in small involuntary rolls, not enough to take control, just enough to chase the rhythm of your mouth, and you let him because the desperation of it made your thighs press together. Saliva gathered at the corners of your lips, mixing with the precum leaking from him until every stroke sounded slick and obscene.
When he looked down again, his face went utterly wrecked, eyes dark and unfocused as he watched his cock disappear into your mouth. âYou look so good like that,â he said, the words uneven and breathless, like theyâd been dragged out of him against his will.
You moaned around him at the praise, and Peter nearly folded. His hand left the wall and landed on the back of the couch instead, gripping it hard while his other hand stayed buried in your hair. You pulled back, breathing through your nose, then took him deeper again, relaxing your jaw until the head of his cock pressed farther into your mouth and made your eyes water slightly.
Peter noticed instantly, his expression flashing with concern through the haze of pleasure, and his hand loosened in your hair as if he was ready to pull you off. Instead, you looked up at him and kept going, letting your tongue move against him while you held his gaze. That did something awful to him.
His mouth fell open, no sound coming out for half a second before a loud, broken moan finally escaped. His cock pulsed against your tongue, precum spilling thicker now, and you swallowed around him just enough to make his thighs tense beneath your hands. âBaby,â he gasped, the pet name sounding almost ruined, âyouâre gonna make me cum if you keep doing that.â
You pulled back again, but only to lick across the head and smear the mess over your lips before taking him back in. Peter looked down at your mouth, then at your eyes, and the flush across his face deepened into something almost feverish.
You stroked the base with your hand while sucking the head, tongue flicking over the slit each time more precum gathered there, and his hips began to shake with the effort of keeping still.
Every sound he made was raw and immediate. A gasp when you tightened your lips. A moan when you dragged your tongue underneath.
A broken little whimper when your hand slid lower and cupped him gently while your mouth kept working over the tip. His cock throbbed heavily in your grip, the skin slick and hot, and you could feel how close he was by the way his body kept tensing, releasing, then tensing again.
Peterâs fingers curled through your hair without pulling, his eyes never leaving your face now, and the naked want in his expression made your own body ache. He looked like he wanted to apologise for how desperate he was, but every sound coming out of him said he didnât want you to stop.
You didnât. You sank down again, slower this time, taking him as far as you comfortably could while your hand worked the rest in a tight, wet rhythm. Peterâs head tipped back, throat working around a helpless moan as his stomach muscles tightened sharply.
His cock pulsed hard against your tongue, and you felt the exact moment he started losing control, the rhythm of his breathing breaking apart while his hips gave another restrained little thrust.
âIâm close,â he warned, voice strained and shaky. You answered by moaning around him and looking up, letting him see that youâd heard him and werenât moving away. Peterâs eyes snapped back down to yours, stunned and overwhelmed, and the sight of you on your knees with your lips wrapped around him seemed to push him right to the edge.
His hand tightened in your hair, not guiding, just holding on, and he made the softest, most wrecked sound when your tongue pressed firmly along the underside of his cock. Then his whole body shuddered, his cock swelling against your tongue, and he came with a loud, broken moan, spilling hot into your mouth while his hips jerked forward once before he caught himself.
You kept your mouth on him through it, taking every pulse while Peter trembled above you. His cum coated your tongue in warm, salty bursts, and his sounds turned softer but no less desperate as you slowly worked him through the aftershocks.
His hand slid from your hair to the side of your face, fingers shaking slightly as he looked down at you with his mouth open and eyes blown wide. You didnât pull away until his cock softened only a little against your tongue and his breathing had turned ragged enough that each exhale sounded almost pained.
When you finally let him slip from your mouth, a thin string of spit and cum connected your lower lip to the flushed head for a second before breaking. Peter stared at it like the sight might actually finish him all over again.
You swallowed slowly while looking up at him, and the tiny sound that left him afterward was almost pathetic. His thumb brushed over your cheek, tender despite the filth of the moment, and for a second neither of you moved.
Then you leaned forward and pressed one last slow kiss to the sensitive tip of his cock, just enough to make him twitch and suck in a sharp breath. Peterâs knees actually bent slightly that time, his hand dropping back to the wall for balance while he gave you a breathless, almost wounded look.
âYouâre trying to kill me,â he said, voice hoarse and uneven. You smiled up at him, still on your knees, lips wet and swollen, your thighs sticky from your own earlier orgasm and your chest bare beneath the dim light of the room.
Peter looked at you like he didnât know whether to pull you up and kiss you or collapse right there in front of you. His cock was still slick between you, sensitive and flushed, a little cum still glistening near the slit, and even though heâd just finished, the way his eyes moved over your face and boobs made it obvious he wasnât done wanting you.
He reached down carefully and slid his hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up with a softness that somehow made the whole thing feel even dirtier. Then he bent, caught your mouth in a deep, messy kiss and moaned when he tasted himself on your tongue.
The kiss didnât stay soft for even a second. Peter bent over you with one hand still beneath your chin, mouth opening immediately when yours did, and the taste of him on your tongue made his whole body tense like the filth of it had travelled straight through him. You rose from your knees slowly, legs still unsteady, but the second you were upright your hands went to his chest and pushed.
Peter let you move him without resistance, stumbling backward until the backs of his knees hit the couch and he dropped onto it with a breathless little sound. His cock was still flushed and slick from your mouth, softer than before but not fully down, lying heavy against his lower stomach with the head still wet and sensitive.
Peter looked up at you with messy hair, swollen lips and a dazed kind of hunger still all over his face, like he shouldâve been spent but wasnât even close to done wanting you. You climbed over him before he could say anything, one knee sinking into the cushion beside his hip and then the other until you were straddling his lap, your pussy hovering over his cock while he stared down between your bodies.
His hands immediately went to your waist, fingers spreading over your skin like he needed to feel you everywhere at once. You wrapped your hand around him, feeling him twitch weakly in your palm, still wet with spit and cum, and Peterâs breath caught when you dragged the softened head through your folds.
He made a broken sound when you pressed the tip against your entrance, his eyes snapping up to your face as if he hadnât expected you to move so quickly. You didnât give him much warning. You sank down slowly, pushing the slightly soft head inside your wet pussy and feeling your body stretch around the thickness of him even before he was fully hard again.
Peterâs mouth fell open. His fingers tightened on your waist, and the noise that came out of him was low and helpless, almost overwhelmed by the sensation of your slick cunt surrounding him while he was still sensitive from cumming in your mouth. âI wanna feel you get hard inside me,â you murmured, leaning down until your mouth brushed his ear, and Peterâs hips jolted upward beneath you at the words.
You took him deeper inch by inch, your pussy hot and soaked enough to pull him in despite the softness still lingering in his cock, and every little squeeze of your walls made him swell more against you. Peterâs head fell back against the couch, throat exposed, chest rising sharply as he tried to breathe through it.
You could feel the change happening in real time, his cock thickening inside you, filling you more completely with each pulse, going from pliant and sensitive to heavier, harder, more insistent as your body clenched around him. The feeling was filthy enough to make your own breath shake, because you could tell exactly when he tipped over from recovering into needing you all over again.
Once Peter was hard inside you, the stretch became almost too good. His cock filled you properly now, thick and hot, pressing deep every time you lowered your hips until your thighs trembled around his lap. You started riding him slowly at first, hands braced on his shoulders while you lifted yourself almost to the tip and sank back down with a wet, aching drag.
Peter groaned loudly, not bothering to hold back, his hands sliding from your waist to your ass so he could help guide the movement. His fingers kneaded into you, spreading you slightly each time you took him back in, and the pressure made his cock feel even deeper as your pussy swallowed him over and over.
âYou feel so good,â he breathed, voice rough against your throat as he leaned forward, mouth dragging along your neck. You tipped your head to give him room, and Peter immediately took advantage, kissing the sensitive skin beneath your jaw before biting down just enough to make you gasp.
His cock jerked inside you at the sound, and you answered by rolling your hips harder, grinding down until your clit rubbed against his body and your cunt tightened around him. Peterâs mouth opened against your neck in another moan, loud and unrestrained, his teeth scraping your skin before he sucked a mark there like he wanted you to feel him even after this was over.
His hands couldnât seem to settle in one place. They gripped your ass, slid up your back, then came around to your boobs with a kind of greedy tenderness that made your rhythm falter. Peter cupped them while you rode him, thumbs brushing over your nipples as your hips moved in slow, filthy rolls over his cock.
Every time you sank down, his palms squeezed the soft weight of your boobs, and when you lifted again his thumbs circled your nipples until they tightened beneath his touch. You moaned his name and leaned back slightly, giving him more room to look, and Peterâs eyes dropped immediately to the way your chest moved with every bounce of your hips.
He looked wrecked by it, flushed and open-mouthed, his cock twitching deep inside you as he watched his hands cover your boobs. You shifted your own hands down from his shoulders to his chest, dragging your thumbs over his nipples in return. Peterâs reaction was instant.
His stomach tensed, his hips jerked up into you and a sharp moan broke out of him before he could swallow it. You did it again, slower this time, brushing both thumbs over his nipples before pinching lightly, and Peterâs head tipped back with another loud, helpless sound as his cock pulsed inside your pussy.
You rode him harder after that, spurred on by every noise he made. The couch creaked beneath you both, the slick slide of his cock in and out of your pussy growing louder as your arousal mixed with what was left of his cum and your spit.
Peterâs hands returned to your ass, gripping you tighter now, fingers digging in while he helped pull you down onto him. You could feel him everywhere, deep in your stomach, dragging against every sensitive place inside you, and each time your clit rubbed against him another pulse of pleasure tightened low in your belly.
Peter kept kissing and biting your neck between moans, sometimes missing your skin entirely because his head would drop forward when your pussy clenched particularly hard around him.
âI canât,â he gasped at one point, though he didnât sound like he wanted you to stop. His hips kept rising into you, sloppy and eager, meeting every downward roll of your body like he couldnât stand not being as deep as possible.
You threaded one hand through his hair and pulled his head back so you could kiss him, and Peter moaned into your mouth when your thumb brushed his nipple again. For a while it was just that, your bodies moving together on the couch, your pussy taking him again and again, his hands on your ass, his mouth on your neck, both of you getting close but not quite falling over the edge.
Then Peter seemed to decide he needed more. His grip on your ass shifted, fingers spreading wider, and before you could fully process the change, he planted his feet more firmly on the floor and stood with you still wrapped around him. The movement made you gasp, arms flying around his shoulders as his cock drove deeper inside you from the sudden lift.
Peter held you easily, one arm locked beneath your ass while the other hand gripped your hip, and the sheer strength of him made your pussy clench so hard that his eyes squeezed shut. âThere,â he breathed, voice strained and wrecked, adjusting his hold until your back was slightly arched and your thighs were tight around his waist. Then he started fucking up into you.
The first thrust knocked the air from your lungs, his cock driving into you from below with a force the couch hadnât allowed, and Peterâs moan broke apart against your neck as he did it again. His hands gripped your ass, spreading and lifting you so he could fuck upward into your pussy in deep, rough strokes that made your whole body bounce against him.
You clung to his shoulders, nails dragging over his skin, while his mouth found your neck again and bit down through another loud groan. Every thrust pushed him deeper, every upward snap of his hips dragged a helpless sound from you, and Peterâs control seemed to unravel completely when he realised this was what would make you both cum.
It happened fast once he was standing. Your body was already oversensitive from the first orgasm and from riding him, and now every upward thrust punched pleasure through you so sharply that your thighs started shaking around his waist. Peter felt it immediately. His grip on your ass tightened, holding you open and lifted while his hips worked up into you with desperate rhythm.
His mouth moved messily over your neck, biting, kissing, breathing your name against your skin in broken pieces. You could feel his cock swelling even harder inside you, the head dragging against that deep sensitive spot until your whole body started to go tight. âPeter,â you gasped, and the way his name broke out of you made him moan loudly against your throat.
His thrusts got rougher, less controlled, his stomach pressing against your clit every time he drove up, and that final pressure was what sent you over. Your orgasm hit while he was still holding you off the floor, your pussy clamping down around his cock so hard that Peter nearly stumbled back into the couch.
He caught himself, swore softly under his breath, then came with you, hips jerking upward as he buried himself as deep as he could and spilled inside you. His cum filled you in hot, heavy pulses while your own release soaked around him, the mixture making every tiny aftershock wetter and messier as he held you through it.
Peter collapsed back onto the couch with you still in his lap, both of you breathing hard, his cock still buried inside your trembling pussy. For a few seconds neither of you moved. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his hands spread over your ass and lower back, and every little twitch of your cunt around him made him exhale shakily against your skin.
You lifted your head first, dazed and sticky and aching in the best way, then shifted your hips carefully until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. Peter looked down between your bodies, still breathing hard, and you followed his gaze.
Cum immediately began to drip out of your pussy around him, thick and white, mixing with your slick as it slipped down over his cock and gathered messily between your thighs. The sight made Peterâs mouth part around a silent breath. You lifted yourself another fraction, letting more of it spill out of you in a slow, obscene drip, and his fingers tightened on your hips like he was trying not to lose his mind.
You slid two fingers through the mess, scooping up the mixture of his cum and your release before bringing it to your mouth. Peter watched, completely transfixed, as you licked your fingers clean slowly, tongue dragging between them until nothing remained.
You didnât let him recover from the sight. You leaned in immediately and kissed him, pushing your tongue into his mouth so he could taste the mixture youâd just licked from your fingers. Peter moaned into the kiss, arms tightening around you as his tongue met yours, and the cum-slick taste moved between you in slow, filthy swirls.
You kissed him deeply, letting it coat both your tongues while you still hovered over his softening cock, your pussy dripping onto his lap. Peter didnât pull away. If anything, he kissed you harder, one hand sliding up your back while the other cupped the back of your head to keep your mouth against his.
When you finally separated, his lips were wet and his eyes were unfocused, his chest rising quickly beneath yours. You stayed there in his lap, legs weak, body sticky, your boobs pressed against his chest and his cum still leaking slowly from your pussy.
Peter looked down between you one more time, then back up at your face, and the ruined little sound he made told you he was already thinking about putting his mouth back there to clean up the mess himself.
Peter didnât just think about it. He did it.
One second he was staring down between your bodies with that ruined, hungry look still all over his face, eyes fixed on the slow mess of his cum and your release dripping from your pussy and slipping over his softened cock, and the next his hands were already moving. There wasnât much teasing left in him now, not in the clever, shy, almost nervous way heâd had earlier.
He was too far gone for that, too warm and wrecked and needy, and the little sound he made when more cum slipped out of you was almost pained. His hands tightened around your hips, and before you could even ask what he was doing, Peter shifted beneath you and turned you carefully, one arm braced around your waist so he didnât let you fall while he guided you down onto your back across the couch.
Your body was loose and heavy from both orgasms, legs still trembling, and Peter handled you like he knew exactly how sensitive you were, even as his expression made it painfully obvious he was barely holding onto his own restraint.
He moved between your thighs with a kind of eager clumsiness that felt so completely Peter, rushed because he wanted it so badly, gentle because it was you.
He pulled your legs up over his shoulders, one at a time, kissing your calf as he settled you open beneath him. The position folded you back just enough that your pussy was completely exposed to him, wet and swollen and messy with everything both of you had left there.
Peter stared for a second longer than he needed to, his mouth parting as his eyes followed the thick drip of cum slipping from your entrance and sliding down through your slick folds. His cock, already softening but still heavy and flushed, twitched weakly against his stomach as he leaned closer.
You saw it happen, saw the way his hips shifted against the couch cushions below him before he even reached your pussy, and the sight made your breath catch in a tired, breathy little laugh. Peterâs eyes flicked up toward your face, cheeks red, but this time he didnât apologise.
He only turned his head and pressed a slow kiss against the inside of your thigh, then another a little higher, mouth warm and messy against your skin while his hands held you open.
The first lick made both of you shudder. Peter dragged his tongue slowly through your folds, catching the mixture of his cum and your slick where it had gathered against your entrance before licking upward with a deep, open-mouthed hunger that made your stomach tighten even though you were already oversensitive.
You gasped, fingers grabbing at the couch beneath you, and Peter groaned directly into your pussy like the taste had hit him harder than expected. He did it again, slower, tongue pressing between your swollen lips and collecting everything messy and wet from you as though he couldnât stand the idea of wasting any of it. His eyes fluttered for half a second, and then his hips rolled downward against the floor beneath him.
The motion was small at first, almost involuntary, his body chasing friction while his mouth stayed buried between your thighs. Your legs tightened over his shoulders when you realised what he was doing, and Peter made a needy sound into your cunt as his cock rubbed against the carpet with another desperate little grind.
He licked you clean like it mattered to him. Like it was something he needed. His tongue moved slowly over every slick inch of you, dragging through your folds, circling your entrance, then sweeping upward toward your clit with enough care that he didnât overwhelm you but still made your whole body twitch beneath him.
Each time he tasted more of the mess, his hips pushed harder against the floor. You could hear the rough little breaths he dragged in between licks, hear the quiet, broken moans he tried and failed to smother against your pussy, and every one made the scene feel dirtier. Peter Parker, still half on his knees, still bare and flushed and sticky from you, was eating his own cum out of your cunt while rutting against the floor like he couldnât help himself.
His hands stayed locked around your thighs, thumbs rubbing your skin in little soothing strokes that didnât match the desperation of his mouth at all. You looked down at him through heavy lashes, exhausted and turned on all over again, and whispered his name so softly it barely made it past your lips. Peter answered by pressing his face closer, tongue pushing gently into your entrance while his hips gave another needy grind beneath him.
You were too sensitive to take much more, but Peter seemed to know that without being told. He didnât try to make you cum again. He didnât suck hard at your clit or push you past what your trembling body could handle. Instead he cleaned you with slow, filthy devotion, licking away the cum that slipped from you, kissing your folds when your thighs shook too much, murmuring soft, breathless little sounds against your skin whenever you squirmed.
His mouth was wet with both of you now, lips shining, chin slick again, and when he finally pulled back to look at your pussy, his expression had gone almost dazed with satisfaction. There was still a little mess at your entrance, and Peterâs eyes fixed on it instantly.
He leaned in one more time, tongue dragging carefully over the spot, and his hips rocked against the floor again with a low, helpless groan. The sound made your chest tighten, fondness mixing with the heavy satisfaction still buzzing through your body. He was completely shameless now, noisy and needy and wrecked, but still so careful with you that it made your heart ache in the middle of all the filth.
When Peter was finally satisfied, he didnât move away from you immediately. He pressed a lingering kiss to your inner thigh, then another to the other one, mouth soft and warm where heâd just had you shaking. His hands slid down from your thighs to your hips, thumbs brushing lazily over your skin as he lowered your legs from his shoulders.
You were limp enough that he had to help guide them back down, and he did it with a tired tenderness that made you want to pull him up and keep him there. Peter kissed the inside of your knee, then the top of your thigh, then slowly made his way upward. His lips travelled over your hip, across the lower curve of your stomach, and then higher still, leaving warm little kisses over every inch he could reach.
He looked exhausted now, properly drained, his hair a complete disaster, his mouth still wet, his eyes half-lidded with that soft post-sex haze that made him look younger and sweeter again. By the time he reached your ribs, his body had already started to sag with the weight of everything youâd both done.
He collapsed beside you on the couch with a heavy, breathless exhale, half on his side and half against you because there wasnât really enough room for both of you to lie comfortably. Neither of you cared. Peterâs arm immediately found your waist, dragging you closer until your bare skin pressed against his, warm and sticky and familiar.
His face tucked into the side of your neck, and for a moment all you could hear was both of you breathing, the movie still playing uselessly in the background, completely forgotten. You were sure the apartment was a disaster.
His suit was probably in a half-peeled heap somewhere near the couch, your shirt had been abandoned behind it, your panties were still somewhere in the wreckage, and the blanket had slid halfway onto the floor. Peter shifted like he might attempt to sit up, always so painfully ready to take care of things even when he looked like he could fall asleep mid-breath, but you caught his arm before he could go anywhere.
You reached down blindly until your fingers found the blanket and pulled it up over both of you, covering your bare bodies in a crooked, warm mess. Peter let out a soft sound when the fabric settled over his shoulders, his arm tightening around you as if the permission to stop moving had finally reached him.
You tucked yourself against his chest, your legs still weak, your body still sticky, your throat still a little dry from everything youâd said and moaned, and you felt Peter press one final lazy kiss to the top of your head. âWe can clean up later,â you mumbled sleepily, barely managing to get the words out before your eyes started drifting shut.
Peterâs quiet laugh rumbled against you, tired and warm and completely spent. His fingers traced one absent line up your spine beneath the blanket before coming to rest against your back, holding you close. âYeah,â he whispered, voice rough from all the sounds heâd made for you. âLater.â
sneaking your bestfriend into your room past your strict parents is one thing. trying to ignore his heavy hands, his extreme jealousy, and his complete lack of boundaries is another..
cw: 18+ mdni. toxic bestfriend dynamic, manipulation, gaslighting, isolation tactics, extreme jealousy & possessive behavior, dub-con touching, boundary crossing, invasion of privacy, implied threats of violence (not at you), rafe has a foot fetish (hes weird like that)
pairing: dark!bsf!rafe x gentle!oblivious!reader
more of friendzoned ! series here
㠤㠤 âshh, be quiet ray.â you spoke softly and let out a giggle. holding rafeâs big hand to bring him inside your place.
you and rafe walk through the grand front doors after a party. on tiptoes and whispers, slowly closing the doors without trying to make any sound.
its midnight. around, past 1am. youve been getting up all night just to keep rafe company at kelceâs party cause he wants to. he said, and you quote, âeveryone else in that house is fake. youre not even actually tired. dont act like you dont wanna be there with me.â well.. who are you to say no to your bestest friend?
you two walked through the foyer. house massive and quiet. your dad is away on a business trip in new york. your mom? god knows what. probably asleep already.
âsweetheart? is that you?â you stop in your tracks, looking back at rafe with widened eyes. but rafe doesnt look panicked a bit, if even so, he slightly smirked. what is wrong with this guy?
you were about to walk upstairs. shit. you didnt even notice a faint light of the kitchen burning in the distance, piercing the houseâs darkness.
your mom appears out from the kitchen. holding a glass of wine in her hand. you watch her expression going from worried into a disgusted one.
confused, you raise an eyebrow.
âhoney, its past one. why is he hereâŚ?â her voice dripping with venom. eyes glaring right to rafe. she doesnt even want to say his name.
uh.. right. you forgot both of your parents despised rafe.
you bit your lower lip nervously, turning around to see rafe behind you. he doesnt seem scared. with bold confidence, he walks right up to your mom.
âevening, maâam.â he smiles with fake politeness, voice dripping in sarcasm. tilted his head slightly. âdadâs throwing a fit at the house tonight. i just needed a place to crash.â he turns, about to go back to you. but he looks back at your mom with cocky expression. âill be outta your hair first thing in the morning. promise.â
as rafe walks back to you and left you downstairs, your mom glares more with bitterness. clearly not buying his innocent act.
âthe guest room is made up. and your bedroom door stays open.â she averted her gaze to you. nodding quickly as a reply, you just want to escape the tension. you walk upstairs.
as youre about to enter your bedroom, rafe was already there, blocking the path by leaning in the doorframe. you flinch slightly. âyou scared me.â and playfully slapping his thick bicep.
his gaze kept watching you. a small smirk appearing out of his face. he pushed off the doorframe, giving you a way to pass.
you stepped inside your bedroom, grabbing the worn out tees on the bed. but you heard a loud click! behind you.
ârafe!â you snapped your neck. âmy mom said to leave it open, shes gonna come up here!â hissing with immediate panic. but he just scoffs.
rafe was completely unbothered. kicking his expensive sneakers off onto your rug. âlet her check. besides, im not fuckinâ sleeping in some dusty ass guest room when your bedâs right there.â stubborn as always, typical rafe.
closing your eyes, you sigh in exhaustion. âwhatever. shes probably too busy with her work, anyway.â as you throw the worn out tees onto a beanbag next to your bed.
you lay on the bed. stretching your body. not even noticing that the movement slightly pushed your tits out even more, well, maybe hes the only one who noticed..?
âtired?â he walks closer, slightly laying on the bed frame. you nod along, staring at the ceiling and zoning out. recalling moments at kelceâs party. the corner of your mouth lifts up. âcan you believe that a hot touron asked for my number?â
a silence remains for seconds almost too long. you didnt exactly know why it took him so long to answer.
rafe clenched his jaw hard. tongue tastes bitter. piercing blue eyes going dark. chest heaving with extreme jealousy. you swear you almost see a vein on his neck.
and then he forces lets out a smile to cover it up. huft, you thought something was going on in his mind. unexpectedly, he lets out a mocking laugh and gets closer to you.
âa touron, seriously?â his voice drops in arrogance. raising an eyebrow at you. âyâknow those guys are here just for a week. theyre just looking for easy hookups before they go back.â hes so.. blunt. your heart slightly drops at the comment. its not like youre sad or what but.. did he just call you easy?
you thought he would be happy that finally another guy is interested in you after your shitty ex whom he despise so fucking much, rafe said death threats to him alot, you never knew about that :(
rafe watched your expression and immediately shifts even closer that your shoulders are touching. âlook, i dont want you pick the wrong guy.â he gestures with his fingers. âim the only one who actually looks out for you. did you actually give it to him or did you blow him off?â
you paused, swallowing your saliva felt tight. âi.. gave it to him. sorry.â you didnt mean to actually say the last word cause, what the fuck are you sorry for? maybe its that he doesnt react as what you expected and youre always a people pleaser.
you create a scenario where he yells at your face and throws things after you admitted that.
instead, he doesnt say anything. but looking from his expression, he doesnt look angry. he just sighs in exhaustion. the heavy ring finger brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. âdont text him back, yeah? you know those random guys dont care about you.â he paused, âi dont want you hurt. promise me you wont talk to him.â
you stare up at him. âray..â your lips forming into a pout. not a sad one, more in a heartwarmed way. your arms hugging him from the side. âsometimes i dont deserve you. youre always soo kind to me.â you melt into him. âand no, i wont text him back. promise! after all, i have you.â i have you. those words repeated on his brain. yeah, he always knew youre his.
he hugs you back, running his hand through your hair and kissing the top of your head. his gaze lazily tracks your face down. âyou not changing?â eyes dropping to your body mini dress he picked out for you to the party hours ago.
you snuzzle into his heavy arms. feeling his body warmth. âno.. too tired.â your voice muffled against him. you really like clinging to him.
he gently pats the back of your head. âwhat âbout your night skincare? or bodycare shit?â oh, right. you forgot. he always remember the smallest details from you.. reminding you of things you forgot.
âhm.. maybe not tonight. im so tired, ray. my feet hurts.â you sigh in exhaustion, already feeling sleepy. you were about to sleep next to rafe, until he moved. youre feeling empty.
âill give you a massage, baby.â the petname just slipped like that. he doesnt mean it in a romantic way. he just loves you!
you giggle and looked down at him, moving his body to near the end of the bed. thick fingers with a heavy gold ring slowly tracing your feet.
his thumbs press deeply into the high arches of your soles. he cups your heels in his palms, fingers slid slowly up to the curves of your feet. he feels how warm your skin is.
you let out a soft sigh of relief from the sensation, completely relaxed. unaware of his dark eyes fixating on your delicate feet, tracing his thumb over your instep. thick fingers of his rubbing your toe.
âyoure so pretty..â he mutters, not even realizing itâhe brings your feet closer to his face. lips brushing over your ankle, and then pressing a direct slow kiss to the high arch of your foot. he didnt mean to accidentally leave a string of saliva there too.
you gasp, pulling your legs back. laughing and scrunching nose up in disgust. âray! thats gross! what is wrong with you?â rafeâs been dramatic again.
you completely think hes playing an exaggerated joke. you missed the real truth.
rafe didnt realize hes at it again. he let the mask slip. but thank god youre slow, so he spins it to the same âjokeâ. âthats the thanks i get?â smirking through his words. he puts your legs to his shoulders. as if in a sex position.
and due to you wearing a mini dress, the hem rides up to your inner thigh. he could easily see a glimpse of your white underwear. the fabric clung perfectly to your puffy folds.
you just giggle, unaware of the underlying sexual tension. âreally, though, you could make a great masseur. just, dont kiss your clientâs feet.â
rafe runs his fingers from your shin slow in a sensual way, down to the plush thighs of yours. âmhm?â he hummed lazily, tilting his head to the sideâfully focusing on you.
his thumb press into the soft skin of your inner thighs, pushing the hem of the mini dress up slightly. but the more he starts doing it, the hem completely pushed up until your panties are shown to his eyes.
you get extremely flustered and embarrassed, fingers trying desperately to pull the dress down to cover yourself.
ârelax, im just fixing your muscles. why you being so weird âbout it?â
you look away, the eye contact with him feels too much. hes just massaging you, maybe youre the weird one..
he continues pressing his thumbs and fingers to your flesh. further up to your crotch. you wanted to protest but also dont wanna be that person who oversexualize everything.
and you swore you felt his thick fingers brushing against your clothed clit. thumb grinds harder, pressing the fabric of your underwear into the slick heat.
a gasp left your mouth. hes not massaging your thighs anymore! ârafââ
âdidnt know you got this wet from a massage.â his finger drags up, tracing the dark wet spot through your panties.
your thighs tremble when his middle finger finds your clit. he steadily press it down. the fabric is rough against your sensitive nub, wet and sticky.
âuh.. rafe? i-i want to sleep.â you gained the courage to speak up. thank goodness he gets the code and stopped his movements, turning your bedroom lights off. you might not have heard the annoyed sigh coming out of him.
when the lights turned off, you try to stay perfectly still on the edge of the bed. keeping a huge gap between you.
but rafe doesnt respect boundaries.
the roomâs dead quiet. you can hear him breathing closer. a heavy arm of his wraps around your waist, yanking you backward.
âhey!â your back collides against his broad chest.
âyoure too far away.â he buries his face into the crook of your neck. his leg thrown over your thighs to pin you in place.
you cant help but to giggle at how clingy he is. âyoure heavy.â
âand im cold. go to sleep now.â rafe whispers lazily into your collarbone. his arm tightening around your waist.
youre frozen. feeling the rise and fall of his chest, and his half hard cock inside his pantsâpressing against your ass. but sleepiness takes over, so nothing came out of your mouth.
you let out a soft sigh, eyelids dropping from the exhaustion of the night finally caught up. behind you, rafeâs breathing comes in a steady rhythm, slowly. within minutes, sleep pulled you under entirely.
but if you had stayed awake just a few minutes longer or facing him, you would know the steady breathing was a lie.
rafe wasnt asleep.
he was lying still. eyes wide open, staring at the back of your head. he forced his own chest to fall in that rhythm.
he waited. ten minutes. twenty. thirty. listening with focus until your breathing shifted and shoulders went entirely slack.
just to be sure, he slowly slid his arm across your waist. dragging your limp body flush against his chest. you didnt stiffen nor wake up. just let out an unconscious sigh and melted backward.
a feral satisfied smirk ghosted across his lips.
moving with silence, rafe reached his long arm over your hip and grabbed your phone off the nightstand. the screen lit up dimly.
he didnt even hesitate, unlocking the passcode. he memorized it pretty well. he once casually looked over to you unlocking your phone next to him.
he grips your phone tight. heart beating faster. clicking on the green messages icon. his eyes instantly lock onto the very top thread.
an unsaved number. with an out of state area code.
the touron. he hadnt text anything yet. just a pathetic, âhey, its carl from the party.â
rafeâs jaw locked so hard his teeth ached. his fingers smashing against the screen,
âthis is her boyfriend. if you ever look at her again or text her, i know people on this island who will make sure you dont make it back to the mainland. lose the number now.â
he pressed send. rafe doesnt just block carlâs number.
he reports his number as spam, blocks it, and deletes the entire text thread so theres zero trace that the guy ever existed on her phone.
and if tomorrow youll pout about how the touron guy didnt text you? heâd comfort you, talking shit about touron guys are all talk and they didnt deserve you.
㠤㠤 âouhh, this is cute.â you grab a white, linen midi dress hanging on the clothing rack. staring up and down of the design on the dress. its flowy and stops at your shin. you held the dress on your body, watching how good it would look. âi could wear this to topperâs boat party.â
âput that shit down.â rafe lazily comments from behind you. eyes not leaving his phone. you turn around, pouting. âyoure not even looking at it!â
your face scrunched up in a frown. âcâmon, ray, this is pretty. white is my color, it makes me look classy.â
rafe turns his phone off, sliding it into his pocket. he closed the distance between you until hes completely towering you.
he reaches out, pinching the fabric between his thick fingers, looking at it with disgust. it was boring and completely swallowing your body shape.
âsince when do you get so boring?â he spoke up. your face falters. looking back at the white dress youre holding. a faint blush covering your face in embarrassment.
âlast summer you wore a bikini top to a bonfire. now youre trying to dress like.. this. if you dont want to show off, fine. but i know your real style.â he guilt trips was right. you immediately panic. thinking youre losing your 'cool' girl image on his eyes.
âyou think it looks bad?â you put the white midi dress back into the rack.
âit looks cheap.â he lies answered smoothly.
âyou wanna be the girl everyone stares at, right? try this one on.â he grabs a white ribbed mini dress instead. its.. very tight, scoops low on the chest, and the hemline ends on your inner thigh.
you paused. âray, thats.. way too short. if i bend over, everyoneâs gonna see everything.â you look at the dress, not sure. your face flushes hot.
rafe stares at you, gaze slowly getting dark. he smirks possessively. he leans his head down to your ear. dropping his âbestfriendâ act. âthen dont bend over unless im standinâ right behind you.â
you gasp, brows furrowing. well, its not unusual for your bestfriend to whisper you weird things. hes just like that! a little perverted but you love him.
âyoure so pervy.â you roll your eyes and giggling. he steps back, handing you the dress. âgo try it on.â he orders lazily. you grab the dress and step inside to a massive, private fitting room.
once you put the dress on, you stare at yourself in the mirror. turning around to see how it looks from the back. it looks so short and tight. almost suffocating your body. you cant help but to admit you indeed look sexy in this. glad youre bestfriends with rafe, he always picks out the best for you!
and not long, rafe enters the fitting room with you there. you ask nervously, âdoes this look good?â you show him the front and then turning around.
rafe doesnt say anything. he physically cannot speak. his eyes goes hungry, tracking from your collarbone, down to the swell of your tits in a cleavage, then to the dip of your waist and hip, finally to how barely it covers your plush thighs and ass. you look innocent in white, yet so disrespectful.
âits fuckinâ perfect.â he compliments. theres something about rafe that makes you feel.. weird. everytime he conpliments you or stares at you, you always feel shy. maybe its because hes just intense like that.
âthanks! but im not sureââ
âkeep it. you look pretty.â pretty, he said. there it was. mostly, guys and your stupid exes call you âhot, sexy, fineâ. never âpretty and beautifulâ. its weird âcause.. considering of how pervy you know your bestfriend is. but hes got a kind heart.
you stare up at rafe with a smile, heart fluttering. âaw, rafe. you always find a way to make me feel so entirely seen.â
rafeâs smile didnt reach his eyes, it stayed sharp and hungry as he dropped his gaze back to the short dress. he felt a dark thrill. feeling like he was the only guy who actually gets you and treats you right.
you take a shaky breath, fingers digging at the hem of the dress to pull it over your head, âuhm, okay. ill pick this one. just go wait outside so i can change back into my clothes.â
rafe doesnt even move towards the door. he reached over to the small hook on the wall and grabs the black micro string bikini. he brought it here before she even enters the fitting room. what the?
âtry this one first.â he stares back at her. âfits your style, no?â
you stared at the bikini he held in his hand, eyes going wide. âi have to take my bra off to put that on. get out, ray.â you command softly.
rafe lazily looks down at you. tilting his head and brows furrowing in confusion. âjust put it on.â
âim about to take my clothes off..?â you hiss, cheeks burning.
rafe sighs in exhaustion, âyâknow, if youre that insecure about your body right now, we can put it back. thought it would look good on you, but if youre going to be weird âbout it.. whatever.â classic rafe, hes always dramatic!
before he could left, you let out a gasp. âim not insecure!â you argued gently, a small smile coming out. you take the bikini from his hand. âfine, ill put it on. but i want you to turn around. or, look at your phone, whatever.â well you know rafeâs definitely hooked up with a lot of girls and see them naked but still, hes your bestfriend. your rafe. you feel shy undressing under his gaze.
you take the white dress off over your head. leaving only in the pink lacy panties and bra. obviously youre not taking your panties off whenever youre trying bikinis on.
your fingers moved behind you, unclasping the bra. and just then, you quickly grab the tiny black triangle top to cover your tits.
you dont know the fitting room has three-way mirrors on every single wall. youre too busy putting the bikini on, not realizing rafe wasnt staring at his screen. he stares right at you. eyes taking in your soft skin, curve of your waist, and the way your thighs press against each other. pink undies? how cute. makes him want to ruin you.
he noticed how your fingers fumbled against the bikini string. your face confused.
âray, i cant get the knot.â you admit, looking back at him.
he shoved his phone back into his pocket, walking closer to you. âdrop your hands, ill do it.â he closed the distance, tall frame towering over you.
he reached his thick fingers to the nape of her neck. blood rushing violently on his head (and dick) that he actually feels dizzy. he takes the bikini strings and tying it slowly. he could see your tits from up here.
the air felt so thick. dont know maybe from how tense you were or the fact that his dick is throbbing. hes thinking about groping your tits from behind, and bending you over in here. he would cover your mouth to keep your moans quiet and muffled from making the staff suspicious. bet youâd get so cockdrunk. he jerked off at the thought of you for a lot of times before.
then, he brings the second set of strings down to her back. he pulls them really tight.
you squirm, ârafe, wait, thats too tigââ a gasp left your mouth, from how warm his broad body is, pressing against yours.
âif its loose, youre gonna spill right outta it. wouldnt want any other guys oglinâ at you, hm?â he tied the knot on your back carefully. his bruised knuckles from whatever fight he gotâbrushing softly into your bare back on purpose. once hes done, he pats your right hip. âthere. told you itâd fit you.â
you stare at your reflection in the mirror infront. suddenly realizing how big his frame is swallowing you from behind. your gaze tracks down to your bodyâfrom your pink panties to the micro bikini top, but then directed at rafe.
he stares back from the mirror. making a long eye contact seconds after seconds. he leans down, his chin pressing against your bare shoulder. you dont even realize both of his hands are gripping the sides of your waist, not tightlyâbut firm enough.
âyoure wearing this under the white dress tomorrow,â rafe dictates, tone flat. his eyes bored, but then dropped to your body again. smirking secretly. he lifts his chin off your shoulder.
âand when other guys say you look so good, youre gonna tell âem i picked it out for you. understood?â his big hand grabbed your chin, making you look and turning up at him.
he loves making you his doll. putting his name on your aesthetic and demanding you to brag about it to the rest of the island.
overwhelmed, flustered, and so obedient.
your lips part slightly. you give a tiny nod as you stare up at him.
âput your clothes back on. im paying for everything weve picked out.â
Š obsourie 2026. do not copy/repost my work or use my idea to ai. likes, reblogs, comments are appreciated! dividers by @/cursed-camine.
steve rogers' birthday across the multiverse: rockstar steve rogers
pairing: DARK rockstar!steve rogers x female reader
additional characters: bucky barnes, sam wilson, john walker, joaquĂn torres
summary: on his birthday, your favorite rockstar invites you back to his tour bus.
warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), dubcon and NONCON, nonconsensual group sex, nonconsensual somnophilia, nonconsensual free use, intoxication from alcohol and weed, smut, rough oral sex (m receiving), piv sex, painful sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, multiple creampies, multiple orgasms, forced orgasms, come marking, rough tit/nipple play, rough body play, marking/hickeys, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, pet names (sweetheart), abduction, stockholm syndrome, dead dove do not eat
word count: 1.9k
a/n: i had this idea the other day for a dark version of rockstar Steve would celebrate his birthday, and i just kind of ran with it and whew buddy đ° i don't write dark fics very often but when i do, i always surprise myself. anyway, i did very much enjoy writing this and i might actually revisit it? if i did, i'd probably stick to Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan characters. idk. anyway, heed the warnings, and enjoy some dark, dirty filth!
steve rogers' birthday across the multiverse masterlist
Rockstar Steve Rogers celebrates his birthday by bringing the fan who caught his eyeâyouâback to his bandâs tour bus to have some fun.
You start off in the front of the bus, sitting on the rockstarâs lap while youâre smoking and drinking and talking to his friends, but it isnât long before Steveâs taking your hand and pulling you into the back. Thereâs a messy room with a queen bed at the rear of the bus, and you barely have time to register Steve closing the door behind him before heâs shoving you down to your knees.
At first, youâre eager, just happy to be sucking Steveâs dick, but he doesnât let you have control for long. Without warning, heâs grabbing your head and pushing his big cock deeper into your mouth, making you choke and gag on his thick shaft, spit and tears flowing freely down your face.Â
But the rockstar of your dreams is praising you, telling you how pretty you look as a messy little slut on your knees for him. So you do your best to suffer through it, to breathe through your nose while he skull-fucks your mouth. You can almost pretend youâre having as much fun as he clearly isâand anyway, itâs his birthday. You just want him to have a good time, and youâre still grateful he chose you.
Before he can cum down your throat, Steve pulls out of your mouth and picks you up, tossing you onto the bed. Youâre gasping for breath and before you can say a word, heâs on top of you, tearing your clothes off your body and sinking his cock, dripping wet with your spit, into your barely ready pussy.Â
It stings a little, and you wince, but Steve only laughs in your ear, amused at your pain and groaning at how tight you feel around him. He doesnât give you a chance to adjust, already moving his hips in a rolling motion that, despite the ache in your core, starts to feel good. The rockstar teases you for being such a tight little slut for him, moaning loudly when your cunt clenches around his cock.
Itâs only then that you realize Steve didnât put on a condom, and you consider asking him to pull out and put one on, but then heâs bottoming out in you again, grinding the base of his cock against your clit. Between the pleasure, the delicious stretch of his cock in your cunt, and the drinks youâd had and the weed you smoked, your thoughts about protection are lost in the ether.Â
Steve fucks you hard and fast, emptying his balls inside you before you even have a hope of comingâbut heâs not done with you. He hauls you up, arranging the two of you so heâs sitting against the headboard with you perched on his cock, using your pussy to keep his half-hard length warm while you drink and smoke some more.Â
He shotguns twice as much weed smoke into your mouth, until youâre floating and so hazy, you barely know whatâs going on. It helps make everything feel good, though, including the way his big dick stretches your pussy nearly to its limit, and the way his hands grab your tits roughly, pinching your nipples and slapping the soft mounds with the flat of his palm.Â
You donât know how much time passes like that, but sometime later, Steve is fucking you again, bouncing you on his cock while you giggle like a dumb little ditz, your bare body on full display for the rockstar. He doesnât leave any part of you untouched, sucking hickeys into your skin, groping your tits and hips hard enough to leave bruises behind. Itâs rough, but youâre so high that everything feels good.
You cum on Steveâs cock like that, and he groans when he feels your cunt gripping him tight, following you over the edge with his face buried in your tits. His cock throbs in your pussy, spilling a second load in your body, his cum starting to leak out around where heâs plugging you full.Â
The rockstar rewards you for making him cum again with more drinks and more weed, shotgunning even more smoke into your mouth until you black out. One of the last thoughts you have before your mind slips into darkness is how happy you are that you got to spend the night with your favorite rockstar on his birthday.Â
But if you think thatâs all Steve Rogers has planned for you, you discover youâre very, very wrong.
For the rest of the night, youâre barely aware of your surroundings, coming in and out of consciousness to find Steve fucking you againâwait, no, not Steve. Thatâs Bucky Barnes behind you, pounding ruthlessly into your cunt while Steveâs cock is stuffed deep in your mouth. You can taste yourself on the rockstarâs dick, and you can feel an ache in your throat from how hard heâs thrusting, fucking your mouth like itâs a pussy.
Your head spins from lack of air and alcohol and weed, and you black out again. The next time you come to, youâre on your back, Sam Wilson above you, fucking into your aching cunt with slow, deep strokes. His thumb brushes your clit, and his lips whisper praise, calling you a sweet slut, making you cum hard enough that you lose consciousness again.
Bucky is on top of you again, rutting into your messy pussy while he sucks a hickey into the sensitive skin on your throat. You moan, the sound part pleasure and part pain, and Bucky chuckles meanly, telling you to be a good groupie whore and take his cock without complaint. You were made for this after all, isnât that why you wanted to be chosen by Steve so badly?
Impossibly, you cum again at Buckyâs mean words and his even meaner fucking, your body shaking uncontrollably as pleasure tears ruthlessly through your exhausted body. Itâs a relief when the darkness welcomes you back into its waiting arms, and you sink into it happily.
The next time you wake, you search for Steve. Heâs sitting in a chair beside the bed, smoking, drinking and chatting with Bucky and Sam while he strums idly on an acoustic guitar. Slowly, you become aware of more men on top of you, but if Bucky and Sam are with Steve, whoâs fucking you now?Â
It takes you a long moment to turn your head and focus your eyes enough to find two roadies on top of youâJohn Walker and JoaquĂn Torres. Their names surface from the dark depths of your mind. Steve had introduced them to you when youâd first gotten on the bus.Â
Youâre too tired to do anything but lay in the soiled bed at the back of the bandâs tour bus and take the cocks John and JoaquĂn are giving youâalternately thrusting into your pussy. You cling to the meager pleasure they offer, coming weakly once more before they pull out and jerk their cocks until theyâre coating your bare skin with their seed.
Finally, you slip into a deep sleep, and you donât wake again for many, many hours.
Itâs early afternoon by the time youâre woken by the gentle rumble of the bus, and you take quick stock of your situation. Youâre alone, surrounded only by the thick stench of sex, the sheets of the bed tangled around your naked limbs.Â
Your entire body aches, the pounding headache of a hangover beating against your skull, and it takes a very long time before youâre able to wrench your eyes open. When you do, your stomach sinks to see the landscape passing by the windows in the back room, taking you away from your home city where you saw the band play.
Steve enters the room, and you watch him warily. He doesnât bother to close the door behind him as he rounds the bed and drops an unopened bottle of water and a couple painkillers on the side table built into the back wall. When you donât move, he leans over and slaps your ass hard, making you jump and let out a tortured groan.Â
Distantly, you hear the laughter of a group of men at the front of the bus and your mind is inundated with flashes of vivid memories of how Steve had let his friends fuck you all night. A shiver races down your spine, something between fear and excitement filling your gut as your pussy flutters, cum leaking out of your well-used hole.
âThanks for the birthday fuck, sweetheart. I had fun,â Steve says with an all-too-charming grin. He sits down on the edge of the bed, watching you roll over onto your back so you can sit up.Â
You take the ibuprofen and chug half the bottle of water, watching the rockstar. You want to ask Steve where the bus is going, already knowing itâs left your city behind, but your throat hurts. He must suspect what you want to ask because he volunteers the information.
âWeâre headed to the next stop on the tour,â Steve explains, one of his hands settling lightly on your thigh. âIf you want, we can drop you off there, and you can find your own way homeâŚâ He trails off, his hand skating up your leg until his fingers are teasing the entrance to your thoroughly fucked pussy. âOr you can stick around and keep having fun with usâall of us.â
Steveâs pretty blue eyes glitter like he hopes youâll choose the second option. The tip of his finger circles your clit and just that little bit of pleasure has your body melting into the pillows at your back, your legs falling open. Steveâs grin widens, brightening so much, heâs almost too handsome to look at. You feel like a flower unfurling beneath the sun.
Even with the ache in your body, you think it might be worth it to stay on the bus, just to earn more praise from your favorite rockstar. So what if he lets his friends fuck you while youâre passed out, getting to belong to Steve Rogers is all youâve ever wanted.Â
Besides, itâs not like you can afford to get yourself home. If the band leaves you at the next stop, youâll have no way of getting back to your city. You only really have one option, so you might as well make the best of it. Steve, Bucky, Sam, John and JoaquĂn are handsome and they can make you cum, youâd be stupid to pass up the chance to be their free use fuck toy.Â
At least, thatâs what you tell yourself to rationalize the only choice you have.
âIâll stay,â you murmur.Â
You catch sight of Steveâs eager, feral grin before your eyes slip closed, and you will the ibuprofen to take effect. You lay limply in the bed as the rockstar climbs on top of you, his hands already pulling his dick out of his jeans.Â
âI hoped youâd say that,â Steve rumbles in your ear, sinking into your dripping pussy, not seeming to care that itâs his friendsâ cum thatâs making the slide so easy.Â
The stretch has you letting out a helpless moan, and you can feel the man on top of you chuckling against your cheek. He pulls his hips back, thrusting forward with punishing fierceness, clearly not caring about your comfort as he uses your cunt to get himself off.
âBe a good cock slave,â your favorite rockstar, Steve Rogers, tells you. âLet me fuck you like every night is my birthday, and Iâll take good care of you, sweetheart.â
thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated! âĄ
steve rogers' birthday across the multiverse masterlist
pairing: mob lawyer!andy barber x rich girl!female reader (bonus: best friend!ransom drysdale & reader)
summary: you're desperate to be free of your parents and their controlling grip on your inheritance, so you turn to the only man in boston powerful enoughâand ruthless enoughâto take them on. you can't leave his office without his word that he'll help you.
warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), referenced past parental abuse against reader, referenced financial abuse, slightly dubious consent that becomes more enthusiastic, sex as payment, smut, piv sex, unprotected sex (no pregnancy), rough sex, brief spanking, creampie, cockwarming, stripping, dry humping, biting, possessive behavior, dirty talk, praise kink, light degradation, pet names (sweetheart, baby, sweet girl/pretty girl), aftercare, happy ending
word count: 6.9k
a/n: happy birthday @stargazingfangirl18!!! đđ this is my entry in Siri's Birthday Bash, using quite a few of the prompts (babe: Andy Barber, scenario: scary babe is only soft with you, kink: breeding kink, trope: mob au, and one of the dialogue prompts). i saw this particular dialogue prompt and knew i wanted to run with it so here we are!! it's a littttttle over the word count maximum (okay it's almost 2,000 words over the max) but i couldn't help it! hope you enjoy!! âĄâĄ
Andy Barber, the most notoriously ruthless lawyer in all of Boston, stood before you with an inscrutable look on his face. In a room full of dangerous men, he radiated power, even with his body relaxed, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and his hands tucked into his pockets.Â
You watched the lawyer as you poured your heart out, desperate to get through to the straight-faced man, because you were painfully aware he was your last hope. You couldnât leave his office without his word that heâd help you, so you told him youâd do anything, pay anything. You were damn near begging when he finally cut you off.
âThe only thing you have to offer thatâs of any interest to me is that sweet, warm place between your legs. So strip and show me just how badly you need my help.â
The lawyerâs filthy statement and shameless command stopped you short. Heat suffused your body, and you were more than a little disturbed to realize not all of it was from embarrassment. A part of you liked the blunt way heâd spoken to you, and that part of you wanted to do as he said.
But you werenât alone with Andy Barber.Â
The room was filled with his men, scary looking enforcers and sharp-dressed lieutenants, and the person whoâd brought you to the lawyerâs officeâyour best friend, Ransom Drysdale.Â
Ransom had been your only ally from your world in your fight to escape from under the thumb of your financially abusive parents, so it was instinct to look to him when you were unsure what to do about Andyâs command. You gave him a pitiful look, begging your friend to help you yet again.
âDonât look at him, look at me,â Andy said, a cool confidence in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine, one that was, surprisingly, not entirely born out of fear. Obediently, you returned your gaze to the lawyer, finding him watching you with an intensity that stole your breath. âWhy are you looking at him? He canât help you the way I can, thatâs why he brought you to me, remember?â
Unfortunately, you remembered all too well that Andy was one of the few people in the state, let alone the city of Boston, who could help you with your situation.Â
For years, your parents had been holding your inheritance hostage, using their wealth, power, and influenceâand an entire army of lawyersâto make sure you couldnât see a cent of your money unless you did exactly as they said. Unless you married exactly who they said. And youâd rather do anything than marry who they wanted you to marry.Â
Youâd called practically every lawyer in the state of Massachusetts, but they either werenât willing or werenât able to fight your parents and their lawyers, who were using every trick in the book, including plenty of not-so-legal ones. That had led you to asking Ransom for help, and heâd brought you to Andy Barber.
Which left you having to decide between doing as the cutthroat lawyer said, or walking out of his office and giving in to your parentsâ whims. Your fingers tangled in the skirt of your sundress, indecision and desperation swirling in your belly.
âIf youâre feeling shy, I can have my men leave and escort your friend out,â Andy offered, breaking the silence with the slightly mocking offer. âBut if you want my help, youâre going to do as I say.âÂ
His tone turned hard, his final words coming out as a command that left no room for argument. It reminded you so much of your parents that you couldnât help your bodyâs instinctual reaction. You flinchedâhard.Â
Your reaction didnât make sense, but then anxiety never did. Panic blocked out everything else in the room, and you wrapped your arms around your body, your breaths coming in sharp pants as you cowered in front of the lawyer when only a moment ago, youâd held your head high.Â
Andy seemed to freeze for a moment, taking in the change of your demeanor, then his shoes padded lightly on the wooden floor of the office as he moved closer. His steps were slow, almost cautious, like he was approaching a spooked animal.
You tried not to react further, but your shoulders bunched up around your ears and you huddled more tightly in on yourself. An instinctual part of you was waiting for a cruel hand to fall on your cheekâit was what youâd come to expect after a command like the one the lawyer had givenâbut none ever came.Â
Instead, Andy let out a sharp breath, one of his fingers sliding gently beneath your chin. His touch was almost tender as he tilted your face up, and your mind spun as you tried to comprehend the fact that you were being touched with kindness rather than harshness.Â
You blinked at Andy with wide, wary eyes, watching his face closely for any sign of anger or malice. There wasnât any, only a quiet intensity and a sharp curiosity. It struck you, then, just how handsome the lawyer was.Â
His eyes were such a pretty shade of blue, like a cloudless sky, and though he was tanned from summer days spent outsideâon a beach somewhere without extradition while working for his more criminalistic clients, no doubtâthere was a light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks.Â
The lawyerâs brown hair was neat and brushed back from his face, his beard so well-groomed that it looked soft, almost welcoming. You had the sudden urge to bury your face in Andyâs beard and forget your troubles, and the thought was so surprising, your eyes widened and your lips parted in shock.Â
Your gaze lingered for another moment on Andyâs pink, inviting mouth, before returning to his eyes, which were watching you. There was a heady concentration in the lawyerâs gaze that made you want to squirm and press your thighs together, an inexplicable ache blooming in your core.Â
Andy still held your chin so you couldnât look away as a slow, slightly amused smile curved his mouth. He took another step forward, until he was close enough that the scent of himâexpensive cologne, leather and something undeniably himâfilled your senses, going right to your head and making you feel a little fuzzy.Â
You swayed slightly on your feet, and Andy steadied you by putting his other hand on your waist. He squeezed your chin gently, waiting until he had your focus again before he spoke.
âI will not hurt you, sweetheart,â he said slowly, deliberately, his voice turning warm on the sweet nickname. He paused for a moment, searching your eyes for understanding, before continuing. âYou have my word, and Iâm a man of my wordâgot it?â
âY-yes, sir,â you managed to say, stumbling over your words only a littleânot from fear but from how flustered you felt with the handsome lawyer standing so close and calling you such sweet things. It wasnât the kind of treatment you were used to, and you didnât know what to do with it.
Another slow smile stole across Andyâs features and he chucked you lightly under the chin, clearly pleased at your answer. Though whether he was more pleased that youâd agreed or that youâd called him âsir,â you couldnât be sure.
âGood girl,â Andy praised, giving you one last long look before he lifted his gaze to look over your shoulder. âLeave us,â he commanded to the others in the room, his voice holding all the authority of a man used to getting what he wanted.
You turned to look over your shoulder, your eyes finding the familiar face of your best friend in the small crowd of dangerous men beginning to shuffle out of the room. Ransom gave you a reassuring nod.Â
âYouâre gonna be okay, bun,â he promised, his mouth quirking into a little smirk that was comforting in its familiarity. âBarberâs gonna help, just give him what he wants.â
It was the same thing Ransom had said before he brought you to the lawyerâs office, in a warehouse by the docks. Then, youâd thought the only thing the lawyer might want was money, or a significant cut of your inheritance.Â
Now, you were faced with the prospect of giving much more to Andy Barber. But since youâd met the man, and felt the gentleness of his touch, it didnât seem like such a hardship to use your body to buy his assistance, especially when it offered you hope that you might get the help you needed.
You watched as Ransom ducked through the door of the office, one of the lawyerâs men pulling it closed with a dull thud behind him. You were left alone with Andy Barber, one of the most ruthless men in all of Boston, with the command to strip out of your clothes hanging over your head.Â
Oddly, you werenât scared. You believed Andy when heâd said he wouldnât hurt you. But you had other reasons to feel anxious. The thought of stripping naked in front of a strange, handsome manâespecially one as powerful as Andyâwas intimidating.Â
What would happen if the lawyer didnât like what he saw? Would he still help you? Could you still accept his help after the humiliation of getting naked for him if he rejected you? The answer to that last question, at least, was yes, because you were just that desperate to get away from your parents.
Swallowing past the nervousness lodged in your throat, you returned your gaze to Andy, instinctively looking to him for what to do next.
When the lawyer caught you looking expectantly at him, the corner of his mouth quirked in a small smile. He gave your arm a reassuring squeeze, the gesture almost paternalistic, if not for the barely concealed lust in his blue eyes, before stepping back.Â
Andy prowled to the leather sofa on the opposite side of his office, his movements as smooth and graceful as a predator. He was controlled as he turned and sank into the firm cushions of the sofa, spreading his arms along the back and staring at you with those sharp, intelligent eyes, looking for all the world like a king surveying his prospective wifeâor concubine.
âItâs time to strip, sweetheart,â Andy said, his voice not unkind. His gaze swept down your body, lingering briefly on the way your sundress hugged the swell of your tits and the curve of your hips, before his eyes returned to yours. âShow me what your inheritance is worth to you, and Iâll make sure you get your money from your parents.â
You were shaking like a leaf in a blustery summer wind from nerves, but the hunger in Andyâs gaze gave life to a spark of boldness deep in your chest. You clung to that feeling with all your might, reminding yourself that Andy was your last hope, and you couldnât leave his office without his word that heâd help you.
With trembling fingers, you pushed the straps of your sundress off your shoulders, the garment catching around your waist and baring your naked chest for the lawyer. The coolness of the officeâs air conditioning had goose bumps raising all over your skin, your nipples puckering into tight, sensitive peaks.Â
It was only because you were watching him so closely that you noticed Andyâs sudden stillness. One moment he was lazing comfortably on the sofa, then between one breath and the next, he was as motionless as a predator preparing to pounce.Â
You werenât sure what to make of his reaction, even as his gaze roved greedily over your bared body, so you made quick work of removing your dress. You shoved it over your hips until it slipped to floor in a whisper of fabric. Your hands were clumsy as you slid your panties off, leaving you standing in front of the lawyer in nothing but your heels.
It took all of your self-control not to try to cover your nakeness with your hands, your arms hanging limply at your sides as you let Andy look his fillâand he was certainly looking. The lawyerâs eyes roamed hungrily over every inch of your bared skin, taking in the soft flesh of your tits, the gentle nip of your waist, and the generous curve of your hips with the voraciousness of a starving man.
âGorgeous,â Andy rasped, his voice deeper and huskier that it had been just moments ago. He looked bewitched, his eyes a little hazy and unfocused as they continued their perusal of your body, flicking up and down like he couldnât decide where he wanted to linger most.
Your lips fluttered in a tremulous smile at his praise, a glow of pride warming your chest as you took in the effect your nakedness had on him. It was enough to help you hold your head higher, your shoulders straightening and pushing your tits out for the lawyer.
Andyâs eyes finally found their way up to yours, sharpening on your face as he shifted on the couch, spreading his legs wide. âCome closer, sweetheartâleave the heels on.â
You stepped out of the circle of your clothes, proud of yourself when your knees wobbled only a little, and walked toward the sofa on shaking legs until you came to a stop between Andyâs knees.Â
Youâd felt all the places where your body had moved as you walked, the way your tits bounced, your ass and thighs jiggling with every step. And you were acutely aware that Andy had watched it all with rapturous focus, his blue eyes practically blazing with a covetous kind of lust that warmed you from the inside out.Â
By the time you stopped in front of him, close enough to touch, youâd begun to enjoy the heat of his gaze, and the way his mouth was parted in anticipation of having you in every way he desired. Your own desire was making you grow damp between your thighs, threatening to give you away.
For long, torturously delicious moments, you simply stood in front of Andy, naked save for your shoes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as wetness began to gather and drip from the slit between your legs. You had the awful, errant thought that the lawyer might be able to smell your budding arousal, and you squeezed your thighs together, but Andy didnât seem to notice. He was too mesmerized by the sway of your hips and the clenching of your thighs.
When you grew more restless than intimidated by the lawyer, you couldnât help but ask, âWould you like me to spin, sir?â The words didnât seem to penetrate, so you tried again, shifting anxiously on your feet. âShould I spin so you can see all of what I have to offer for your help?â
It took a moment for Andy to blink his eyes into focus and look up at your face, his gaze heating your skin as it dragged up your body, and you couldnât help the smug little smirk that curved your lips. Amusement sparked in his blue eyes, and you shivered at the hunger there, the corner of his mouth flickering in a smug grin of his own.
âImpertinent girl,â he chided lightly, leaning back further into the sofa. He lifted his hips slightly to get more comfortable, and you couldnât stop your eyes from dropping to his lap.Â
Despite the chill of the air conditioning, warmth suffused every inch of your body when you saw the thick bulge in the lawyerâs pants. You swallowed past your suddenly dry throat, spit gathering beneath your tongue as you pictured yourself rubbing your cheek against his bulge, mouthing at his cock through the slacks of his suit.
The weight of your gaze didnât go unnoticed, and a rumbling sound reverberated in Andyâs chest, almost like a purr. He lifted his hips again, and you quivered with lust, but held yourself back from acting on your desires.Â
âGimme a spin, sweetheart,â Andy growled, his voice full of barely restrained hunger. âLetâs see if you have an ass in need of spanking.â
A new spark of desire zinged down your spine and your eyes found Andyâs hands, which lay relaxed on the back of the sofa. They looked big, perfect for spanking, and you were unable to stop yourself from wondering how it would feel for his wide palms to slap your ass.Â
Something told you it would feel better than it had any right to, and that filthy, not entirely unwanted thought, spurred you into movement.
You took your time turning around, shifting your weight and popping out your hip purposefully to give Andy a show. You were grateful that youâd worn your favorite heels that day, the ones that made your ass look good enough to eat.Â
When your back was to Andy, you paused, giving him a long moment to let him look his fill. Based on the low, rumbling groan he tried to bite back behind his teeth, he liked what he saw.
With a smirk on your lips, you turned back around the face the lawyer. The bulge in his pants was noticeably bigger, straining almost painfully against the front of his slacks. There was even a small wet spot in the dark navy fabric, where his cock had leaked into his pants, and you wanted desperately to bend down and lick it, but you remained standing.
Your eyes swept up Andyâs form and you realized his dick wasnât the only part of him straining underneath the weight of his lust. His arms were taut, the corded muscle and thick veins of his forearms standing out in stark relief where his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The fingers of his hands were gripping the back of the couch like he was physically holding himself back from lunging at you, his chest rising in heavy breaths.
Andyâs thick, muscular thighs shifted restlessly, spreading wider like they were making room for his heavy dick. Your eyes fell helplessly to his lap again, and he shifted his hips, lifting them off the cushion like it was instinct to shove his cock closer to you, and you let out a pitiful little whimper.
At your lustful sound, Andy finally snapped. In the breath of a moment, the lawyer shed his cool, calm composure, leaving nothing more than a man overcome by lustâlust that was all for you.
âFuck,â he bit out the curse. âCâmere, pretty girl,â he growled, surging forward and wrapping his hands around the backs of your thighs, just above the knee. Then he was hauling you into his lap, spreading your thighs wide so your knees landed on either side of his hips, digging into the soft cushions of the sofa.
Your hands fell to Andyâs shoulders, more to keep your balance than an attempt to push him away. No, no part of you wanted to move away from him. If anything, you wanted him closer, you wanted to press the softness of your body against the hard lines of hisâyou wanted to see if the lawyer would drown in his lust for you, and you wanted to follow him into that oblivion.
Spreading your knees wider, you lowered your body until your dripping center met the thick bulge in Andyâs slacks. Unbidden, your lips parted and you moaned, falling helplessly against his chest while his arms tightened around your bare back. The scorching feeling of his hands touching your skin was contrasted with the smooth, cool cotton of his shirt and pants, and it was so deliciously heady, it made your mind fuzzy with need.
âChrist, I can feel you, sweetheart,â Andy rumbled close to your ear, one of his hands skimming up your spine to cup the back of your neck.Â
His hold was gentle and possessive at the same time, wringing a desperate, pleading whine from your lips that had his cock twitching between your thighs. In answer, you canted your hips, rubbing your slick slit experimentally along the hard ridge of his bulge, feeling him throb.
âFuck, you feel so fucking wet and warm and perfect.â Andyâs voice was drenched in lust, so thick you could practically taste it in the air between you. His hand flexed around the back of your neck, like he couldnât help himself, and he lifted his hips slightly, making his bulge dig deeper into your center. âAre you dripping all over my cock like a little slut, pretty girl?â
Andyâs tone was warm with teasing affection, but the filthiness of his words still made you bury your face in his neck. Your nose pushed beneath the loosened collar of his white dress shirt, but you barely had a second to breathe in the scent of him before he was towing you backward by his hold on your neck. His eyes were sparkling with amusement and his grin was affectionate as he watched you squirm, trying to hide your face in your shoulder.
âSo shy and yet sooo slutty,â Andy cooed at you, pulling you in to brush a kiss against your heated cheek, the coarse hair of his beard tickling your skin and making you even more squirmy. He chuckled, his mouth lingering close to yours, until you settled. âCan I kiss you, sweetheart?âÂ
The question was so soft and gentle, such a far cry from his command for you to strip, that it took your breath away. What had happened to the man whoâd listened to your sob story with a cool detachedness and asked for sex in return? Who was this man who asked permission to kiss you when you were already naked in his lap?Â
It was heady, being given power by a man as powerful as Andy Barber, and it only made you want him more. But you werenât sure if you could make your voice work, so you bit your lip and nodded, staring deep into Andyâs eyes as you gave him your answer.
His blue gaze darkened, his pupils blowing wide with desire as his eyes dropped to your mouth. But he didnât surge forward to kiss you the way you expected. Instead, he gave your neck another gentle squeeze and murmured, âUse your words, pretty girl. Tell me what you want.â
âKiss me, sir. Please,â you begged immediately, your voice breathless and reedy with anticipation and need.
The words were barely out of your mouth before Andyâs lips were on you, kissing you slowly, decadently, with an edge of hunger like he was barely controlling himself. The kiss was sweet, almost too sweet for the situation you were in, and a restlessness filled your belly like the fluttering of a million butterflies.
You couldnât have said why, maybe there was a thread of greediness in you that matched the hunger in Andy, but you wanted to feel the full force of his lust. You didnât want his lust leashed and temperedâyou wanted all of it. You wanted all of him.Â
Skimming your hands up from his shoulders, your fingers tangled in the soft hair at the back of Andyâs head and you pulled him closer, leaning back until he was wrapped entirely around you. Your lips parted invitingly for him and when he slipped his tongue into your mouth, you sucked on him, rocking your hips on his lap at the same time, your tits crushed to his chest.
Andy groaned roughly, deep in his throat, and his hands tightened on your body, feral possessiveness in every spot where his fingers dug into your skin. You felt it the moment his control broke, his hands getting rougher, his hips jerking up from the sofa to fuck against your cunt, his mouth more demanding, more hungryâand you met every bit of passion with your own lust.
âHoly fuck,â Andy cursed, breaking away from your mouth, his chest heaving as he panted for air. His hands had settled onto your hips, his fingers pressing so deep into your skin you wondered if they might leave bruises. You didnât hate the idea, not one bit.
You clung to him, catching your own breath and burying your face in his beard, just beneath the cut of his jaw. You took deep breaths, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the salt of his skin, only growing needier by the second. You nuzzled into him while your hips humped idly against his bulge, a whine working its way up your throat.
âJesus christ, sweetheart, youâre so perfect,â Andy murmured, one of his hands gently collaring your throat and turning your face so he could press his forehead to yours.
The gesture and his words settled something deep in your soul and you paused your movements, letting your body go still and your eyes to slip closed as you took in the moment. One of your hands slid down to Andyâs chest, your palm pressing over the spot where his heart thudded against his sternum. You smiled, feeling your heart pound in time with his, beating a steady rhythm together.
âAnything,â he rasped.Â
You were so lost in feeling, it took a moment for the word to process, and before you could respond asking him what he was talking about, he continued on.Â
âIâll do anything to help you, sweet girl. You have my word.âÂ
You were shocked into silence by the conviction in his voice and you leaned back, looking hard at the lawyer. His expression was more than a little lust-drunk, his jaw slack and mouth parted as he stared back at you, but his eyes were clear and sharp. As you watched, his mouth flattened into a determined line and he held your gaze firmly.
âYou have my word,â he said, repeating each word slowly like he was trying to imprint them on your mind. âDo you understand, sweetheart?â
âYe-yes, sir,â you finally answered, stumbling over the words as hope and excitement rushed to fill your chest, the emotions catching in your throat and making it hard to speak. âThank you, Andy,â you murmured, cupping his face and staring deep into his eyes. âReally, thank youâyou have no idea what this means to meâŚâ
You were practically dizzy with relief, and you took a deep breath to try to calm your racing heart. When you exhaled, the tension youâd been carrying for so long slipped from your shoulders. It dropped to your feet as easily as your dress had, and tears of overwhelming emotion gathered in your eyes, threatening to fall.
âDonât cry, sweet girl,â Andy crooned, sitting up and kissing the corners of your eyes, his thumbs sweeping sweetly across the apples of your cheeks. âEverythingâs going to be okay.âÂ
You were too choked up to respond, too happy and excited that you were finallyâfinallyâgoing to be free from your parents, so you simply hugged him, hoping Andy could feel your gratitude in your touch. His arms wound around your body and he hugged you back.
After a moment, he let out a deep sigh, his shoulders sagging in a way that seemed oddly sad for the moment. Then Andy was sitting back, extricating himself from your hold and giving you a smile that didnât reach his eyes.
âYouâve showed me enough, given me enough,â he said, his eyes deliberately staying on your face like he didnât have a right to look at your nakedness anymore. âYouâre free to go. Iâll be in touch about your inheritance.âÂ
The words hit you like a slap in the face, and your hands tightened on the lawyerâs shoulders as you expected to be pushed off his lap. A pit opened up in your stomach, filling quickly with disappointment, and your lips pulled down into a frowning pout.Â
You felt like youâd been given the sweetest candy in Andyâs kisses, in his hard body beneath your soft one, and he was trying to take it back before you could properly enjoy it. Heâd wanted you just a moment ago, what the hell had happened?
âWhat if I donât want to go yet?â you whispered, tears pricking at the back of your eyes and making your voice thick.
Guarded blue eyes flickered to yours, and you spotted a glimpse of longing in his gaze, but it was distant, like Andy was barely daring to hope heâd heard you correctly. The big, tough, dangerous lawyer looked so cautiously optimistic that you couldnât help but lean forward and press a gentle kiss to his mouth.
âI believe you said something about being interested in the sweet, warm place between my legs, sir,â you reminded him, rocking your hips and dragging your dripping slit down the length of his cock, feeling him twitch against the damp fabric of his slacks. âDonât you want it anymore?â you simpered. âDonât you want me?â
You put enough of a pathetic whine in your voice to snap Andy out of whatever uncertainty heâd been feeling, whatever momentary crisis of conscience heâd had about taking you as payment for his help. One of his hands curved possessively around the back of your neck and he dragged you toward him for a bruising, claiming kiss. He held you captured with his mouth while his other hand made quick work of unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants.
âYou really are a filthy fucking slut, arenât you, sweet girl?â Andy growled against your mouth as he pulled his cock out. âSo ready to give me your cunt in exchange for my help, huh?â He lifted you up onto your knees and notched the head of his dick at your entrance, rubbing it through your slick, dripping folds. âWell, if youâre going to offer it so freely, donât be surprised when I fucking take it.â
On those last words, Andy pressed inside your tight hole, thrusting up and pulling you down on his lap at the same time. In seconds, you were filled to the brim with his thick cock, every inch of his length buried deep in your pussy.
âAhhh yes!â you screamed as pleasure, with just a slight edge of pain, exploded in your body, sending sparks glittering beneath your skin. You were so overwhelmed by the welcome intrusion that it loosened your tongue. âItâs yours, Iâm yours, all yours, Andy,â you babbled, mind completely blown by the aching, throbbing, glorious stretch of his cock filling you up.
âThatâs right, baby, youâre mine now,â Andy muttered heatedly, grabbing big handfuls of your hips and ass, groping you unreservedly, giving you only a moment to adjust to his full length before he started lifting you up and slamming you back down, helping you to ride him. âFuck, thatâs it. Bounce on the dick that owns you, sweet girl. Lemme hear how good it makes you feel.â
A moan tripped off your lips at Andyâs fevered words, your head tipping back as your fingers tangled in his hair, holding yourself anchored to him as you rode his cock. Your ass slapped hard against his muscular thighs, pleasure sparking through every nerve in your body as you did your best to follow Andyâs commands, your lips parted while endless whines and whimpers spilled free.
When Andy buried his face in your tits, licking and sucking on your nipples with wild abandon, you cried out your pleasure even louder, your moans filling the lawyerâs office and mixing with the lewd noises of your fuckingâthe smack of your ass on Andyâs thighs, the wet sounds of your cunt being filled, the rough groans of pleasure rumbling in his throat.
A sharp slap landed on your ass as Andy urged you to go faster. You squealed shrilly, the sound bouncing off the walls of the office, and fucked yourself harder and faster on his cock. Your wetness was making a mess on your thighs and his pants, but you didnât care, you only cared about impaling yourself on his thick, glorious cock over and over and over again.
The pleasure in your body was mounting, your release bearing down on you, and it was taking all of your strength to keep going. You couldnât lift yourself up anymore, your thighs trembling too much, so you rocked hard and fast on Andyâs cock. Your clit rubbed roughly against the base of him, and you chased your pleasure until you reached the pinnacle and fell right over the edge.
âFuck yes, thatâs my girl, come all over my cock, baby,â Andy rumbled, lifting his head and capturing your mouth in a ruthless kiss, drinking down your cries of bliss. âYouâre squeezing me so tight, pretty girlâjesus christ, âm gonna come. Sweetheart, if you donât get off me, âm gonna come inside you.â
A covetous, greedy creature rose inside you, and your entire body and mind rebelled against the idea of Andy spilling his seed anywhere but deep in your pussy. You spread your knees wide on the couch, so you were impaled fully on his cock, taking his thick, heavy length to the hilt.
âDo it,â you purred breathlessly, still riding out your release by rocking your hips in his lap. Falling forward against his chest, your kiss-swollen lips dragged across his bearded cheek to reach his ear. âCome inside me, sir. I want it.â Trailing your mouth down to find the spot just beneath the edge of his beard, you murmured, âI want you to breed me,â before biting down on the soft skin of his neck.
âFuck, fuckâfuck, baby, âm gonna breed your pussy full of come, âs that what you want? Want me to claim your cunt as mine, want to feel me dripping down your thighs for the rest of the day, huh?âÂ
Andyâs voice was so rough, so wicked, it sent even more tremors of pleasure through your body. He bit off a growl when your cunt clenched tightly around his throbbing cock, and his hands grabbed your hips, lifting you enough that he could fuck into you from below. He thrust his cock into your grasping channel once, twice, and on the third time, he let out a vicious groan.
âTake it, sweetheart, fucking take my come in that greedy, slutty, perfect pussy of yours,â Andy snarled through bared teeth, yanking you down on his lap and winding his arms tightly around your body to keep you in place while he emptied his balls deep in your body.Â
Your inner walls fluttered around his twitching cock, your mouth curving into a pleased, sated smile. You could feel him throbbing inside you, and you reveled in the feeling, curling your arms around his broad shoulders and burying your face in his beard.
Andy smelled like clean sweat mixed with hints of leather and his cologne, and something so perfectly him that you practically purred, your nose digging deeper into his coarse hair while pleasure thrummed headily through your body. It occurred to you, then, that youâd never felt as safe or content as you did in that moment, naked in the powerful lawyerâs lap while he came inside you.
A final groan tumbled from Andyâs mouth and his nearly crushing hold on your body relented marginally as he sagged back into the couch, tugging you to sprawl across his chest. You could feel his warm come beginning to drip from your hole around his softening cock, and you wiggled your hips in delight at the sensation, a little giggle slipping free.
âIâm keeping you,â Andy declared, his hand stroking up your spine and pulling you close so he could press a kiss to your temple, the gesture ridiculously sweet and possessive at the same time. âYouâre mine, and only mine, as long as youâll let me have you, sweetheart.â
âThaâs fine,â you mumbled, your eyes drifting closed. Andy guided your head to his shoulder and you let out a soft sigh of contentment. âAs long as youâre mine and only mine, too, Andy.â A shiver wracked your body, the air conditioning in the office making the cooling sweat on your body feel frigid.
âOf course, pretty girl,â Andy said, his voice warm and indulgent as he pulled cool, smooth fabric around your shoulders. âIâm all yours.â
You cracked an eye open to see that Andy had pulled his suit jacket around you like a blanket. He tucked it in around your body, making sure every bit of your skin was ensconced in its warmth. Then he settled deeper into the sofa, brushing a kiss to the apple of your cheek and sitting quietly for a moment, simply enjoying holding you.
âDo you mind if I wrap up my business with your friend, sweetheart?â Andy asked softly after an indeterminable amount of time. âThen Iâm all yours for the rest of the evening.â
âSure, donât mind,â you mumbled, still half asleep on Andyâs shoulder.Â
You took quick stock of your body, but you didnât think any of your nakedness was visible thanks to Andyâs suit jacket. The lawyer had made sure you were all tucked in and completely covered so only he knew the full extent of your nakedness.
âDrysdale,â Andy called, loud enough to carry through the door of his office, but not hurt your ears. You snuggled deeper into his shoulder, nosing beneath the collar of his shirt and breathing in the calming scent of him. You didnât think youâd ever get enough of it.
âEverything alright, bun?â Ransom asked as soon as he pushed into the room.Â
You heard him stop and suck in a sharp breath, but you were too content to lift your head to look at him. Instead, you pushed a hand out from beneath the collar of Andyâs jacket and gave your best friend a thumbs up, which made Andy huff a laugh.
âAs you can see, Iâm taking good care of your friend, Drysdale,â Andy said, satisfaction dripping from his words. âWeâve reached an agreement. Iâve given her my word, and Iâll be helping her with her problem.âÂ
âGreat,â Ransom said, taking a few tentative steps closer. âIâll take her back to my place, then. Make sure she has a safe place to stay while you sort out her parents.â
Andy lifted one of his hands and you could imagine the imperious look on his face as he gestured for Ransom to stop. âThat wonât be necessary,â the lawyer drawled, letting his hand fall to your lower back, holding you possessively through his jacket. âSheâll stay with meâsheâs mine.â
âThat wasnât supposed to be the deal!â Ransom protested, but Andy cut him off.
âIt was the deal she willingly made, Drysdale,â Andy snapped, his body tensing beneath yours.Â
Instinctively, you wanted to soothe him, so you pressed your face deeper into his neck, brushing a kiss to the hollow of his throat. It worked and Andy calmed, but his hand pressed more firmly against your lower back, like he was worried Ransom might try to take you from him.
âBecause Iâm feeling generous, you can consider your debt to me settled, Drysdale,â Andy said, his voice more even and cold, like it had been when youâd first walked into his office. âYou no longer owe me for getting you out of that ugly situation revolving around your grandfatherâs death.â
There was an awkward pause, then Ransom muttered, âThanks, Barber.â It seemed like the matter had been settled, but still Ransom lingered. Finally, he called softly. âYou sure this is what you want, bun?â
At the genuine concern in his voice, you finally lifted your head and turned to give Ransom a smile. âIâm happy, Ran, this is what I want.â You glanced at the man whose lap you sat on, the man whoâd given you freedom and something more, a safe place to be yourself. Your smile widened when you saw the warmth in Andyâs blue eyes. âAndyâs a man of his wordâthatâs what you said.â You looked back to your best friend. âHeâll take care of me.â
For a moment, it looked like Ransom might protest again, but then his expression flattened and he tossed a glare at the lawyer. âProtect her, Barber,â your best friend growled, with as much intimidation as he could muster in his designer sweater. âIf I hear sheâs unhappy in any wayâŚâ
âDonât worry, kid,â Andy said, cutting him off again, his tone amused. âI can take care of her in ways you couldnât even dream of.â He brushed a kiss to your temple and your eyes closed, a happy smile curving your lips. âRun along, Drysdale. Our business is done and I promised my girl I was hers for the rest of the eveningâand Iâm a man of my word.â
Ransom grumbled at the patronizing dismissal, but he did as he was told, calling a goodbye to you that you returned with a sleepy wave over your shoulder. When he was gone, Andy let out a deep sigh of relief, clutching you tighter and brushing sweet kisses to your face anywhere he could reach.
âGet some sleep, sweetheart,â he murmured, his hands roaming soothingly over your body. âIâll take care of you, now and foreverâyou have my word.â
With a smile, you melted into your man, letting sleep claim you and knowing that he would keep you safe and content. As youâd already come to learn, Andy Barber was a man of his word, and you didnât doubt that heâd keep every promise he ever made to you.
thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated âĄ
âď¸ warnings: nsfw, smut, college setting, inaccurate depictions of arachnology and entomology, established relationships, fluff, rough p in v, porn little plot, breeding kink, mask stays on, dirty talk, inappropriate use of webs (bdsm), soft dom!peter
âď¸ word count: 4.2k
âď¸ a/n: this literally came to me in a vision right before bed and i woke up like a sleeper agent and got to work. kinda proofread so we kinda die like men
synopsis:
You're an overworked entomology student trying to finish a report on spiders and their mating cycles. At the same time, Peter Parker is undergoing strange, ravenous arachnid changes in his body. Lucky for you, Peter also happens to be your boyfriend.
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Another rainy evening results in you staying cooped up in your dorm, eyes heavy despite being dosed up on caffeine, the warm lamp light on your desk ghosting over your laptop screen and papers in a golden blur.
Itâs that point in the semester where the weather is getting colder, the stakes are getting higher, and everyone is cramming to memorize fifteen weeks of school work in one night. For you, an Entomology major, your current ball and chain is a thoroughly written report on arachnids, their mating cycles, and their habits.
The sound of the rain thumping against your windowsill makes it hard to focus. But itâs not just the rain that tears away your attentionâitâs the fact that your boyfriend, Peter, is out doing God knows what on his exam night. He assured you he would be back no later than ten, but one quick glance at the clock tells you heâs late. It reads 12:45 AM.
Youâre eager to reach for your phone and shoot a quick call to Evie, but you try your best to resist so you donât get in the way of his typical superhero duties. As the minutes tick by and your daunting report burns bright on your screen, your worry gives way.
With a sigh, you sit up straight in your chair and snatch your phone. As youâre dialing his suit, a hard crash against the window makes you gasp and jolt in your seat.
As if he knew you were about to call, Peter is right there.
He quickly slides your window open and sneaks in smoothlyâdrenched in rain and panting hard.
âChrist, Peter!â You try to will away the adrenaline from the scare. âYou told me youâd be back at ten. I was just about to call youââ
Peter nearly collapses over your desk as he tries to hold himself up, scattering your research papers. Normally, youâd give him a lecture for messing up your study station, but as worry washes over you, you donât even glance at the pages youâve slaved over for the past twenty-four hours.
âPeter? Peter, look at meâwhat happened?â you hurry over to him, your hands cupping his cheeks through his mask.
His suit is soaked through, cold rain pooling on the floor, but despite the chill, his body radiates a feverish, unnatural heat. His breathing comes in hard pants and desperate gulps. He rips his gloves off harshly and tears at the neck of his suit.
âIâI donât know,â he rasps, his voice strained as if heâs trying to swallow down a growl. âSomethingâs wrong. IâIâve been feeling like this for days, and I thought it was just a feverâbut then I started producing my own webs, and Iââ
âOkay, okay, just breathe. Help me get you down.â
You wrap one arm around his waist and guide him toward your bed, but the contact makes him hiss sharply, as if your touch hurts him. You quickly help him undress out of the rest of the suit, eager to examine him for any injuries.
He lies before you in just his underwearâand as you scan Peterâs muscular frame, you notice nothing unusual except for a strange pulsing in the veins at his wrists.
âPeter,â you frown, eyeing him up and down to make sure you havenât missed anything. âYouâre not injuredâare you?â
âNo,â he reassures through ragged breaths. âNo, Iâm not injuredâitâs justâI donât know, everything feels so warm and Iââ
âHere, let me help you remove your mask.â
Without warning, you lean over his body and reach for the hem of his mask at the base of his neck. He gasps sharply the moment your fingers graze his hot skin. âNo! Donât touch it!â
His hand shoots out and clasps your wrist tightly, making you wince. He has never grabbed you like that before.
Peter, realizing what heâs done, loosens his grip on your wrist just slightly.
âCrapâIâm sorry. I just⌠donât remove it, okay?â He pants heavily. âMy eyesâtheyâre pitch black. Iâve never had this happen before, and I donât want to scare you.â
A line creases between your brows in worry. âI could never be scared of you.â
âI know, I know,â he sucks in a deep breath, the pillows rustling as he turns his head toward you. You canât see his face, but his voice betrays his pained expression. âPlease donât remove it. Not yet.â
âBut what if youâre injured?â
âIf I had a head injury, I would tell you.â
You search the white lenses of his mask, but eventually, you give in with an exasperated sigh and slowly lower your hand from his neck. Peter doesnât let go of your wrist; he intertwines his clammy fingers with yours.
With a solemn expression, you cup your free palm over his knuckles while holding his hand.
âPeter, whatâs happening to you?â you ask softly, kneeling beside him at the edge of the bed.
He swallows hard, his neck flushing a deep, embarrassing shade of red where his mask pulled up.
âItâs hard to explain,â he stammers, his lenses focusing on the ceiling of your warmly lit dorm room. âFor the past few days, my bodyâs been feeling restless. Itâs like every single instinct I have is screaming at me to do something, but my brain couldnât figure out what.â
His handâthe one that isnât holding yoursâclenches into a fist, the veins and muscles in his forearm popping with frustration.
âAnd then tonight,â he continues in almost a bashful whisper, âI started producing my own webs. Like Peter Two didââ He turns to you real quick. âYou remember Peter Two, right?â
You nod. He looks back up at the ceiling.
âAnyway, the webs werenât strong enough to control at all. It felt⌠almost painful. It wouldnât stop spurting out. Thereâs also this feeling in my gutâ like Iâm hungry.â
The white lenses of his mask narrow in embarrassment. âAnd I donât mean for food,â he mutters, shifting his hips awkwardly until the bed creaks. âMy body was screaming at me to come back to you. To feel your touch, to hear your voice⌠and now that youâre here, my skin burns every time you touch me, but I donât want you to stop. I feel like Iâd die if you did.â
You hum softly, your fingers stroking over his knuckles as your eyes rake over his body once more. Without even looking at you, Peter can feel the weight of your gazeâand fuck, itâs heavy. Youâre his girlfriend, and youâve seen him through all his ups and downs, but for some reason, this feels completely different.
His body is tense, his skin is burning hot, and his heart is beating erratically. The longer you stare at him, the longer you stroke your fingers against his hand, the more he feels an unmistakable ache in his groin.
Before he knows it, his underwear begins to tighten, revealing a prominent, pulsing bulge right in front of youâbegging for your touch to move from his hands to somewhere much lower.
You swallow hard, your face heating up instantly at his size.
Your mindâtrained by months of endless lectures, lab practicals, and late-night readingsâslowly begins connecting the dots. The feverish body temperature, the blacked-out eyes, the hyper-fixation on your presence, his restlessness, the involuntary production of silk, the sudden surge of physical arousalâit isnât just a random mutation spike.
Itâs textbook arachnid behavior. It also happens to be exactly what youâre writing your report on right now.
âPeter,â you try your best to pry your eyes away from the space between his legs. âYouâre in an ultimate molt cycle.â
Through the white lenses of his mask, he squints at you in confusion. âA... a what?â
âUltimate molt,â you repeat, pushing yourself off the floor so youâre sitting at the edge of the bed. âIn mature male spiders, the final molt signals sexual maturity. Their bodies undergo a massive physiological shift. They stop eating, their metabolic rate and temperature skyrocket, and their brain gets overtaken with one goal in mind.â
Peter swallows hard. âAnd whatâs that?â
âUm,â you say, sheepish. âReproduction.â
His head slumps back onto the pillow with a small thud. âOh, God.â He shuts his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. âIâm pretty sure youâve explained this to me before.â
You squint at him. âI did. During the beginning of the semester. I also told you this was something you should keep in mindâbut you insisted that none of it actually applied to you.â
Peter doesnât say anything, but you can already see the smug grin sitting behind his mask.
âAnyway,â you quickly glance down at his erection before continuing. âWhen a male reaches this stage, his silk glands change. He builds whatâs called a sperm webâa small, specialized sheet of silk where he deposits his genetic material so he can charge his pedipalps.â
âEnglish, please.â
You roll your eyes. âYour body is trying to build a sperm web, Peter. Your spider DNA is hitting its final maturation phase, and your bloodstream is swimming with reproductive hormones.â
âAnd the only way to fix it is byâŚâ Peter drawls.
He already knows the answer, but the way he dances around the words makes it clear heâs trying to get you to admit it out loud. You canât believe that even in such a vulnerable situation, he still manages to find a way to tease you.
âHaving sex,â you finish, a shy expression creeping onto your face.
A silence settles between the two of youâa silence filled with so much tension that most people wouldnât consider it ânormalâ for a couple.
The few times you and Peter had sex, it was gentle, intimate, and respectful. It always involved him whispering sweet nothings into your ear and making sure your pleasure came first. Even without saying it aloud, you both know that if you were to do it right now, it would be entirely different. Peter isnât even sure he could control himself.
You clear your throat, trying to break the tension.
âWellâthatâs what Iâve been writing my research paper on. Male spiders can get extremely aggressive at this point in their lives, so scientists are trying to find remedies that donât require a female partner,â you explain, slowly prying your hand away from his and standing up from the bed. âIf I check my references, I might be able to find something that can help youââ
Peterâs whole body tenses. With your touch gone for even a millisecond, he feels like heâs starving. Before you can step away, he stops you with a firm grip around your wrist.
âNo,â he breathes roughly. âGet back here.â
With a harsh tug, he pulls you back down onto the mattress. âIf having sex is whatâll solve this,â Peter rasps in a low, hungry voice, âthen thatâs what weâre going to do.â
Warmth spreads rapidly across your face and down your neck. You look down at him, reaching to gently cup the side of his masked jaw. He shudders.
âPeter⌠look at me,â you whisper softly, your voice trembling just a bit. âIâm always going to want to help you. Always. But⌠is this something you actually want?â
Peterâs body tensesânot because of anything you said, but because your touch feels like throwing gasoline onto a roaring flame.
âMore than anything,â he breathes out, his hand blanketing yours to keep it there. âEvery cell in my body is begging for you.â
His white lenses stay locked on your eyes as his hands move down to his waist. Even just lying in his underwear, he feels restricted. Contained. His body screams at him to get rid of it. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and shoves them down his legs, kicking them aside.
Freed from the restraint, his length springs heavy and hard against his lower stomach, so swollen it looks almost painful. The dark tip is already glistening, leaking a clear, hot bead of pre-cum. His whole body twitches at the release of pressure, a low groan escaping his throat as he guides your hand down to his hip.
Youâve touched him plenty of times, but tonight, even the simplest graze of your fingertips feels like nothing heâs ever experienced before.
âIt hurts so bad,â he whimpers behind his mask. âPlease⌠I need you to ride it.â
His cock twitches, his balls sitting heavy and full between his legs. You swallow hard, clenching your thighs together. Youâve never ridden him before, and the thought of doing it nowâwhen he needs it mostâmakes you feel self-conscious.
âPeter, Iâve⌠Iâve neverââ
âI know,â he reassures, though his voice strains painfully, like heâs fighting to hold back. âJust try your best, okay? I know your body can take it. I can smell how wet you are.â
His spider sense is buzzing violently. He can hear the uneven thump of your heartbeat, feel the heat radiating off your skin, and smell the scent of your arousal filling the airâsweet and intoxicating, driving every instinct in his blood wild.
His masked head tilts up, white lenses expanding slightly as he watches you straddle his hips.
Hovering over him, you reach for the hem of your shirt. You pull it over your head and cast it aside, followed by your sleep shorts, until youâre straddling him in just your underwear.
Peter lets out a trembling exhale. His large hand wraps around the base of his cock, his hot fingers closing tight over himself. He begins to stroke lazilyâup and down in long drags that make his hips roll for more. The wet slicking noise of his pre-cum against his palm echoes in the quiet room.
âFuck,â he groans. Through the white lenses of his mask, you can tell his gaze is glued to you, tracing every curve, watching every move. âLook at you⌠youâre so pretty.â
Emboldened by how much of an effect you have on him, you discard your panties, baring yourself completely. You settle yourself back over his hips, positioning yourself right above him. Peterâs hand rests at his base, holding his cock steady as he watches you slowly lower your body until the tip presses against the tightness of your entrance.
A choked, almost sobbing sound breaks from his throat.
Control yourself, Peter tries to remind himself. He thought he had it handled, but his senses are louder than everâtelling him to grab your waist and drive you down in one ruthless pull.
âOh, God,â he curses, tossing his head back against the pillows as you sink deeper.
You stop halfway, your face flashing with worry. âIs this hurting you?â you ask. âWe can stop.â
Peter feels like heâs going insane. His hands fist the blankets beneath him, because he doesnât trust himself to touch you right now.
âNo,â he hisses. âIt only hurts because Iâm not inside yet. Donât stop. All the way in, baby. Youâre almost there.â
You take a deep breath, resting your hands flat on his broad chest to steady yourself. You push your hips down, taking the remaining inch of his girth until your hips flush against his. The stretch is dizzying, making your heart take flight in your chest.
Peterâs cock sheathes hot inside you, twitching as it savors every surface of your tight walls.
You canât make out his expression past the mask, but from the way his head is thrown back and the veins pop in his forearms as he grips the bedsheets, itâs clear heâs about to lose his mind. You tilt your head back with a soft breathy sigh, letting your hips roll against his in a slow, testing rhythm.
The movement alone drives his heightened senses over the edge.
Whatever thin thread of restraint Peter was clinging to snaps entirely.
With a sharp hiss, his hands shoot out from the tangled sheets. His large hot palms slam against your bare hips, his long fingers digging into your skin with an inescapable gripâholding you tightly in place as his primal instincts take over.
âI canâtâI canât wait,â he rasps painfully. âIâm sorry, baby, I need it nowââ
Without giving you time to answer, his hips snap upward in a ruthless thrust that sends a gasp flying from your lips. Before you can even catch your breath, he sets a punishing pace from underneath you, using his grip on your waist to guide your body up and down his length in hard, unrelenting pistons.
The wet slap of skin meeting skin echoes loudly through your dorm room. You feel his chest heaving against your hands while the white lenses hide the obsession behind his pitch-black eyes. Itâs a good thing he kept the mask onâbecause with the way his cock is kissing your womb, he knows his eyes are crazed.
âOh, God! Peter!â You cry out, your tits bouncing with every upward thrust of his hips.
âFuckâfuck, you feel so tight,â Peter groans.
He lifts his hips, bridging his back so he can thrust deeper, angling his length so every hard drive grinds right up against your most sensitive spot. Your vision swims as he ravages you from the inside, a tight, coiled pressure building deep in your lower belly.
The pleasure is overwhelming, yet itâs still not enough for him. His cock needs to drive even deeperâuntil your wetness coats his entire length from tip to base, until both of your juices combine into a thick sheen right where his brunette curls rest at his pelvis.
He wants to make a mess out of you, to see you crying his name and begging to be filled.
Filled upâŚ
The idea of it makes Peter go crazy.
Peter sits up fast, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you to his chest before you can even blink. Your positions are flipped as he hovers over you from behind.
His knees bracket your thighs while his chest presses flush against your spine. You gasp at the sudden shift, his hands wrapping firmly around your hips to pull you back against his cock as he aligns himself once more.
âPeterââ you cry out, your voice muffled into the mattress. It smells just like him.
âStay right there,â he growls into your neck, his hot breath searing your skin. âDonât move.â
Heâs got you in a perfect positionâface down, ass up, completely bared and vulnerable for mating.
Heâs never had you in such a vulgar position beforeâall of your lovemaking before was face to face so he could see every whimper and tear that spills. But in this position, the angle is even deeper. Your back arches perfectly. His cock finds your entrance again, and with how wet you are, he finds no trouble burying his cock all the way back inside you, a harsh grunt breaking from his throat as your tight walls clamp around him. His hands dig into your hips, locking you in place as he begins to pound into you from behind with a speed heâs never used on you before.
âOh!â you cry into the pillow.
Every thrust pushes you forward into the sheets, the wet, slapping sound of his hips against yours filling the air alongside his groans.
âI feel so backed up,â he grunts so quietly, itâs like heâs speaking to himself. âThis feels so goodâgonna dump it all inside you. Make me feel better.â
Peterâs balls slap against your folds, obscenely hot and heavy. Itâs in this moment that you realize what exactly this is. He has you in the same position youâve seen in countless textbooks during your studies.
During spider mating, the male must align his pedipalps with the femaleâs epigyne for a successful sperm transfer.
Peter is going to breed you.
A low growl escapes him when his cock hits a particularly sensitive spot. Your walls, tight and rubbing against the underside of his cock, drive him insane, his muscles tensing as he throws his head back in pleasure. Heâs sweating profusely under the mask, almost making it harder to breathe, but he doesnât care. His body screams for something else, and as his cock pistons in and out of you, accompanied by your moans and cries of his name, he feels himself getting close.
His girth makes your eyes roll back, an overwhelming cry tearing from your throat. Instinctively, you scramble your legs and arms for purchase, trying to get into a more suitable position, but in Peterâs blacked-out eyes, he thinks youâre running away.
A disapproving groan vibrates in his chest as one hand releases your hip to grab your wrists, pinning them behind your back. His legs wrestle against yours to keep them still from behind. Then, he shoots out a webâan organic, self-made web that slings around your wrists like a band, and then another to keep your ankles pinned, effectively keeping you in place.
âAlmost there,â Peter grunts, his sweaty chest pressing up against your bare back as he ruts into you. âYouâre doing so good for me, baby. Godâmy balls are so full, I needed this. Just stay like thatâlet me fill you up.â
His hand moves to the back of your neck, his palm resting gently over your nape to press your head into the pillow.
âYouâre trapped,â he rasps, his voice deep and gravelly. You have never heard him talk to you like this before, and the filth of it makes your body clench with desire. âLook at you⌠bound up, completely wide open for me. You canât get away.â
His hips snap forward to bottom out inside you, it makes your heels twitch against the web binding your ankles.
âYouâre gonna take all of it,â Peter grunts, the words coming in shallow bursts against the shell of your ear. âEvery single drop. Iâm gonna flood you so deep youâll feel me inside you for days⌠make sure everyone knows you belong to me. My sweet, beautiful mateâŚâ
The biological urge to plant his seed, to mark you, and to fill you until you overflow turns his pace crazed.
The wet slapping of his pelvis against your rear sings like a song in the room, mixing with the strained, needy whines escaping your throat. His cock swells inside you, pulsing and stretching your walls to their limit. Itâs more than you can take, and you feel yourself getting close.
âPeterâ! IâmâIâm going toââ you cry out, your chest heaving against the bed.
âCome for me,â he commands, his fingers tightening gently on your neck as his thrusts turn short, vicious, and frantic. âClench around my cock and take it. Breeding you, baby⌠Iâm breeding you.â
Your mind is hazy with an overwhelming sense of desire. His words, the positionâitâs like a whole new side of Peter you never knew existed, and your body is enjoying every second of it.
You cry out his name, your body twitching as your pussy clenches around his shaft, milking him for every drop. Peterâs muscles pull taut at the sensation, his forehead pressing into your damp shoulder blade as his balls draw tight against your entrance.
One pulse, then another, and your womb fills with his cum.
Thick, scorching floods of semen pump deep into your core. Spurt after heavy spurt fills you past your capacity, the force of his release so strong his entire frame shakes violently, his breathing erratic as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.
His instincts move his body on command. Just like a spider aligning with the epigyne, he pulls out quickly and spins you around so your back hits the mattress. He spreads your legs, positioning himself between them as his cock slaps heavy against your lower belly, letting the rest of his cum seep onto your skin.
He groans incoherently as he watches his body mark you, holding himself at the base and smearing his seed over your stomach with his tip.
He stays above you for a long moment until you both catch your breath. Finally, he sits back on his knees.
His cock, now half-limp, slaps against his stomach lazily as a trickle of his seed drips down your inner thigh and lower belly. He slumps onto the mattress, but wastes no time pulling you in close against his chest.
He doesnât even know where to begin. Heâs never allowed himself to take you so vulgarlyâalmost monstrously. Now, heâs terrified of removing the mask; he doesnât want you to see the burning shame etched on his features.
Peterâs hands cradle your back, his chin resting gently against your sweaty temple. He tries to muster up an apology, maybe say something along the lines of, âI donât know what took over me.â Because truthfully, he didnât.
But then your laugh comes firstâsoft, raspy, and utterly spent.
âYou know what female spiders do to their partners after theyâve finished mating?â you ask into his neck.
Peter stiffens. âWhat?â
âThey eat them. It's a good source of nutrients for the babies.â
Peter tries to remember if you had anything to eat before he got here. âOh.â
đ idk what to say. if you've read my first peter parker fic, i felt like i just put on an evil mask because this is a complete 180 twist from my last story. again, i only proofread like half of it and got lazy, so i apologize for any mistakes !!
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.
⤡ music producer!bucky x singer!reader
summary: as a rising singer, signed and promoted by Barnes Records, you try to find your way through the overwhelming whirlwind that is LA. Little do you know, your producer, Bucky, is determined to do everything to keep you as his biggest star. ft. Yelena Belova, your manager!
word count: 10,8k
ââ .⌠WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI; no use of y/n, bucky doesnât have a metal arm in this au, smut, bits of angst, curse words, lots of manipulation, alcohol, toxic ârelationshipâ, slight corruption kink, reader is a mess, power abuse, mean!bucky, praising kink (but itâs barely there), degradation, dry humping, pussy slapping, dumbification, choking, size kink, tummy bulge, spanking, office sex, rough sex, dom!bucky, PiV (unprotected sex), orgasm denial, overstimulation, creampie, breeding kink.
â⡠sophie's note: back to back to back to bwa! this fic is my contribution to the bwat summer collab <3! the fic gave me a headache but in the end i really like it so a win is a win. big thanks to bri @iamthatonefangirl for co-hosting this collab with me, and for brainstorming the ideas which ended up in creating our little alternative universe, paul @superbassbuck who encouraged me to write mean!bucky, and gave me some ideas, and ken @heldbybarnes for beta-reading đ i love you guys
LA is not what you expected.
You thought it'd be much differentâendless possibilities, and that effortless glow of the city that everyone seems to have in the Instagram stories.
Instead, it feels like a whirlwind that never seems to slow down.
Don't get it twistedâyou love this life, you really do.
You love the rush of new songs hitting number one on the charts. You love when your phone explodes with messages from your manager Yelena that are just a string of fire emojis followed by "we're going platinum, babyyyyyy". You love the arenas full of people singing your words back to you. You love the sparkly outfits, the stage light, and the pride that comes with finally making it⌠it's everything you dreamed of.
But god, it's exhausting.
Your DMs are a war zone of thirst, hate, and brand deals. Everything you say or post has to be consulted with your PR team first. The paparazzi hide around every corner, everytime you step outside there's this weird pressure to look like a filtered version of yourself 24/7, even when you're just trying to buy matcha in sweatpants, and oversized hoodie.
There's eyes on you all the time, and everywhere you go.
But now, there's different set of eyes that pierces through you.
"You ready?" a familiar voice brings you back to reality from the mess that are your thoughts. Bucky's standing behind the mixing console with broad shoulders, separated by the plexiglass vocal booth window. His brown hair is freshly trimmed but still somehow manages to look soft, and a little fluffy. The sharp line of his jaw is tense with concentration, and those striking eyesâin probably the most beautiful shade of blue you've ever seenâare locked on you.
There were times when you used to be nervous around him. You still sometimes are, but it's different now. His bossy demeanor doesn't feel so scary anymore. There's something grouding about it actually.
"Yeah," you respond, a little unsure, but he just nods once, professional as always.
"Okay⌠we start in 3⌠2⌠1âŚ"
The music begins to play through your headphones â synths layered under a more gentle beat that feels like it was made for the exact mood you've been carrying lately.
You close your eyes, letting the melody wrap around you as you start to sing. Your voice fills the booth, growing stronger with each line. The words Bucky wrote for you just a few weeks ago feel different sang out loud. They're strange, but you try to pour the emotionsâboth wonder and exhaustionâinto the verse, swaying slightly as the song builds.
When it ends, and you ease into pre-chorus, you chance a glance trough the glass.
Bucky is leaning forward, one of his hands is adjusting a knob while the other is resting on the console. Those blue eyes flick up to meet yours for a brief second, and the corner of his mouth twitches in what might almost be approval. The edges of his face seem a fraction softer under the low studio lights, letting you breathe a little easier which is life changing when you try to hit the right note. Trust.
You're supposed to flow right into the chorus, but for some stupid reason, the words catch in your throat. Your voice fades out mid-line, and you stop completely.
Bucky pauses the track immediately, and the sudden silence rings in your headphones. He straightens up, brows furrowed.
"What's wrong?" he asks, looking down at the waveform on his screen for a moment before looking back at you. "That was perfect."
The dissapointment in his tone hits you harder than you could expect.
"I⌠I don't know," you admit, cheeks warming as you fidget with the edge of your sleeve. "I just don't feel it, Bucky."
Bucky exhales quietly. It's not quite a sigh, but still, it's enough to let you know you fucked up without saying it directly.
"I'm telling you it was good," he says, crossing his arms over his chest, and you can clearly hear that underlying impatience in his voice. "Let's try again," he orders, and hits the rewind, then play button on the console. The music surrounds you again, and Bucky leaves you no room for discussion.
The truth is, what Bucky wants, Bucky gets. It doesn't really matter that your singing doesn't feel right to you. He is the one to decide everything. You are only hereâin this fancy ass studio, with your name starting to mean something in the industryâbecause of him.
It all started with the covers you used to post onlineâyou in your bedroom, singing to simple acoustic versions of big songs with both video audio quality so bad it was embarrasing.
Bucky found one of them one night, months ago. He'd told you later that something in your delievery made him stop scrolling, and that he saw potential no one else had bothered to look for. Whatever that meant.
Within weeks, he was pulling all the strings he couldâflying you out for meetings, getting you in front of the right people, and quietly taking care of the mountain of family debts that had been weighing on you for years. He didn't make a big show of it. He just⌠said he handled it because you needed it to move on. So he paid for what was needed to be paid, and cleared that path for you.
Now here you areâattached to him because it feels like the right thing to do after everything he's ever done for you, despite the fact that agreement you signed with his label was probably equivalent to a deal with the devil.
You have to admit though, Bucky himself is not so bad.
He's your boss, and owns the entire label you're signed under, yes. But besides that, he's also produces your songs and helps you write them.
And although you have to follow what he says, and do what he wants, it seems like he's the only person in this world beside Yelena that genuinely cares for you. He always makes sure you're well rested, even if that means rescheduling a session when he notices the exhaustion in your eyes. He tries to reassure you when the doubts creep in, offering quiet, gruff encouragement in that low voice of his, and "It's okay, I know you can do it" that somehow cuts throught the noise in your head.
Bucky somehow always seems to know what to say or do, and he is the only one who still makes you feel looked after.
Because of that, you two got pretty close⌠as some would say.
And maybe you're mistaken. Maybe that is just an another illusion in the world full of fame, and lies. Or maybe you just want someone to care because despite thousands of fans, you still feel very fucking lonely.
But then, Bucky wouldn't be doing all of this, right?
The thoughts swirl too heavily in your chest. Your voice catches again mid-line, weaker this time, and you stop singing completely, eyes squeezing shut.
Bucky stops the track right away.
"I'm sorryâ" you apologize, voice small.
His gaze softens when he looks at you through the glass. "You have nothing to apologize for, doll."
You swallow hard. "I don't like how it sounds, Buck. How I sound⌠It's not like⌠me."
He watches you for a beat, then steps out from behind the console. A moment later he's opening the door to the vocal booth, and steps inside, making the room feel so much smaller with him in it.
"I told ya, it's good, thoughâŚ" he says casually, as you try your best to not break down in front of him. "I think my opinion should matter to you."
"I know⌠I'm sorry."
He reaches out, and his hand gently rests on you arm, warm through the sleeve of your sweater.
"It's okay. Let's take a break, and start again, hm? Does that sound good?"
You nod, and that insufferable knot in your chest looses a little.
"Thanks," you whisper, and your eyes flick down to where his thumb is now brushing lazy circles against your sweater.
"You knowâŚ" he starts "We can always scrap what we have and start over⌠it would take more time, and I'd have to rewrite the lyrics probably , andâ"
"No!" you cut him off quickly. Your uncertainty shifts into guilt.
The idea of wasting his time â his money, his effort â after everything he's done for you makes your stomach twist. No matter how much you hated the outcome, you would hate yourself more if you let that happen.
"I'll sing it⌠It's fine."
Bucky studies you for a second, those deep blue eyes search your face like he's trying to read everything you're not saying, The line of his jaw is relaxed now, not longer tense with that earlier impatience, which makes you feel more at peace.
"You sure," he asks? "We've got time, doll. Doesn't have to be today."
"I'm sure," you exclaim, trying to give him a reassuring smile.
The next afternoon, you're in the back of a sleek black Range Rover as the city's traffic crawls outside the tinted windows.
Yelena sits beside you with legs crossed, flipping trough her tablet, and checking a schedule that's somehow more packed than LA's streets. She'd been your manager since the very beginning â hired by no one other than Bucky, of course â but the two of you had clicked almost immediately.
Yelena was quite good at her job. In fact, she was probably one of the best in the business. She kept your calendar organized down to the minute, booked interviews months in advance, made sure you never missed a fitting, a rehearsal, or a meeting, and somehow always knew exactly what you were supposed to do before you did.
But she did far more than what was written in her job description.
She was fiercely protective of you.
Whether it meant shutting down reporters who asked questions that crossed the line, pulling you away from fans who refused to respect your boundaries, or making sure you actually ate something between back-to-back appearanes, Yelena always seemed to have one eye out on your career and the other on you. You'd lost count of how many times she'd marched into your dressing room with breakfast plate in one hand, and a coffee in the other, declaring that no interview was happening until you finished both.
She never tried to replace your family that you ended up leaving in search for a better life, nor did she pretended to be your friend but you'd earned each other's trust, and that means a lot, when everyone around is fake nice just to benefit from you.
"So," she says, swiping to the next page, completely in her element. "radio interview tomorrow morning, rehearsal in the evening, photoshoot got pushed to Thursday⌠which, honestly, saved everyone's ass because your stylist was about to have a breakdown. She was threatening to quit after yesterdayâŚ"
A smile tugs at your lips. "I think she says that every week."
"She does." Yelena nods, matter-of-factly. "But this time I think she actually meant it."
You let out a quiet hum in response, while your attentions drifts between her voice and the endless line of brake lights stretching ahead.
"âŚThen there'sâŚ" she continues, squinting at the screen. "Two press interviews, one magazine cover shoot⌠Another rehearsal right before an event with the Barnes Records executives Wednesday nightâŚ. Writing session with Bucky the next day⌠Then you've gotâ"
Your phone vibrates against your thigh, stealing your attention immediately.
You fish it out of the pocket of your jacket, and glance at the glowing screen.
Bucky | 1:41PM
hey. here's the sample from our last session. let me know what you think.
sample_1.mp3
Before you can stop yourself, a breathy ironic laugh escapes your lips, echoing in the car, which actually makes Yelena look away from her tablet.
"What was that?" she asks, both confused and concerned.
You quickly lock your phone, and toss it onto your lap as if she'd caught you doing something embarassing.
"Nothing," you respond, shaking your head dismissively, but that only makes her narrow her eyes at you.
"MhmâŚ"
"It was just Bucky," you explain, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of your jacket before speaking again. "He sent me the demo from yesterday's session."
"And?"
You lift your phone again, reading the message once more.
"Let me know what you think," you repeat, umable to hide sarcasm coating your voice, and another dry laugh slips out. "As if my opinion changes anything."
Yelena's brows knit together ever so slightly. "Did something happen yesterday?"
You hesitate for a moment, and the memory of your own voice carrying lyrics that suddently stopped feeling like yours comes back.
"I don't know," you admit quietly. "Something just felt⌠wrong." You lean your head back against the seat, watching skyscrapes dissapear behind the darkened glass. "I couldn't get into it."
"You've had off days before," Yelena says, nudging you on the shoulder, as if that was supposed to bring you some comfort.
"This wasn't that, Lena," you pause, searching for the right words. "It sounded good. At least that's what Bucky kept saying but I didn't believe him." You shrug helplessly, and your fingers start to absentmindedly trace the edge of your phone. "I stopped halfway through because I couldn't sing it anymore."
"And what did he say?"
You sigh, replaying the scene in your head.
"He rewound the track," you say at last. "We tried again. And again. Until I lied and finally said I like it" Your shoulders rise and drop again.
Yelena is quiet for a moment, and you don't even expect her to respond right away because that's the thing â even though Yelena may be your friend, she would never question Bucky, and his decisions.
That is exactly what kind of person Bucky is in this industry. No one would dare to say a bad word about him because that man had more connections than you could think of, which meant he could probably ruin your life by making just one call to the right person.
"SoâŚ" Yelena's watching you like she's trying to figure what to say without either judging you or defeding Bucky. "Are you going to listen to it?"
Your thumb hovers over the audio file, and the play button stares back at you. Eventually, you lock your phone again with a soft click.
"I already know what it sounds like."
"Come on, you haven't even played it!" she tries to encourage.
"I don't have to," you offer a tired smile that doesn't really reach your eyes. "If Bucky thinks it's good then it's enoughâŚ" The sentence feels heavier the second it leaves your mouth, and again, Yelena doesn't respond, although you can feel her eyes on you. Your own attention is fixed outside the window instead. The palms sway lazily against the perfect California sky, almost mocking how chaotic everything always feels beneath it.
Before she says anything, the car begins to slow. The soft hum of the engine changes as the driver turns into the entrance of your hotel. The tires roll over the smooth pavement leading toward the front door.
The concract pages lay open on the marble table in your hotel suite, and your fingers tremble slightly as you trace over the clauses you'd signed months ago.
Section 4.2. â Exclusivity
Artist agrees to grant Barnes Records exclusive worldwide rights to all sound recordings, performances, and related materials created during the term of this agreement. Artist shall not release, perform or distribute any musical content independently or through any third party without the prior written consent of Barnes Records.
Section 5.1 â Creative Control
Barnes Records shall have final approval over all recordings, songs selections, arrangements, mixes, and final masters. Artist's input shall be considered advisory only.
Section 7.3 â Promotional Obligations
Artist agrees to full compliance with all promotional, publicity, and appearance requirements as determined by Barnes Records, including but not limited to interviews, photoshoots, live performances, and social media activity.
Section 9.1 â Non-Compete
During the term and for twelve (12) months thereafter, Artist shall not engane in any conlicting musical or entertainment activities without express permission.
âŚWell, you're fucked.
You're staring at the piece of paper with tears in your eyes.
You should be grateful. People would kill to be in your spot, and you're probably being selfish. You should be kissing Bucky's feet for everything he did for you, and you know it.
Because what are you supposed to do? There is no fucking way you're escaping this agreement, so maybe it's time to make peace with it, and just listen to Bucky. Produce songs you hate, and be someone you're not.
You wipe at your eyes quickly, even though no one's here to see you fall apart. Maybe this is just what growing up in this industry looks like. Maybe the version of you that sang freely in your bedroom was never meant to survive here. Maybe the only way forward is to smile, nod, and let Bucky steer the wheel.
Your phone sits on the table beside the contract, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you pick it up, and open your messages with Bucky.
Your thumb hovers for a long moment before you start typing a message.
You | 3:08PM
hey. actually i don't know if i love it. i'm sorry. i feel like i'm missing everything up lately.
You hit send before you can delete it, then immediately regret how vulnerable it sounds.
The typing bubbles appear almost right away.
Bucky | 3:09PM
you're not messing anything up. come by the studio tomorrow morning if you want. we can talk it through. no pressure.
You let out a shaky breath, stare at his message, then finally respond.
You | 3:10PM
I have an interview tomorrow morning⌠sorryâŚ
And the reply comes faster than you'd expect.
Bucky | 3:10PM
then maybe i'll come pick you up after? we'll get lunch together. you need time off too ;)
You read the message twice. A small flutter blooms in your chest.
On one hand, you're nervous to actually talk to him about the song. On the other hand⌠work aside, spending time with Bucky doesn't sound so bad. It probably shouldn't excite you as much as it does, but the idea brings you some comfort. After all, he is right â you do deserve some time off.
You | 3:11PM
yeah! that sounds nice, actually. thank you.
The dressing room mirror is still lit up with those harsh light bulbs as you sit in front of it, catching your features to the point where it's almost blidning.
The inteview had gone well â at least according to everyone else, including Yelena who leans against the vanity beside you, arms crossed, looking pleased.
"You killed it," she says with a satisfied nod. "They loved the story about the upcoming album. And the way you teased them with the upcoming feature with Dazzler was perfect," she extends the word, making her russian accent slip out. "That's exactly what we needed for the promo. The clip is already getting traction online. We'll have the full segment up by tonight."
You manage a small smile, nodding along as you slip your jacket back on over the cute interview outfit.
"That's good."
"Ratings are going to be solid. A few more like this and we'll even have more buzz for the release. You should be proud of yourself." Yelena keeps talking.
You're just about to reply when there's a light knock on the dressing room door. It opens a second later, and Bucky steps inside.
He looks unfairly good for someone who probably woke up way too early just to spent the entire morning working in the studio. The black simple shirt he's wearing has some designer logo you can't really recognize because of the dark jacket atop of it. His hair looks much more styled today, and his steel eyes find you immediately, making the corner of his mouth lift.
"Hey," he says. His gaze flicks over you for a second. "You ready?"
You stand up, smoothing down your skirt, suddenly very aware of how your heart picks up at his presence.
Yelena glances between the two of you, one eyebrow raised slightly.
"WellâŚ" she grabs her hoodie, and slings it over her arm, ready to slip out. "I guess my job's done for now. Gonna leave you two alone."
Before she can fully step out the door, Bucky stops her.
"How did the interview go?"
Yelena pauses in the doorway, flashing quick but confident smile, and you know he's not asking if it actually went well. He's asking if it's making good numbers, and if he's going to benefit from it.
"It went really well!" she answered charmingly, telling him the same thing she did to you.
Meanwhile you stand there quietly, watching Bucky's reaction.
He ends up giving a small nod that looks satisfied but not so surprised as if he excpected nothing less. Then he turns his head toward you. Your eyes lock instantly, and he smiles at you.
"Always knew my girl has it." he says casually, and the praise makes your knees feel a little weak. Heat rushes to your cheek and you have to look down for a second, biting the inside of your lip to keep from completely melting on the spot.
It's ridiculous how much those few words affect you. Especially after the spiral you had last evening, but coming from him, they feel like they matter more than anything else.
"Okay!âŚ" Yelena nods, unsure what to say in such awkward position, then clears her throat. "Call me when you need something." She gives you both a goodbye smile and leaves, closing the door behind her.
You grab your purse, slinging it over your shoulder, and follow Bucky out.
The hallway is quiet as you walk side by side toward the back exit where his car is waiting. The black SUV with a driver inside is already idling. Bucky opens the door for you before sliding in after, settling beside you in the back seat.
The car pulls smoothly into traffic. You're both silent for a while, letting the hum of the engine take over the quiet.
Eventually, Bucky shifts slightly, turning his attention to you instad of the city outside.
"You still feel like you don't want to release that song?" he asks, picking up where yesterday's iMessage conversation left off.
You nod, cheeks burning with shame as you look down at your hands. "YeahâŚ"
"That's okay," he says without hesitation. "We can scrap it."
"I don't wanna cause you troubles," you murmur, hating how small your voice sounds compared to his.
Bucky chuckles softly. "You could never."
Unexpectedly, Bucky reaches over and places his hand on your thigh. His palm feels warm against your bare skin where your skirt had ridden up just a little when you sat down.
Your eyes drop instantly to the spot where his fingers rest, and your heart slams against your ribs while heat begins to pool low in your belly.
Bucky keeps looking ahead at the road like it's the most natural thing in the world when his thumb starts brushing slow absentminded strokes against your leg.
You press your lips together, trying to stay composed, but you're body's compeltely shut. Your thighs press closer instinctively, and you wonder if Bucky can notice.
It makes you so fucking horny it's ridiculous, and that makes you realize just how freaking busy you've been with your career lately.
There was no time to date. No time for anything, so no one touched you in months. You're fucking touch-starved, and here's the result: you squirming in your seat with ache between your legs caused by your boss. Great!
"You knowâŚ" Bucky starts talking again. "You've been doing great lately. Your latest single is still climbing in the charts⌠The interview today went well too according to YelenaâŚ"
You try to listen, but his hand still caressing you is making it really difficult, sparking up your skin, and getting you desperately wet.
"I feel like you're really trying your best for my label. Am I right?" he asks, glancing over at you.
You nod quickly, suddenly more nervous under Bucky's gaze. "Yesâ Of course, Bucky."
He just smiles, more to himself than to you, with a hint of mischief in it. Then he turns his head away, and you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding until now.
The restaurant Bucky picked is one of those upscale places tucked away in a hidden corner of the city â all dim lightning, white table cloths and waiters who move with so much grace.
Of course he chose it. Another small irony. Even something as simple as where you eat lunch is under his control. Just like everything else.
You're both done eating now, plates cleared away, leaving just half-full glasses of water. The conversation has stayed light so far â safe territory. Bucky asked about the interview again, and you asked about a track he's been working on for another artist.
You can't help but wonder if he's this close with all the artists he works with but unfortunately, you can't ask him that.
Bucky leans back in his chair, looking relaxed. His jacket is off now, and his sleeves are rolled up, showing his muscular forearms. They look much better here, in the daylight than in the studio, and you probably shouldn't be glancing at them every few moments, but you do anyway. In the end, he's the one who made a mess out of you in the car. And this is just one of the consequences of it.
"You're getting better at all of this," he begins, picking up his glass. "The spotlight, the press⌠the performance of it." He pauses for a second to take a sip. "Doesn't mean you have to like every part of it, though."
The words hit a little too close. You trace the rim of your water glass with your fingertip, trying to keep your voice steady.
"Yeah⌠some parts are still harder than others."
Bucky lets out a low tsk. He draps one arm over the backrest, looking every bit the man who holds all the cards. The soft restaurant lightning catches the sharp line of his jaw, that now seems more tense than just minutes ago, and his blue eyes look even more intense asa he studies you across the table.
"You can't always get what you want," he says, voice calm and steady like he's stating a simple fact, which⌠he is, but you know damn well that this talk is definitely leading somewhere. "We all have to pay a price for our decisions. This is how this business works, doll."
You look up at him, a bit scared now where the hell this conversation is heading. You catch how his tone changed â more authoritative now.
Bucky continues without missing a beat, swirling the last bit of water in his glass before setting it down. "I have another deal for you. A friend of mine, she's a director. She needs a single for her upcoming movie. I already told her you'll do it."
Your mouth opens, and then closes again. Words fail you for a second.
Your schedule is already packed to the brim â interviews, photoshoots, rehearsals, studio time. You're barely keeping your head above water trying to finish your own album, and now this?
"Butâ my album," you start, voice coming out shakier than you wanted.
Bucky cuts you off smoothly, leaning forward slightly. "You scrapped a song, baby. You need to make up for it." His tone is somehow still gentle on the surface, although you know what's underneath. "I need my money back or we won't proceed with your album."
Your worries from yesterday come rushing back, even harder than before. Your thoughts spiral back to the conctract clauses, and the fear you're losing all the control. The words keep being stuck in your throat, so you just nod, deafeated.
"Okay," you whisper.
Bucky's expression softens with satisfaction. He reaches across the table and gently brushes his knuckles along your cheek. The touch is far too tender contrasted by what he just said.
"That's my girl,"
You almost choke on your own saliva, hearing that. You hate how fucking good his praise makes you feel, even now, with your stomach twisting, and your eyes stinging. It's pathethic, really. He just tightened the leash, and here you are, once again melting at his approval like some desperate idiot.
You wish your head wasn't such a mess of different thoughts. You wish that part of you â the one that felt genuinely grateful for everything Bucky had done for you â could stand up, and fight for herself, but there was no way you could bury that sentiment. You don't know why. You don't know why he is making you feel like this, and it's fucking annoying. You're nothing, but his fucking puppy, and while you hate it, why does it feel like that other part of you enjoys it?
"Fuck!" you're pacing back and forth in your hotel room, still in the clothes from lunch, frustration bubbling over the second Yelena walked in. "I can't make a song for that fucking movie, Yelena. I need my album to be finished by the end of summer. The promo is already out. I can't fucking reschedule it."
"Yeah. You can't," she says, sitting on the fotel with arms crossed. "The sales will go down, and Bucky will be even more pissed."
You drop face-first into onto the bed with a dramatic groan, burying your face in the pillow.
"Fuck! This is exactly what he wants, Lena. He'll then have another excuse to drag me into more projects."
Yelena sighs, standing up. and walking over to sit on the edge of the bed just to give your back a light, sympathetic pat.
"Listen⌠You'll make that song he asks for, and then we'll get you back to work on your album," she pauses, tilting her head. "What movie is it for again?"
You lift your head from the pillow. Strands of hair fall messily across your face as you push yourself up onto your elbows. Your voice comes out tired.
"I don't remember the title⌠Bucky mentioned it but I don't think I registered it. I think it's made by the same director who made Rendezvous, thoughâŚ"
Yelena freezes the moment she hears it. Her eyes widen in disbelief, and she stands up, shaking her head, before dragging her hand slowly down her face.
""Oh. My. GodâŚ" she mutters, sounding genuinely horrified. "Please tell me you're jokingâŚ"
You blink at her, eyebrows lifting in confusion, heart already sinking at her reaction. "What?"
"The woman who produced it just had a whole ass cancel party on Twitter," she says, voice dropping.
"What?! Why?!"
"I don't even know. but there's crazy shit going on," Yelena sighs deeply, rubbing her temples as she starts pacing the same path you were earlier. "Jeez, your name is going to look so bad signed under her movie. You need to talk to Barnes."
"Me?!" you point at yourself, sitting up fully on the bed now. "You're my manager."
"Yeah but he doesn't fucking listen to me!" she throws her hands up. "You're his favorite. You need to talk him out of it⌠somehow."
You let out a short, disbelieving chuckle, and the sound escapes you before you can stop it. Your brain gets stuck on that one word Yelena said, looping over and over like a catchy hook. You sit up fully on the bed now, pulling your knees to your chest as you tilt your head at her.
"Favorite?" you ask, voice softer now. "What does that mean?"
Yelena's expression changes in an instant. Her eyes widen just a fraction when she realizes she said too much, and suddenly, she becomes very interested in smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles on her sleeve. She clears her throat, still avoiding your gaze.
"You know what it means, " she mutters, trying to play it casual but the slight flush on her cheeks gives her away.
"No, I don't" you insist, leaning forward a little.
Yelena lets out a long, defeated sigh, running her fingers through her perfectly styled hair, and messing it up slightly.
"Just convince him, please," she says, giving you a pleading look. "That'll save both of us a lot of work."
You stare at her for a second, then slowly nod.
"I'll see what I can doâŚ"
You repeat before you can fully think those words through. Inside though, you're already overthinking it.
How the hell are you supposed to change his mind?
You know damn well, Bucky doesn't exactly do "no." Once he decides something, it's set in stone. Especially when it involves money or deals.
The idea of walking into his office or calling him up, and somehow talking him out of this movie single feels laughable.
You may be his favorite like Yelena said â whatever that meant â but that doesn't guarantee you anything.
You need a different approach, and you better find it quickly.
The next day, you're in the middle of dance rehearsal. The studio mirrors each of your movements, every turn and tired expression. Sweat sticks your tank top to your back as the choreographer counts out the last eight-count of the routine.
When she finally calls for a five minute break, you almost collapse against the barre. You have been practicing the choreography for your upcoming tour for a month now, making sure it's perfect in every detail but today? It definitely isn't.
You're not sure if it's from over exhaustion or your thoughts are still somewhere else, and that's why you cannot focus. Maybe you're trying to dance out your annoyance, and helplessness instead of actually doing your job.
You grab your water bottle, and take a long sip, letting the cold liquid soothe your dry throat. Your phone sits on the floor near your bag, and you reach for it with your other hand, just to see it's already lit up with some notifications.
Yelena | 2:11PM
Did you talk to him?
Yelena | 2:11PM
??
Yelena | 2:12PM
Pleaseeee tell me you at least texted him
You read the messages, then instantly lock your phone without answering.
Of course you haven't talked to him. You haven't even sent a single message asking if the two of you can meet because just the thought of opening your chat with Bucky and typing anything about the movie single makes you sick. Honestly, you have no idea how to deal with it.
You take another sip of water, when your phone buzzes, and the screen lights up again.
Yelena | 2:35PM
well, he's going to be there at the event we're having today. maybe try your luck then! :D
Brilliant idea. There's no better circumstance than solving this in public at a packed industry event with cameras, and executives. Absolutely zero pressure!
You type your response fast.
You | 2:36PM
you are out of your mind
The event is already in full swing by the time you arrive. The clink of champagne glasses fills the elegant space, followed by the low hum of charmistatic conversations. Investors, label executives, and other more unknown faces mingle around polished tables, and big windows covered by big curtains that are supposed make the place feel more private.
You're wearing a fancy dark dress that hugs your figure just right, making you look expensive and put-together even when you're a mess underneath.
Yelena stays close at your side. Her eyes scan the room like she's already mapping out every important person in here, then leans in slightly to your side, nudging you.
"You can at least try and be nice to him tonight," she whispers, and you glance at her, adjusting your dress by pulling it up at the bust.
"Play up to him?" your eyebrows lift, and you cannot help a little smirk that's forming in the corner of your mouth.
"Yeah," she says with a small shrug. "I mean⌠before you actually talk to him about the single. That doesn't sound like a bad plan, does it?"
She's right. It doesn't. You need to play it right, and today may be the first step.
You straighten your posture, and your gaze drifts across the room, searching for a familiar broad-shouldered figure with unforgettable eyes.
Yelena's hand lightly touches your arm as she nods toward the far side of the room.
"There he is."
You follow her line of sight, and spot him almost immediately. Bucky stands near one of the windows, deep in conversation with a small group of people.
From distance he looks completely at ease, one hand loosely holding a drink while the other rests in the pocket of his black suit.
Yelena starts walking towards them, dragging you along with her, and you follow a step behind, your heart already picking up its speed.
As you get closer, Bucky's attention shifts to you. His eyes flick over, and the second they land on you, they stay there, dragging down the length of your dress before coming back up to your face.
It's quick, and subtle enough that the others might not notice, but you do.
His eyes still don't leave you when Yelena greets the group with a bright, professional smile, already launching into polite introductions, and Bucky nods along, smiling at you, before cutting through the conversation.
"She looks gorgeous, doesn't she?" he says to the group, smooth and confident. "One of my greatest discoveries. Real presence on stage. You only come across such artists once in a while."
You force a soft but nervous chuckle as heat creeps up your neck, and others smile as well, nodding in agreement. His praise â again âdoes something to you, and just like always, you're not entirely sure how to take it.
So you just stand there, not sure how to react, what expression to wear, or whether you're supposed to say something or not.
You obviously know what he's doing â promoting you in front of his investors, polishing the story of his "greatest discovery" so they keep writing checks, and stay interested. Right now, you're just a shiny reminder of where their money is going which makes you feel like some animal in a zoo, while Bucky gets to show you off.
In the end, you stay quiet beside him, smiling carefully, and when eventually the conversation topic changes â someone brings up an upcoming festival and its sponsorship â the focus slowly moves away from you. The pressure eases just a little as the group starts talking among themselves again.
Bucky turns slightly toward you then, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours. His voice drops low, meant only for you.
"I meant what I said," he murmurs. "You look fabulous."
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. A real blush rises to your cheeks this time, much warmer and harder to hide, and for once the smile that follows it is genuine.
"Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself," you whisper back lightly.
That earns you a chuckle from Bucky, which seems to soften the sharp edges of his expression for a second. He turns a little more to your side, keeping his voice low so the others don't fully pull you back into their conversation yet.
"Long day?" he asks. "Yelena messaged me your rehearsal ran late."
You nod, careful to keep your tone warm, and easy, just like Yelena suggested â play nice, be pleasant, be nice to him.
"Yeah, it did," you reply with a small smile. "The choreography's coming together though. I'm just hoping my legs still work by the end of the week."
Bucky hums in amusement.
"You'll be fine. You always pull it off," there's confidence in the way he says it â more like it's a fact than a compliment. Then he tips his head slightly toward the group still talking nearby. "These people are already impressed. Just keep doing what you're doing."
You force yet another soft smile, trying to form another appropriate response but for a second you hesitate, then decide to push a little further â testing the waters, maybe even playing into whatever this thing between you is.
"You really think I'm worth all of this?" you ask, avoiding his gaze when the words leave your mouth.
Bucky lets out a short laugh, taken aback by the question like the idea of you doubting yourself is somehow ridiculous to him.
"You're serious?" he mutters, still smiling.
Before you can answer, your fingers brush against his as you both shift slightly. It's nothing more than just a light, accidental touch, but Bucky's eyes immediately drop to where your hands nearly meet.
It sends a shiver up your arm, and you instinctively pull your hand away â not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it did the opposite.
You pretend to fix the delicate bracelet on your other wrist, fingers fussing with the clasp even though it doesn't need adjusting.
Bucky watches you for a moment, then reaches out.
"Let me help you."
His hand is gentle as he takes yours. Warm fingers steady your wrist while he carefully tightens the clasp for you. Instead of letting go right away, his thumb brushes over the soft skin of your wrist in small circles.
The simple gesture is enough to make your breath catch. Heat blooms under your skin where he's touching you, and when you lift up your gaze from your hand, Bucky looks back up as well, still holding you.
"Answering your questionâŚ" he starts, ticking his jaw. "I think you're worth much more than that."
The next morning, you wake up to soft light filtering through the curtains, and a quiet ache behind your eyes.
You lie there for a long while, staring at the ceiling, genuinely not knowing what to think about yesterday.
You feel⌠wrong.
Not because of what happened, if anything, the opposite is true â just thinking about the way Bucky looked at you yesterday is enough to send you a flutter of butterflies through your stomach.
The problem is everything else, or more specifically â everything Yelena's said.
You roll onto your side, and pull the blanket higher, biting your lip as the thoughts in your head begin to overwhelm you again.
Maybe you should just sing that stupid single for Bucky like he asked.
Maybe Yelena is overreacting. Maybe the controversy will blow over. Maybe the easiest thing â the safest thing â is to stop fighting, and just do what he wants.
Especially because he can be so nice to you it hurts.
The idea settles uncomfortably in your mind, carrying equal parts resignation, and something that feels a little too much like wanting to please him.
You hate yourself for how mixed you feel.
You want more freedom â to make your own choices, write your own songs, and scrap them without guilt, to not feel like every decision has to go through him first.
But at the same time you cling to Bucky so tightly it's almost stupid. His approval still means too much, and his voice still settles something restless inside you.
Even now, lying alone in this expensive hotel bed, some pathethic part of you is still seeking his validation like it's the only thing that keeps you steady.
And the worst part is knowing just how deep that need goes.
Maybe it's not just a need. Maybe you actually feel something towards him.
Your thoughts drift further. You start wondering how he actually feels about you.
He can't be completely casual⌠not with the way he looks at you, not with the way he touches you like it's natural, and not with the way he says things that get stuck in your head.
If he does feel something⌠then he should understand. He should get where you're coming from.
If he cares about your career the way he claims to, then he shouldn't be pushing you into that single. He should see the risk. He should understand why you don't want it.
So maybe it's worth to at least discuss it with him.
You're sitting across from Bucky in his office. The afternoon light is diffused by the blinds, making the room look warmer, and much more comfortable.
Bucky's been talking to you for a few minutes now â details about the movie single, the timeline, the expected deadling, and something about the director's vision â but the words barely stick.
Your mind is too loud. Every sentence he says slides past you while your thoughts keep circling the same worried loop.
"⌠so if we lock the track by next week, we'll still have enough time for the mix, andâ"
Bucky stops mid-sentence. His blue eyes narrow slightly as he studies you.
"Hello? You there with me?"
You blink, snapping back into the moment. "Yeah, sorry⌠I justâŚ"
"Just what?"
Your fingers tighten in your lap. For a second you almost swallow the words, but they slip out anyway, hesitant.
"⌠Do you think being a part of this movie is a good idea, Buck?" The question is so quiet it's barely audible. You force yourself to keep going. "I've heard from Yelena that my name may not look best signed under that movie⌠because of the connections with the director."
Bucky shakes his head once â a short, annoyed motion â and leans back in his chair.
"Don't worry about it," he says flatly. "They pay a lot. That should be enough."
You shift in your seat, and you know you either say it all out now, or never.
"Butâ I don't know, Buck⌠I thought we could at least discuss itâ"
He interrupts before you can finish, standing from his chair with a sharp push. He starts pacing through the length of the office, shaking his head again â this time in clear disbelief.
"Discuss it?" He repeats after you. "What do you want to discuss, huh?"
You swallow hard.
"I just wish I had more to say. That's allâŚ" you pause, looking for the right words. "I wish I could write my own songs like other artists. Decide what I want to take a part in, and what not."
You can't look at him while you say it. Your head is low, and your gaze is fixed on your lap where you hold your hands, and nervously pick at your nails.
Bucky lets out a humorless chuckle.
"You gotta be kidding meâŚ" his jaw clenches, and his gaze is almost piercing through you. "After everything I did for you?"
The words hit you harded than you expected. Your head snaps up immediately.
"No⌠No, no, Bucky⌠That's not what I meant." You stand up, and cross the room, moving closer to him, hands slightly raised like you're trying to calm down the storm before it starts. "I didn't mean it like thatâ"
He's still mad. The frustration hasn't left his face.
"Like what?" he snaps. "Like I didn't fucking create you?"
Your hands drop uselessly to your sides. The sting of his words settles deep in your chest, feeling like a thorn.
At first you just look at him, brows scrunching together as your face slowly turns into a pleading expression.
"I just thought I actually mean something to you," you manage to admit quietly.
Maybe it's stupid â standing right in front of him like this, voice small, eyes burning. Maybe it's even pathetic, but you cannot help it. Tears are already pricking at the corners of your eyes as you just stand there, feeling completely exposed, and helpless under the weight of everything that's just been said.
Bucky watches you for a moment, then sighs. His voice is lower now, softer. He steps closer, and places his hands on your shoulders, gently trying to get you to look up at him.
"You do mean something to me."
You let out a shaky exhale, and Bucky's right hand drifts to your face, wiping away a tear that managed slip out.
"But business is business, baby. You have to understand that."
That only makes you want to cry harder. What is that even supposed to mean? That you matter⌠but not enough? That he cares⌠just not when it comes to things that actually hurt?
You look up at him with glassy eyes, tears finally starting to spill over freely.
Bucky's expression softens further. His thumb brushes gently across your skin.
"I know you can handle it, honeyâŚ" he encourages, and a broken little sob escapes you.
"I'm tired, Bucky."
That's all it seems to take for Bucky to pull you in without another word. His strong arms wrap around you as you bury your face against his chest.
Fresh tears soak into the fabric of his shirt while he holds you there, one hand coming up to caress the back of your head, smoothing over your hair in slow, steady strokes.
"There⌠There..." he murmurs soothingly against the crown of your head.
You don't even realize how tightly you are clinging to him â fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like it's the only solid thing left to hold onto, and for the first time in what feels like forever, for once, you feel so fucking at peace.
And not because anything is easier. Not because the pressure of everything â the single, your album, or your entire career â is lifted, but because he's here, allowing your to fall apart against him.
You don't care if it's genuine. You don't want to think about it now, just enjoy this one moment, when you don't have to be the polished artist or the grateful discovery or the girl who always says yes.
"Shh⌠it's alrightâŚ" Bucky whispers, pressing a delicate kiss to the top of your head. His hand slides from your head to his jaw, and he tilts your face up toward his.
You try so hard to avoid his gaze, ashamed of yourself.
"I know it's hard," he says as his eyes search yours. "I know you've been stressing a lot lately..."
There's a pause before Bucky speaks again.
"Maybe I could take some of that stress off ya, hm?âŚ"
Your eyebrows lift at that, finally meeting his eyes. At first you think you didn't hear him right, then you notice how his gaze drops to your mouth.
Bucky bites his lower lip softly, then looks back up at you, and the intent in his eyes is clear as a day.
Heat floods your cheeks as understanding hits. Your legs feel wobbly all of the sudden, and you can already feel yourself getting wet at the mere suggestion.
The truth is, you've been craving this more than you want to admit. You've been so lonely, drowning in schedules, and expectations that the idea of someone touching you feels almost desperate.
And it's not just anyone though. It's him.
You do want Bucky's hands on you. You want him to take you apart and put your back together, even if only for a little while.
You could only imagine how it feels like to be wanted, and worshipped like you matter beyond the songs and the stupid contract.
So you nod in response shakily, but Bucky only leans closer to the point where his lips brush against the shell of your ear.
"I wanna hear you say it, baby,"
You don't even try to hold it together. Tears are still wet on your cheeks as you look up at him.
"Please," your voice comes out cracking, and messy. "Please just fuck me, Bucky. I don't care anymore. I need itâ I need you. Please, justâ touch meâŚ" you pause, sobbing. "Use me, I don't care, just pleaseâ"
The rest spills out of you in a broken, pathetic rush. You truly don't care if you look like some desperate whore as long as you get to have this.
Shame and need are tangled so tightly in your heart that you cannot tell then apart anymore, making you cry harder.
You try to say something more. Explain yourself maybe, but Bucky doesn't let you.
He shuts you up by crashing his mouth against yours in a hungry kiss, cutting the rest of your pleading. There is nothing gentle about it anymore â Bucky from just a few seconds ago seems to be gone, as your tongues meet almost instantly, teeth grazing while his hand slides into your hair to hold you in place as he deepens it.
You melt into him with a shaky sound, still tasting salt from your own tears.
Bucky walks you backwards until the edge of his desk hits the back of your thighs. In one smooth motion, he lift you up onto it, stepping between your legs as he never stops to kiss you like he's starving.
You feel him begin to rock against you. It's just a slow roll of his hips that's barely there but it presses the hard line of him right against your core, and the seperating you layers of clothes are not enough stop you from gasping into his mouth.
Bucky pulls back just enough to speak, but his lips are still brushing yours.
"Just like that," he murmurs. "Let me hear you, baby."
His hand drops to the waistband of yours pants. He pops the button open, drags the zipper down, and starts working them off your hips.
You lift up to help him, already so far gone it's embarrassing. You're so worked up you can barely think straight.
"Please, BuckâŚ" you whine breathlessly as he tugs your pants the rest of the way down, and lets them drop to the floor.
"So fucking impatient," he mutters, eyes dragging down your body."Quit whining or I'll stuff that pretty mouth with my cock."
Before you can react, Bucky hooks his fingers into your panties, and yanks them roughly to the side. The cool air hits your bare, dripping cunt for half of a second, then his hand comes down in a sharp, stinging slap right against your soaked folds.
The sound is wet, and filthy. You jolt with a broken gasp, and thighs twitching around his hips as the heat of the slap blooms between your legs.
"You think you can always get what you want, don't you?" Bucky asks, voice rough.
Another slap lands harder against your pussy. You cry out this time, hips jerking.
"Pleaseâ Fuck!"
"Well that's not how things work," he continues, eyes locked on yours, carefully watching your reaction. "I've told you that before, remember? You are mine."
He raises his hand again, and slaps you one more time.
You jolt once more, and a broken sound rips out from your throat, but somehow your body reacts to it different than you'd expect. Your hips twitch towards his palm like you're chasing the next hit.
The stinging only makes the pulsing between your legs worse. Every slap seems to wind you up tighter instead of scaring you off. You're almost dizzy with how turned on it's making you, and some distant part of your brain can't believe you're actually into this.
You don't even realize when Bucky's hand move to the top you're wearing. He tugs it up, and over your head. The fabric catches for a second before he pulls it free, and tosses it aside.
His eyes drop to your chest, where your bra is, and Bucky stares at it like it offended him. Bucky's fingers are on you within seconds, touching, and grabbing your breasts through the material before the bra follows your top just as roughly â straps dragged down over your arms, until you're completely naked on his desk.
Then he's back between your thighs, gripping your hips as he starts humping against you again.
This time, there's nothing between you, and the hard bulge in his jeans. Your completely exposed, and obscurely wet slit drags against the rough fabric, leaving a dark, damp stain on the denim.
Bucky's so fucking hard it almost hurts to not feel him inside you just yet. You whimper, and your nails dig into his shoulders as you try to grind back against him.
Your hands slide down his chest, fingers already working at the edge of his T-shirt. You want to feel more of him â skin to skin, the warmth of his body pressed fully against yours.
But Bucky catches your wrists before you can get very far, pinning them lightly against the desk with a low warning sound.
"No," he mutters, jaw clenching slightly. "You don't get to decide. Is that still so hard for you to understand?"
You shake your head. Still, you manage to tug the fabric just enough to catch a glimpse of what's underneath â muscular, defined abs flexing as he keeps moving against you, and a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
The sight only leaves your hungrier. You try again, fingertips brushing over the warm skin of his stomach, but he doesn't let you go further, keeping full control.
Bucky had clearly had enough of you not listening.
With a low, frustrated sound he pushes you back so you're fully spread out on the desk. Your shoulders touch the cold surface, and your legs stay open around him. One of Bucky's hands presses lightly on your sternum to keep you there.
"Goddamn, you're so fucking stubbornâŚ" he mutters under his nose, but loud enough for you to hear it.
He reaches down with his other hand, and finally unzips his pants. He shoves them, and his boxers down just far enough to free himself, and your breath catches at the sight.
He's thick â heavy, and flushed, and so big it makes your stomach flip. You almost drool looking at him, and your thighs tremble at the thought of feeling every inch of him stretching you.
Bucky gives himself one slow stroke as he looks down at you with dark eyes, pupils blown wide. He spreads the bead of precum over his length, then positions himself at your entrance.
The blunt head of his cock nudges against your soaked folds, and even the lightest touch is enough to make you whimper.
Bucky pushes inside you, but there's no slow stretch or careful adjustment. He drives forward in one hard thrust, and buries himself to the hilt, filling you so completely it punches the air out of you as your body is forced to take every thick inch at once.
The sudden fullness borders on too much. Your walls clench tight around him while he stays like that for a short moment, hips flush against yours.
He pulls almost all the way out, and slams back in, setting a rough, relentless pace that makes the desk creak beneath you.
You yelp at the first few thrusts, then the sound melts into loud helpless moans as he pounds into you. Every snap of his hips drives him impossibly deep, and you fucking love it.
Bucky looks completely lost in it. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are focused on the way your tits bounce with every move of his. His right hand is gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other stays planted on the desk beside your head for leverage.
"Didn't know you're such a slut," he rasps between thrusts. "Always playing so shy, but you're actually just a whore, hm?"
"Mghhhhâ" is all you manage, and the sound is punched out of you on a particularly hard thrust.
Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.
"Oh yeah? Going dumb for that cock?" he smirks. "Can't form words now? You were so open for discussion just moments ago."
You just nod frantically, because he's right, and you can't deny it.
"âs good Buckâ" you somehow moan out, although the rough pace has your thoughts scrambled.
His hand leaves your hip, and wraps around your throat instead. He doesn't squeeze it hard, but just rests his palm there while he keeps fucking into you without pausing for even a second.
Your eyes flutter shut from the intensity of it.
"Look at me," Bucky orders, and when you don't immediately obey, his fingers press tighter around your neck, making his message clear.
Your eyes snap open and lock with his.
"You're mine," he growls. "Fucking mine. I made you, and you're nothing without me. Do you understand that?"
"Yes! Yes, Buckyâ!" Your hands clutch at his forearm, as he keeps you both filled and pinned.
The pressure builds fast. Heat coils tight, and low in your belly. Your walls start to flutter around him, and you realize that you're already right there, seconds from falling apart.
Bucky notices. His grip on your throat tightens just a fraction, as he leans closer.
"Don't you fucking dare come yet," he commands. "If you come before I say you can, I'll never fuck you again."
The threat sends a helpless shiver through you. Your eyes become glassy, as you try to force the building orgasm back down even as every roll of his hips may just sent you over the edge.
You try to focus, but your eyes drop down to the place where you're connected. You see how his cock is disappearing inside you, and the subtle bulge it creates low in your tummy every time he sinks all the way in.
The sight is almost too much. You cry out, not being able to hold it much longer.
"Bucky⌠I can'tâ I can't take it, I'm gonnaâ"
"You can," he growls, grabbing your face in his hand by the jaw, and squeezing it tightly.
You look completely fucked out like this â dazed like you're high on pure ecstasy, barely holding yourself together while you tether on the edge. Your lips are parted around soft, needy sounds, and it's so difficult for you to keep your eyes open.
"Pleaseâ" you beg, voice wrecked. "I'll be good, Buck⌠I promise youâ"
Bucky laughs darkly, and the sound vibrates against your face, as he keeps fucking into you without mercy.
"Oh, I know you will."
Without warning, Bucky pulls out of you completely. The sudden emptiness makes you whine. You're confused, and your hips twitch back like they're trying to follow him.
Before you can even process the loss, he flips you over with firm hands. Your stomach hits the surface of the desk, and so does your face â checks pressed against the wood, as he plants one hand on the side of your head to keep you there.
Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk as Bucky kicks your legs apart just enough, then drives back into you, burying himself to the hilt again.
The new angle is much deeper, and overwhelming which makes you cry out, and Bucky starts fucking you in earnest. You're able to feel his balls slap against you, then a smack lands across your ass. The stinging blooms hot under his palm, leaving a red mark, and making your entire body flinch.
You're a mess beneath Bucky. Drool starts to slip from the corner of your mouth as your eyes go unfocused. Your body is already spent, trembling, and oversensitive, barely able to keep up.
Your current form seems to satisfy Bucky enough. He leans over, pressing his chest to your back.
"Go on. Come for me"
Fucking finally.
Your orgasm crashes through you so intensely it almost whites out your visison. A high-pitched moan leaves your throat as your whole body seizes around Bucky. Your walls clench while wave after wave of pleasure rips through you.
It's the best thing you've ever felt. It's more satisfying, and consuming than anything before, and it leaves you shaking, and gasping against the desk while Bucky keeps fucking you through it.
The way you clamp down around him is enough to push him over the edge too.
He drives into you one last time, and stays buried deep. A guttural groan rips from his chest as he comes.
You feel every hot pulse of him spilling inside you. Thick ropes of cum flood your cunt, and proceed to fill you up. The sensation makes another weak shiver roll through your spent body, as something primal, and satisfying settles in your chest at the feeling of being bred by him. You're more than happy to take everything he gives you, and keep it deep inside.
Bucky stays pressed against you for a moment longer, breathing hard, while his release slowly starts to leak out around his cock.
"Knew you'd come around."
.á extra sophie: if you got here, thank you so much for reading the fic! to be fair, the dynamics between reader, and Bucky in this fic were so fun to explore, and I hope I got to express well enough what I had in my mind, so let me know your thoughts about them!! and if you want to find out what drama is hiding behind the director, and the movie production, i'm more than happy to encourage you to read @iamthatonefangirl's upcoming fic "mean girls" which expands the plot of this silly little universe we created together <3
C/W: Rape, impact, mention of piss (no actual piss) (sozzles to all my regular cuckquean readers <3)
You've always known not to visit dark, scary places, especially not alone. But this time, you're going with me. You can trust me, right? Your best friend in the whole world. You know I'd keep you safe.
So we venture into the forest, our own little adventure. Perhaps, we joke, we might find some treasure or a holy sword. The journey is filled with a mix of loud conversation, excited laughter, and comfortable silences. Just like any good friendship.
We see interesting-looking trees and skittish forest animals dancing across moss and stones, sending flakes of dead wood down overhead. We find a small stream trickling through the forest, quietly carving its own path, and eventually find a large, dry rock to sit on, sharing a couple snacks we carried while we chat.
Before you realise it, the sun begins to set. Perhaps we should have set back half an hour ago, you worry. You catch my eye and your worries are quelled. I'm here. I'd make sure you get home in one piece.
Of course I would.
Because I love you so much. I tell you that I've always had a crush on you. That every night I scroll through your instagram account and stroke my cock to you, because I love you. Because I think your perfect tits might not be as big as our friends but they're all I want. That I dream about what my cock would look like buried inside you while I bend you over.
You freeze. Perhaps you might feel like throwing up. You might have seen me like a brother. Certainly never someone who'd think all these gross, vile thoughts. If you're smart, you might ask for some time. Perhaps you'd like to sleep on it. "Let's get home first and then I'll give you an answer". Perhaps you'd simply reject me. Thank me for my feelings and tell me I'm not your type.
It wouldn't really matter what you say. I push you down there and then. You struggle against me before finally realising how strong a man can be. "Stop, please stop, this isn't you." You say, as if you truly know me.
If you truly knew what I thought of you, you wouldn't even be here in the first place. If you knew that I've wanted to jerk off over your face while you gargle on my nutsack for years now, you would have ghosted me. If you knew that I wanted to turn you into my pretty little punching bag or a filthy, little urinal, you would have blocked me.
But you don't know me. That's why I'm raping you now. That's why I can tear off your top and laugh at and spit on your pretty, fuckdoll face as you choke back sobs.
The setting sun cuts through the treetops and casts a dying beam of light across my face. Slowly, like your hope, that too dies, and in the darkness your strength leaves you. You surrender to my violent hands.
"It's okay, baby, just accept it," I whisper against you, as I maul at your pretty tits. "Accept that no one will want you more than me. Ever." As you cry and try to bite me. Darkness flashes, followed by a streak of pain. "Stop making me hurt you. I love you." I say, as I look sadly at my closed fist. "Don't make me punch you again, my love."
You can feel my cock throb against your thigh and you do nothing. There is nothing you can do. I pin you down, a hand against your throat, another flipping up your skirt and roughly playing with your cunt. As if I'm going through the motions. As if we really are a loving couple fucking in the middle of the woods and not a rapist and a victim that trusted him the most out of everyone in the world.
Minutes pass before you feel my cock plunge into your cunt. "That's a good girl. Just take my cock like that. You're doing such a good fucking job. Fuck..."
I groan as you lay there, eyes hollow, clothes torn, dusk dampening any previous screams and any current emotions. You don't realise it yet but I'm traumatising your pretty cunt with my sick, rapist cock. With every thrust and every groan, I'm carving myself into your memory.
I grope at your tits and slap your face, asking you if you like that and taking your numbed silence as confirmation. It doesn't matter. I'd do it anyway. Because I love you.
Finally, years of pent up, intense lust spew out of my cock into you. I slide myself out of you and admire my work. "Do you mind if I use this to wipe my cock?" I ask, as I pick up your hair. No response. Like some used cumrag, I carefully wipe my cock clean before looking at my watch.
"Oh dear, it's getting quite late. Shall we head home?"
âŚBucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!âŚ
âŚsummary: you've got a no good boyfreind. lucky bucky's here, to show you what you deserveâŚ
âŚwarnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, cheating (not by bucky, it's deserved) fluff, big porn level smut (stripping, finger sucking, dirty talk, possessive sex, praise kink, teasing, fingering, light brat taming, softdom!bucky, pussy spanking, dumbification, making out, sensitive reader, manhandling, bucky gets nasty, blowjobs, body worship, oral f!reciving overstimulation, mean!bucky, degradation kink, big dick bucky, creampie, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of readerâŚ
âŚwc: 8.6kâŚ
âŚAuthor's Note: request! oh to be yearned after by bucky barnes in a kinda toxic but really hot wayâŚ
âWhat the fuck is his problem?â
You donât have to look, to figure out who your boyfriend is talking about. You can feel his glare from across the room, burning over your skin like a brand, making your leg bounce and your fingers pick restlessly at the label on your drink.
Bucky Barnes.
He always stares at you. It doesnât matter if youâre hanging out at Steveâs placeâtechnically Buckyâs place as well, but you refuse to give him any sort of credit about thatâor getting coffee, or at the movies, or here, in another bar on a Friday night, trying to wash the week down with a drink, Bucky stares at you like heâs trying to kill you. Itâs the kind of stare youâd find creepy from anyone else. A knit brow and heavy breathing, like just the sight of you makes him want to rip his head off. You glare back when you can, but tonight, youâre determined to ignore it. Ignore him.
Bucky can be as pretty and charming as he wants, heâs not getting a rise out of you. Not one that he can see, at least. When you got to the bar, he drawled your name and teased you about your drink, but you just grabbed your boyfriendâs hand and dragged him across the room without a look over your shoulder.
Maybe one look.
One look that Brock didnât have to see, because heâs always accusing you and Bucky of having something. Youâve tried to explain to him that whatever something he thinks exists between you and Barnes is just the negative space of pure fucking loathing, but he doesnât listen. He never listens.
âBarnes wants to fuck you,â heâd muttered last week, after you got home, and youâd rolled your eyes.
âBucky does not want to fuck me, he can barely stand to be in the same room as me-â
âBecause he wants to fuck you,â Brock has snapped. âI donât want you hanging around him alone.â
Youâd scoffed. âThatâs- Weâre friends-â
âThought he hated you-â
âHe does. But- Itâs complicated.â
And it was. Bucky was Steveâs best friend, and Steve was your work husband, and Natasha was your best friend, and Steveâs actual girlfriend, and Buckyâs work wife, and Sam was Buckyâs other best friend and work husband, and your best friendâyouâd even lived together, in college, which Brock never seemed to understand the concept ofâand Steveâs business partner, which made him your boss, but you Natâs and Buckyâs boss, and it was a tangled mess of relationships and years of history that became impossible to unweave. You and Bucky were friends because if you werenât, you were enemies, and that always hurt right under your ribs in a way you never wanted to acknowledge.
Bucky wasnât a bad guy. He was a stubborn ass sometimes, and he stared a lot, and got kind of judgey about stupid things, but so did you. The first time you met, youâd just stared at each other forâaccording to Natashaâfive straight minutes. Once youâd been at some stupid charity gala, and youâd spent the whole time gossiping in the corner about the old, rich assholes who needed a party to give their endless money to a good cause. Youâd thought that you were friends. Really friends. Friends that couldâve been something more, if heâd asked you to be.
But he hadnât. He never had. And youâd started to butt heads more, and he didnât ask if you were good like he used to. He avoided you at the stupid parties and didnât ask your opinion about small things. He didnât wait for you to go to lunch, or sit with you when you had to stay late, and suddenly the friendship had slipped through your fingers, because it had been so fast you hadnât been given time to realize you were supposed to hold on.
Some days you wonder what you did, and you want to strangle the answer out of his pretty, thick head. You thought youâd been good. Youâd really thought youâd been good, and then heâd just gone and decided that you werenât. That there was something about you he just couldnât stand, and you never get to know what it was.
So if he wanted to play the hating game, youâd play it, and youâd win. You ignored him almost every day, only sneering back when you had a comment that you knew would land like a headshot.
âYou look comfortable,â heâd muttered last week at Natâs, and youâd shot him a glare.
Buckyâs mouth had twitched, as youâd just stared at him. He always seemed to enjoy making you want to kill him. You hope he also enjoyed it, when you actually killed him.
âNo boyfriend tonight, huh?â Heâd smirked, and you swallowed on your venom. âWhat, he off fucking strippers again?â
Your lip had curled. Youâd just kept glaring, and Bucky had laughed.
âDonât give me that look, doll. Itâs not your fault you canât keep him satisfied-â
âI keep him satisfied,â youâd snapped, your patience finally fraying.
And Bucky had given you a strange, tired look. It was sharp around the edges, but dull everywhere else. Almost cold. Almost exhausted.
âI bet you do,â heâd muttered, and youâd snapped.
âAt least I have someone to satisfy, Barnes,â youâd hissed. âNo one can even put up with you for a one night stand.â
Bucky had flinched, and the knot in your gut had been immediate. You told yourself you liked the second his armor shattered slightly. You liked the win. You told yourself over and over, that it was fine, because he struck first.
But your body hadnât learned the lesson. And it felt wrong to be in your skin, whenever Bucky made that broken, vulnerable face. Like heâd almost forgotten how cruel you could be. Like heâd cared at all, that youâd struck back.
He didnât. You reminded yourself that he didnât. It was complicated, because it needed to be, for the sake of explaining to Brock. But to you, it was really, painfully simple.
Youâd been in a small, blooming love with Bucky. Heâd recoiled and poured hatred on you like pesticide, and your loved had curled and shriveled, but never fully died. You think there might be something wrong with you, that you can harbor feelings for a man who brings you nothing but storms. You gave up on trying to understand it a long time ago. Maybe, one day, youâll tell your therapist. Youâre really hoping the love just dies first. Itâs humiliating enough to feel it, let alone say it aloud.
Brock demanded he come with you tonight. To keep an eye on Barnes. You didnât fight him, because fights with Brock arenât something you win. He was a relationship you started before Bucky, that had been on and off and on and off for years. In the sacred months where Bucky had liked you, Brock had been off on some work trip in Germany. Heâd gotten back right when Bucky had decided to hate you, and youâd been a raw, vulnerable creature, just crawling on the beach for a new shell to call home. Brock had been there. Heâd been a tight fight, and the love youâd felt for him had soured from the joy of Bucky, but youâd just needed something. And Brock had been asking you to be exclusive for years. So youâd finally just⌠given in.
Itâs not a dream relationship. Sometimes you worry youâre going to marry him and have his babies, and heâd make such ugly babies. You donât want them. You donât really see another way.
You wouldnât mind having Buckyâs babies. Thatâs not a very productive thought to have.
âHe always stare this much?â Brock asks, and you shrug.
âYeah. Maybe.â
âYeah?â Brock snaps. âOr maybe. Canât be both, sweetheart.â
âYeah and maybe,â you mutter. âI donât know.â
âEither he stares or he doesnât-â
âHe stares, I just donât know whatâs this much-â
âThen you should start paying fucking attention.â
You sigh, and give Brock a tight smile. His lip curls, and his eyes narrow, and you fight the urge to flinch away.
Bucky hates you. Your boyfriend doesnât seem to like you all that much either. He wonât let Nat sit with you, and he certainly wonât let Sam sit with you, so now youâre just fucking here. At the crowded bar, all but alone, even with half a dozen worried or hateful eyes on you. You only give yourself eyes for your drink.
At least you have your drink.
Youâre smiling. Laughing. Lighting up the whole bar from your little corner, and Buckyâs stuck over here in the dark.
He wants to drink until he canât anything but your face and a whole blur of colors, but he got stuck being one of the drivers. He wants to go over and sock your stupid boyfriend in the face, but that would lead to a bigger conversation he knows you donât want to have. This is a grave he dug for himself, but it didnât even work right. He was supposed to bury himself alive and forget about you, high above him, brighter than the sun and prettier than the sky.
Instead heâs just lying in the dirt, six feet down, only able to watch you orbit around him like an angel. Itâs hell. Itâs torture. Itâs exactly what he fucking deserves.
âYouâre sulking again,â Steve says casually, and Bucky grunts.
âSo?â
âItâs bringing everyone down, Buck-â
âTheyâre fine.â
Steve sighs. He does that a lot, when it comes to you and Bucky. He sighed when Bucky told him that heâd fallen in love with you. He sighed when Bucky decided you deserved better and started to push you away. He sighed when Bucky would lock himself on the fire escape for hours after parties, smoking and staring out at the city skyline until the wind was threatening to bite his skin off, and he had to be dragged inside.
Bucky knows Steve thinks heâs an idiot. Hell, most days Bucky thinks heâs an idiot. There isnât a moment that passes where he doesnât want to go back and suck up the fear, take the gamble, and just tell you heâd fallen for you. Hard enough to break the sound barrier, hard enough to snap him in half before he even hit the bottom, hard enough that he was never going to be able to climb his way back up. But heâs a veteran with a missing arm and a pile of baggage he canât even shoulder some days. Youâd looked at him like he was something good. Youâd looked at him like you thought it couldâve been easy, to fall right back.
And Bucky couldnât have that.
The only thing worse than never having you wouldâve been having you, and breaking you. Letting you down. Letting you love him, then letting you realize how wrong you were, to bother to try. So heâd pushed you away.
Steve said that didnât give him the right to sulk about it all the time. Steve was probably right, but Bucky sulked anyway. It was all he had, now.
That, and hating your stupid fucking boyfriend.
Brock. Dumb name. Sounded like rock. Bucky had a better name. Heâd even let you call him James, like you used to. Youâre the only person that ever made Bucky sound like an insult instead of a marker of affection. He wants to go back to being James, just for you. But he canât. Because of Brock.
âWhat does she even see in him,â he mutters, and Steve sighs. Again.
âI donât know, but-â
âHeâs not that good looking,â Bucky narrows his eyes at Brock. Leaning over the table. Grabbing your arm. Bucky should be the one touching you. âHis dick is probably small.â
âI- Uh- Yeah, sure-â
âShe deserves better-â
âBetter like you?â
That makes Buckyâs head snap to the side. Steve doesnât even blink, his brows raised in almost mocking gentleness. It pisses Bucky off sometimes, how heâs not allowed to be pissed at Steve.
âYou know sheâs with him because he asked her, right?â Steve says, and Bucky scowls.
âThatâs not- I- He doesnât treat her right-â
âAnd you do?â
Bucky tastes bile. Steve still doesnât back down, just giving Bucky that sympathetic puppy look, and Bucky wonders if he digs himself another foot down, Steve will do him a favor and bury him alive.
âYou could just- Talk to her,â Steve murmurs, and Bucky snorts.
âShe doesnât care what I gotta say, Stevie-â
âBecause you made her think you donât care at all.â
âI donât care,â Bucky snaps, louder than he means to, and Steve gives him an unimpressed look. Bucky scowls and turns back to his drink. âShut up.â
âI didnât say a thing-â
âYouâre thinkinâ. I can hear it.â
Steve sighs. Buckyâs going to shove a fist into his mouth, to get him to stop. âIâm just saying, Buck,â Steve murmurs. âNat thought she was finally going to get over Brock. Before you decided to be an ass to her all the time.â
Bucky scoffs, then pauses. He didnât actually understand what that meant. It sounded like it meant something important, something he was really supposed to understand, but for the life of him, he canât work out why. He turns back to Steve with a frown, ready to ask what the hell that meant, but the words are drowned in aloud smash from across the bar.
Buckyâs attention snaps to the side in a second, his body realizing whatâs happening before his brain. Heâs on his feet when Brock shouts at you, and walking when you shove Brock. He almost breaks into a sprint, when he sees Brockâs hand curl into a fist. It only gets slammed on the table, but Buckyâs heart still threatens to burst through his throat. The bar is crowded. Too crowded. Itâs taking him too long to get to you, and Brock shouts something, and you scream something back, and some lady tries to grab Bucky to flirt, but he shoulders her off.
He almost loses you in the chaos. A door slams, and heâs not sure if itâs you or Brock. He looks around for Natâwherever you went, sheâll be there tooâbut canât find her. He stumbles to the table, and his mouth goes dry.
Youâre not hurt, but youâre crying. Youâre crouching against the wall, Nat petting your head and trying to calm you down. Brock is nowhere to be found. Smart move, Bucky thinks. He was seconds from getting his face knocked in.
âWhat the hell happened?â He grunts to Nat, kneeling in front of you.
She shakes her head, lips in a thin line. âIâm not sure. They started fighting, Brock smashed a glass, then just- Fucked off, I guess.â
âWhatâd they fight about-â
âShe wonât tell me,â Nat sighs, and you glare at her under gorgeous, wet lashes.
âIâm right here,â you snap, and Nat gives you an apologetic smile.
âI know, but- You wonât tell me.â
You sniff, glancing over to Bucky, then down to the floor. âI donât want to talk about it,â you mutter, and Nat murmurs your name.
âWas it-â
âYeah.â
Nat scowls, and Bucky feels like heâs being left out of something.
âNat, I-â You grab her wrist, voice small and pleading. âI just want to go home.â
Natashaâs throat bobs, but she nods. Bucky frowns. Natâs been drinking. Everyoneâs been drinking except you and him, and he doesnât think you should be driving when you canât even get off the floor.
âIâll take her,â he mutters, and you shoot him a poisoned glare.
âNo.â
âListen, kid, Iâm offering to help-â
âI donât want your help,â you sneer, and Bucky sighs. He deserves that. He knows he does. Doesnât make it any easier or sweeter to swallow.
Natasha mutters your name, watching Bucky from the corner of her eye. âItâs either him, or an uber-â
âUber,â you say immediately, and Nat gives you a flat look.
âThat wasnât a real option. Youâre going with Bucky.â
You pout, inching away from him, and Buckyâs face burns. He stares at his hands, trying to pretend he canât hear your whispers. Trying to pretend they donât cut into a sensitive, raw, needy part of his heart that no amount of self-inflicted burns has ever been able to steel.
âI donât want to go with Bucky,â you hiss at Nat, and Nat just shrugs.
âI donât want you to be alone right now-â
âThen you get in the Uber with me.â Your voice is small. Almost pleading. It breaks Buckyâs heart.
Nat shakes her head, voice gentle, as if youâre a wounded animal. âBucky will drop you at my place, alright? I just have to take care of something first.â
Your nose wrinkles, but you agree. Bucky doesnât think youâre happy about it. He can almost feel the disdain emitting from your body like radiation, as Nat helps you to Buckyâs car. He decides not to tell you that Natâs thing is probably hunting down Brock and killing him. Bucky would join her, if he didnât have to deal with you. He doesnât think thereâs anything more noble. His worry is devotion. Itâs a shame youâre blinder than a real god, to see it.
The drive is dead quiet. Bucky glances at the radio every few minutes, but loses the debate with him over and over to turn it on. He doesnât want you to hate his taste in music.
You curl up against the window, as far away from him as you can get without jumping onto the freeway. Bucky drums his fingers on the wheel to fill the silence. Your breathing has steadied from short, shallow gasps, but he can still hear you sniffle every few seconds. It makes his vision line with red, and he knows heâs the worst kind of hypocrite, but knowing never helped anyone. He doesnât understand, how Brock could treat you so horribly. He doesnât understand how youâbeautiful, smart, sweet but unwavering and sharpâcould tolerate it.
Bucky parks the car outside of Natâs. You donât move, and he wishes he could build the anger to make you. But you smell like vanilla and something summery, and you look like an angel in the streetlights, and all he can feel is bubbling red and green. It spills out of his mouth like vomit, before he can garner the will and kindness to shove it down.
âWhat do you see in him,â Bucky mutters, and you look over with a frown.
You stare at him. Bucky stares back. He loves it when you do that. Itâs a little off-putting, but he thinks he can tell you the truth with his eyes. Heâs not sure, though, if you ever see it.
âHeâs good to me,â you mutter finally, and Bucky snorts. âHe is, donât- Donât fucking make that face-â
âIâm not makinâ a face-â
âYou are,â you point at him, eyes narrowed, voice cold. âHe is good to me, Bucky.â
Bucky raises his brows. It only seems to work you up more.
âFuck you,â you spit. âBrock loves me, he- Heâs- You just donât see the side of him that I do-â
âI donât think heâs got enough sides to hide anything, doll,â Bucky drawls, and you scowl.
âYouâre just jealous.â
Bucky recoils, fingers tightening on the wheel. âI donât know what the hell youâre talking about,â he grunts, and you roll your eyes.
âFuck off, itâs so obvious-â
Bucky mutters your name in warning, but you just keep going.
âYouâre jealous that someone like me could have a partner that loves them, when youâre alone. But guess what, Bucky,â you lean forward, words spitting over Buckyâs slack face. âYouâre going to die alone, and Iâm not, so fuck you.â
You push the door open, and storm out onto the street. Buckyâs frozen in the drivers seat for a second, a faint ringing in his ears. Youâre right. Youâre right, and itâs his fault. Not about Brockâthat piece of shit isnât capable of love, even for someone as perfect as youâbut- But-
Heâs moving before he can think about why. Shoving his way out of the car and shouting your name, chasing you up the sidewalk like a madman. You ignore him. Of course you do. Itâs what heâs fucking earned.
âJust- Wait-â He catches your wrist. You yank it away.
âLeave me alone, Bucky-â
âNo, I got somethinâ I wanna say-â
âWell I donât want to hear it-â
âI know, I know, just-â
âNo!â You scream, round on him with a pointed finger, and Bucky feels something split right down his chest at the tears in your eyes. âNo, I donât want to fucking- I- You donât get to tell me anything about- About anything. This is your fault, your-â
You cut yourself off, and Bucky blinks, leaning back. âMy fault?â He laughs in disbelief, when you nod, not meeting his eyes. âHow the hell is it my fault?â
You wrap your arms over your stomach, gaze fixed firmly on your shoes. âBrock thinks you want to fuck me,â you mumble, and Buckyâs heart falters in his chest. âThatâs what the- The stupid fight way about, alright? And he thinks I shouldnât be around you anymore, because of it.â
Bucky gapes at you. Heâs trying to think of a way to ask that isnât selfish. He canât come up with it. âBut youâre not going to listen to him, right?â
You shrug. âItâs not like you like being around me,â you mumble, and Buckyâs hands fists.
âThatâs not the fuckinâ point, doll-â
âIsnât it?â You give him a tired look. âDonât you want me to just- Just go away? Arenât you fucking happy, that youâre never going to have to deal with me again?â
Buckyâs throat his too tight to speak. This is a walking nightmare, but he canât seem to wake up. Youâre right. This is the part heâs supposed to want, where you bury him and he never has to see youâre beauty and wonder what if. But heâs selfish. Heâs too fucking selfish, and he doesnât want the sun to go away. He canât lose you. Not like this, not when you seem to have halfway lost yourself.
You give him a prompting glare, tipping up your chin when heâs been silent too long. He swallows. His fingers flex, and he works his jaw until he can speak.
âDonât,â he rasps, watching you under hooded eyes. âDonât go away.â
You laugh, but it doesnât sound read. âDonât do that, Bucky, donât act like you care-â
âI do care-â
âNo.â You point at him, face tight. âNo, you donât- You donât-â
Bucky catches your hand, and you immediately go quiet. He takes a small step forward. You donât take a step back.
âI care,â he croaks, squeezing your hand once. âI care, doll. I- Iâve always cared, I-â
He moves to his knees. You stare down at him, like youâre not sure what youâre supposed to do. Bucky doesnât need you to do anything. He only prays at the only alter he knowsâyour feetâthat youâll listen.
âI love you,â he whispers, and your mouth falls open.
âBuckyâŚâ
âI know Iâve been a dick,â he rasps. âI know, and I- I donât expect you to forgive me, or say anything back. If you wanna slap me, Iâll let you. Iâll let you do anything, doll, just- Please donât listen to him.â Bucky swallows, daring to wrap a hand around the back of your thighs, silently begging you to stay. âIf heâs told you no one else is gonna love you, heâs dead wrong. If youâre letting him tell you what to do âcause you think itâs the only way to make him stay, let him fucking leave. You deserve better. Youâve always deserved better. Than-â His words catch, painful in his throat. âThan me. But also than him. You deserve better.â
He digs his fingers into your soft skin, and you swallow, blinking down at him with soft, glossy eyes.
âI love you,â Bucky echoes like a prayer. âI swear I love you, doll. And I really donât expect nothing, but- Please.â
You straighten up, and Bucky tries not to flinch when you cup his cheek. Your hand is so warm, so soft. He doesnât deserve the touch.
âBucky,â you murmur. âStand up.â
He blinks at you, then scrambles to his feet. Your mouth twitches. He thinks thatâs a good sign.
You stand barely an inch apart, staring into each others eyes. Bucky lets every bit of himself crumble away, until the only thing left for you to see is his love. You let out a sharp breath, and glance to his parted lips.
âYou mean it?â You whisper, and he nods in a heartbeat.
âWith everything I got.â
You laugh, soft and nervous, and meet his gaze again. âBut- You were such an asshole- I thought you hated me.â
âNever,â he whispers. âI- I mean- I was an asshole, but I never hated you doll, ever. I just- I kinda loved you too much, and Iâm an idiot-â
Buckyâs voice dies easily, when you push up and press a small kiss to his lips. His hands twitch to catch you, but he holds them back. Not daring to move. Not daring to let this fall apart. Your lips are so soft, and you taste like that sugary drink youâd been nursing, and he thinks he might have just taken a hit of a drug heâs never going to kick.
Heâs panting, when you pull away. You smile at him, shy and gorgeous, brows raised in challenge, and he laughs like a ruined man. He dives back down, grabbing your face between his hands and kissing you hard. Kissing you the way he dreamed, your lips molding together and body arching up to his touch, your tongue darting over his lip before he squeezes your jaw, and you open for him with a moan. Â He chuckles and spits into your mouth, wrapping an arm around your waist. You scratch his neck and press back with twice the force, dragging a low groan from his chest.
Bucky yanks himself back, and you stare at each other, flushed and panting. You find it in you to speak first. Buckyâs not surprised.
âYou love me?â You demand, and he nods.
âAll the time.â
You nod, and he thinks heâs got the kind of luck they talk about in kings.
âGood,â you mutter, straightening the collar of his shirt before fixing him with that enchanting, dangerous stare. âProve it.â
Bucky smiles, and presses a harsh but loving kiss to your lips. You really have no fucking idea.
Proving it is going to be the easy part.
Youâve had dreams about this. So many dreams that living through it takes a lot of convincing, for you to believe itâs reality. You think, through the power of Buckyâs hands and lips, youâre going to get there.
You kissed and stumbled into Natâs house with your hands roaming and feet tripping over everything but each other. Bucky had ripped your shirt over your head and kicked the door behind him, letting his searing mouth wander over your jaw, your cheeks, your nose and back to your lips. Youâd pulled the buckle of his jeans while he made quick work of your bra, using the straps to pull you right back against his chest before tossing it the same way as your shirt.
âLook at you,â heâd muttered, palming your breast with an air of awe to his every word. âPrettiest thing Iâve ever fuckinâ seen.â
Youâd flushed and kissed him before he could say any more nice things. They were already making your heart soft and prone to forgiveness. The kind you were trying to make him earn, even if he was probably about to get it for free.
Bucky slid his hand around the back of your neck and kissed you like it was a movie. Youâd melted into him, clinging to the hooks of his jeans and letting him angle your face further back. Youâd tugged him closer and heâd grunted, wrapping his full bicep around your neck and sliding his hand on your breast down your side. Heâd cupped your ass and squeezed it before dipping his fingers under your waistband, pulling it back and forth as he dragged his tongue over your lower lip.
âWanna take care of you,â heâd muttered, like he was speaking to himself. âYou gonna let me take care of you?
âYe- Yeah,â you breathe, nails digging into his wrist. Youâre trying to stay steady. Youâre not sure itâs working, with how the room is spinning and your skin is getting heated. âYes, please.â
Bucky chuckles, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. Your mouth falls open with a tiny gasp, and his brows furrow tight. He slides the pad of his finger between your lips, and you flick your tongue against it. Your eyes droop, and your head tips back as you start to suck on him. Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips.
âJesus,â he rasps. âAlways knew youâd be the death of me, doll.â
You coo, and Buckyâs nostrils flare. His hand drifts further down your back, hooking on your bottoms and pulling them with him. You make another soft, humming sound, smiling at him around his thumb, and his throat bobs.
âThatâs it,â he rasps. âJust like that, nice and easy.â
Your bottoms fall to the floor, leaving you in only your panties. Bucky glances down, his tongue darting over his lips, and then looks right back to you. He pulls his thumb away, cups the back of your head, and pulls your face back for him to kiss. You moan against his mouth and he groans, pressing over you until thereâs no space for anything else left. Itâs all just Bucky, everywhere around you and so warm you start to get dizzy. You almost donât know what to do with yourself, yanking at his shirt and trying to meet every kiss, but itâs hard. Buckyâs demanding, and youâve wanted this for too long. Just his hands on your bare skin are better than anyone else being inside of you. Itâs really unfair.
Bucky cups your pussy when your back hits the wall, and you mewl. He leans back to watch your hips roll against his hand, his eyes going fully dark and a low, rumbling grunt falling from his lips.
âFuck, baby,â he rubs his hand back and forth, a sweet, lewd sound filling the room. âThis wet, just for me?â
You nod a little shamefully, watching him under fluttering lashes. He pulls on the fabric of your panties and snaps it against your cunt, making you buck up with a squeak. Bucky chuckles and rubs over the hurt, leaning down until your lips are brushing together.
âYou want me to play nice?â He whispers. âOr fuck you like Iâve been dreaminâ about.â
You blink at him, mouth hanging open and face burning. Itâs hard to think, with the drag of his rough, gentle hand against your cunt. For a little while you just stare at him helplessly, and Bucky takes a small mercy, snapping your panties back against your pussy, shocking your heartbeat enough to make you think.
Like heâs been dreaming. Youâve been dreaming too. Holding fantasies about Bucky giving it to you just how you want, walking that thin line you never trusted Brock to balance on. But you trust Bucky. Your Bucky, before the whole mess. The Bucky you can see so clearly now, features shining with affection as he watches you already start to come apart.
âThat,â you say, small but certain. âDo- Do it like that.â
Bucky pauses. âLike-â
âHow you want,â you whisper, and he goes still.
Bucky scans over your face for an ounce of hesitation. You donât have any, so you hold his gaze.
He lets out a rough, broken breath. âYou sure-â
You press up and kiss him hard. He gets the idea.
Bucky rips your panties off like theyâre made of paper, drops one arm under your thighs, and picks you up with barely a grunt. You squeal and try to push away on instinct, but heâs strong. Stronger than you thought, and youâve spent an embarrassing amount of time ogling his muscles. He slams his mouth over yours for a brief, hungry kiss, spits down your throat, and tosses you right over his shoulder.
âBucky-â
âShh,â he slaps your ass and you squeak again, dropping your face right into his shoulder. He squeezes over the pleasurable sting then starts to walk, keeping you steady over him.
âWhere- Where are we going?â You try to push up to see over his shoulder. Bucky lands another spank on your ass, and you fall right back down with a whine. âJames- Shit-â
Heâs dragging his fingers over your sopping wet cunt, smearing the mess everywhere he can, humming while he walks. Your thighs clench, but that only seems to give him easier access, and you whine.
âBu- Bucky-â
âAh,â Bucky slaps your pussy, and you muffle your moan against his body. âThatâs not what I want to hear, doll.â
You swallow and shake your head, bunching his shirt between your trembling fingers. Bucky spanks your pussy again and it clenches around nothing. His thumb drifts, teasing over your clit in tiny brushes, back and forth and back and forth. You whimper, but he just hums, dragging two fingers through the mess between your thighs, before returning to your swollen little button.
âCome on,â he coos, encouraging and mocking all at once. âUse your words for me.â
You canât. You muffle another moan in Buckyâs shoulder, writhing best you can in his iron grip. Bucky hums like this is casual, like heâs not already taking you apart with the lightest of touches. A door creaks open, and you barely have time to recognize the carpet of Natâs guest room before youâre being tossed down onto the bed.
You bounce slightly, and Bucky catches your ankles, dragging you right to the edge of the mattress. You stare at him, mouth hanging open, completely unsure what to do with yourself. His lips twitch and he lowers down, pressing a gently, loving kiss to your lips. You arch up and he rubs your thighs, easing you down into his touch. You slump forward, running your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low, satisfied sound from the back of his throat.
Bucky traces his hand a little higher up your thigh, and you try not to buck into his touch. Itâs not very successful, and he smiles against your lips, pinching your upper thigh. You whimper and turn your head, trying to save useless face. Bucky chuckles, sucking a small mark under your throat, then flicking his tongue against the sensitive skin.
âJamesâŚâ You moan, and he goes still. You turn nervously, worried you somehow, already, ruined it. âBucky?â
His throat bobs. He grabs your chins between two fingers, eyes boring through you, like he can see all your hazy, love-colored thoughts.
âBuck-â
âJames,â he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lip. âKeep callinâ me James, doll.â
You nod, a faint flush burning your cheeks. Itâs not even from the way heâs touching you. Not right now. James isnât a name Bucky lets anyone use. You used to, but then he started pushing you, and you didnât want to lose that last sacred closeness, of being allowed to use his nickname. But if James is what he wants. Heâll get it. Youâll give him almost anything, right now.
âJames,â you breathe, and Buckyâs throat bobs. He leans down for another, slower kiss. You close your eyes and let him control the depth, the unmeasured but drizzle passion like honey. When he pulls away youâre breathless, and heâs on his knees.
Naked and on his knees.
You make a tiny sound, gaping shamelessly at his cock. Itâs thick and heavy looking, leaking with pre-cum and probably more than you can take. But you want to try. You want to drool around it in every possible way, looking up and Bucky and getting that faint, affectionate smile.
âYou seeinâ something you like?â Bucky teases, and you give him a hopeless, embarrassed look. He chuckles and grabs himself, stroking slowly and holding your gaze. âYou want it bad, huh,â he mutters, smearing some drool over your cheek. âHe ainât been fuckinâ your right, either. Left you so needy for so long, you get all quiet just seeing a real cock?â
Your face is on fire, but your core is throbbing and aching. You drop your brow against Buckyâs, fixated on his fist, pumping that massive dick.
âSpit on it,â Bucky grunts, and you obey thoughtless, letting some of your need fall from your lips to Buckyâs shining cock. He groans and smashes his lips over yours, his hand pumping faster until heâs groaning your name against your lips.
Then he pulls back, lets go of himself, and just stares at your slack, desperate expression. You swallow, and his lips curve into a faint, starved smile.
âYou need to be treated like a whore, huh,â he mutters. âFucked like a toy âtill you remember how nice it is, to have my attention.â
Oh, God. Your thighs try to press together. Bucky shoves them apart, using his thumb to part your puffy, swollen pussy lips.
âPretty little thing,â he mutters, pressing over your clit before dragging his thumb back down. âDonât worry, baby, Iâll fuck you right. Gonna open you up,â he presses his thumb hard against your entrance, smirking at your tiny sound. âThen give you exactly what you need. That sound good?â
âYe- Yeah,â you manage to babble, remembering his thing about words. âYes, please.â
Bucky smiles, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. âGood girl.â
You whine, and Bucky doesnât waste time. He sinks fully down, kissing over your tummy as he shoves your legs fully apart. You watch him, breathing ragged, and weave your fingers through his hair for balance. He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other. Nips at the sensitive skin, then flicks his tongue over the hurt before kissing it again. He takes his time, kissing all around your cunt, but never letting his mouth go where you really fucking need.
âJames,â you whine, tugging on his hair. âDonât- Donât tease.â
He chuckles, his lips brushing right against your clit. You squirm, but he holds your thighs down and gives you a stern look.
âIâll tease you all I fuckinâ want, babydoll,â he mutters, giving the quickest, lightest kiss to your clit. âYouâre too pretty and reactive not to play with.â
You whimper, unable to come up with a response that isnât a fuck you. As fun as it would be to push his buttons and find out just what punishment under Buckyâs attention isâbeing dragged over his lap, forced to sit on his cock until youâre drooling, brought right up to the edge over and over but never being allowed to fallâyouâre too desperate right now. You might cum just from looking at him, itâs been so long, and he seems to know it.
âNeedy pussy,â he mutters, tracing his thumb in circles around your clit. âGonna take real good care of you, pretty girl.â
You mewl because god help you, you really believe him. Bucky pulls back the hood of your clit, blows on it in a way that makes your whole body seize up, then presses a long, slow kiss to the bundle of nerves.
âFuck- James- James-â
âI know,â he coos, tongue flicking against your pulsing cunt. âSuch a greedy fuckinâ girl, canât even wait for me.â He kisses your clit again, making out with it until youâre panting and struggling to sit up. âLucky Iâm feelinâ generous,â he mutters, and whatever restraint heâd been pretending to have was gone.
Bucky shoves his face into your pussy, his beard scraping your thighs and his tongue licking a long, rough stripe up your core until it hits your clit, swirls, and dives back down. Plunging in and out of your dripping hole before repeating the lick, playing with your clit more and more every time. Thick hands keep your legs spread when you start to get restless, but he lets you buck freely up into his mouth. He seems to enjoy it, how you pull on his hair and cry his name. If anything, his mouth just works harder against you, tongue flicking against your clit in rapid, tiny strokes that send you into a frenzy.
You fall back with a sob, grinding up and craning your neck to try and keep watching him. Itâs a beautiful sight, Bucky drowning himself between your thighs. He winks at you, pressing his tongue flat over your entrance, and you fall back with a moan. Youâre getting there fast. It would be embarrassing, with anyone but Bucky. He just kisses your thigh and bumps his nose against your clit, muttering youâre close against your skin before diving right back in.
âBu- Bucky-â You grab at the sheets, your pussy throbbing like a ticking bomb before an explosion. âBucky- I- Iâm gonna-â
His teeth graze your clit, and he wraps his lips tight around the nub, sucking on it hard. You scream as your vision goes white, your hips flying off the bed, but Bucky doesnât stop. He lets wraps his arms around each thigh, shoves your legs close around his head, and keeps sucking on your clit, it starts to get all tingly and numb in the best way. Itâs almost like heâs tickling it with his tongue, the pressure of his mouth perfect and unbearable, your eyes rolling back in your head as you writhe.
âOh- Oh my god-â You sob, pushing at his head. âBucky- I- I canât, please-â
He kisses your clit a little more gently, spanks your pussy, and gives you a stern look. âYes, you can.â
It doesnât seem to be something thatâs up for argument.Â
Bucky keeps you pinned to his face, sucking and sucking and sucking, no real care for what else you do. You cry and pull at the sheets, trying and climb away with no avail, and end up rolling onto your stomach, your face pressed into the sheets. Bucky still stays locked against your pussy, the feeling only intensifying when heâs beneath you. Youâre all but sitting on his face, grinding you cunt down onto his jaw, sobbing into the sheets as your body becomes taut and wired and ready to snap.
A second orgasm rolls over you like a thunderstorm. Wet and loud and hot. You gush against Buckyâs face, tears starting to stream down your face from the overstimulation. You havenât even had one proper orgasm in⌠longer than you want to admit. Brock never really gave you anything more than a shiver, and your patience in your own body was limited to a vibrator and ten minutes before a dull, anti-climatic orgasm that didnât feel like much, but still made you too sensitive to keep going. Bucky just pulled two out of you, with his mouth alone.
He pulls back when youâre trembling, leaving a last, gentle kiss over your clit.
âBest fuckinâ pussy Iâve ever tasted,â he mutters, giving it one more spank before he starts to crawl over your body. âCoulda died there, doll, I swear.â
He laughs to himself, and you whimper against the sheets. Bucky pauses, caging you against the mattress with massive arms, and slowly rolls you over onto your back. You stare up at him, starry-eyed and spent, and his mouth twitches down.
âYou alright?â He murmurs, brushing the hair from your face. You nod, and he doesnât look convinced. âAre you-â
âBucky,â you whisper, and his throat bobs. âIf you donât fuck me, Iâm leaving.â
He laughs, throaty and dry, and ducks back down to give you another, slower kiss. One hand slides down your body, palming at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers between pinching gently. Bucky smiles, at the tiny whine it pulls out of you.
âCould spend forever here,â he mutters. âGivinâ every single part of you the attention it deserves. Sucking on these tits while you ride my thigh. Bending you over and opening up that cunt with just my hands, just playing with your ass until youâre drippinâ on my lap.â He groans, his cock twitching against your thigh. âYouâre so fuckinâ beautiful, babydoll. You got no idea.â
You hum, the tears on your cheeks shiner than before. He means it. Whatever doubts youâd had before fade, because youâre sure. Bucky means it.
He settles himself fully between your legs, the more aggressive, dominant mask seeming to fracture, like light splitting through the clouds. Always there, even when he pretends. Coming out when you most need to see it.
âGonna go right in,â he mutters, mostly to himself. âOpened you up real good. Shouldnât even hurt.â
You hum, pressing your face against his neck. Bucky rubs his cock against your cunt slowly, covering himself in your arousal before tapping his head against your clitâalmost ceremoniously, like paying homageâand notching himself against your entrance.
The stretch isnât as bad as you thought it would be. Buckyâs still big, so big you can feel it in your throat, so big you donât think youâve ever been this full, but heâd prepped you so well, itâs just a faint burn before it molds into pleasure. Buckyâs warm breath fans over the top of your neck as he watches your pussy mold around his cock. He moans something like your name against your skin, and you wrap your arms tight around his head.
âFeels so good,â you moan as he pushes further in. âSo- So good.â
Bucky grunts, and you whimper as he bottoms out, balls pressed tight to your ass.
For a few moments, neither of you move. Bucky looks up at you with a wrecked expression you can feel in your chest, and you give him a faint, nervous smile.
âYou know I love you too, right?â You say, because itâs the only thing you can think.
Buckyâs throat bobs. He doesnât seem to have any words, and gives you a slow, romantic kiss. He rolls his hips experimentally, and you gasp against his lips. Heâs curved in a way that presses right up against your g-spot, and itâs almost like a massage. You clench down, and Bucky grunts, but he repeats the motion anyway.
âJames- Ooooh-â Your eyes roll back, and Bucky sucks and kisses over your jaw, grinding his cock right against that soft, gooey spot. âFuck- James-â
Bucky makes a deep, almost feral sound, and starts to move faster. Shallow, brutal thrusts that split you right open. You grab his bicep for dear life, and he watchers your every reaction with a sharp attention. You mewl when he does a swivel move, almost flying off the bed, and he pins you down with a hand splayed over your stomach.
âFeel that?â He grunts, pulling all the way out before slamming back in. âYou fuckinâ feel that, babydoll? How good we feel together? Greedy little pussy, swallowinâ my cock up like the whore you are- Fuck-â
Bucky falls back over you, kissing you with spit and teeth and brutal force. You wrap your arms around your neck, moaning loud and shameless as he picks up his pace. Small, measured thrusts turn into the bed creaking, Buckyâs cock drilling into your pussy like heâs trying to knock every thought from your head. Itâs working. Youâre a drooling, wound up mess below him, and he grins against your lips.
âThatâs my girl,â he mocks. âSmart head so fuckinâ empty, when I got you on my cock. No one else makes you feel like this, do they?â
You donât answerâyou canâtâand Bucky smacks your clit.
âDo they?â
You shake your head, babbling out a pathetic half-answer. âN- No-â
âWho fucks you right?â Bucky demands, words harsh but touch gentle when he grabs your jaw.
âYou.â Tears start to fall down your cheeks again. âYou, Bucky- Please-â
You moan as he hits that spot again, and Bucky groans, dropping down to kiss the tears away, then mold his lips back over yours.
âDamn right, me,â he grunts, skin slapping against skin, the wet, sinful sound of him bullying into your cunt almost drowning out the words. âMy fuckinâ girl.â
Bucky leans up, and you almost cry for him before you realize what heâs doing. Bucky grabs your knees with one arm and presses them up to your chest, leaning down to kiss you as he fucks you deeper into the mattress. The angle is deeper like this. You can feel it everywhere, from your toes to your lips. You make a strangled, undignified sound when Buckyâs thumb returns to your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles.
âCum with me, babydoll,â he grunts, kissing your calf and rutting into your drooling, pulsing cunt. âCome one, wanna fill you up, pump this pussy up âtill everyone knows, just-â He groans. âGimme just one more.â
You donât know where it comes from. You didnât think you had it in you, but Bucky manages to pull it out. A third orgasm, slower and longer than the last too. Hotter, as well. Pooling in your gut before flooding out of your cunt. Down your thighs and over Buckyâs cock as you flutter and he doubles over with a roar.
Youâre not sure whatâs Buckyâs cum and whatâs yours. Thereâs just wet stickiness, filling you up everywhere until your eyes are unfocused and your body is twitching. Bucky kisses you through the orgasms, fucking shallowly into your pussy like he canât help himself. When you both ease down, youâre blinking at the ceiling with heavy eyes and a warm feeling blooming back into your chest. Free and light and easy, in a way you never expected yourself to have.
This is going to be a mess in the morning. Right now, you donât really care.
âI guess Brock was right,â you muse. âYou did want to sleep with me.â
Bucky sits up with a glare. âDonât say that when Iâm still inside of you.â
You giggle, reaching up to brush some hair from his brow. His gaze softens and he catches your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
âDo you believe me?â He mutters, and itâs small and worried. As if, after that, youâd somehow ever let him get away again.
âYeah,â you smile, and his shoulders slump in relief.
âThank god-â
âBut,â you squeeze his hand. âI think you should keep proving it.â
Bucky chuckles, giving you an amused look before dropping his face right back into your boobs. You beam at the ceiling and pet the top of his head, neither of you in a rush to clean up. You probably should. You really should. Bucky seems to realize why at the same moment you do.
âNatâs gonna kill us,â he groans, and you snort.
âYeah. You.â
Bucky props his chin on your chest. âYou too-â
âNo,â you shake your head. âIâm her favorite.â
âThatâs-â Bucky sighs, and drops his face back down. âYeah.â
You laugh, and he grins against your boob.
âWorth it,â he mutters, and you smile like a fool.
Because yeah. It was. Â Â
âŚEnd note: sometimes... cheating is okay!âŚ
âŚIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3âŚ
âŚBuy me a coffee!âď¸ (and get early access!)âŚ
ę° wc ęą 20k words
ę° summaryęą bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you werenât so fucking confusing.
.á contents |
18+ (MDNI), college au, situationship, bucky pov, avoidant!reader, lovesick!bucky, mutual pining, asshole!bucky miscommunication, commitment issues, yearning!bucky, toxic relationship, reader is emotionally avoidant, alcohol and weed use, unprotected piv sex, drunk sex, oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, rough sex, dirty talk, jealousy, bucky goes through ittt,
.á lizzyâs note |
it has been such an honour being apart of this collab. i love it so much. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for hosting this beautiful cutesy collab, and putting all this effort and thought in, love you bwabies. on another note this fic has also been the bane of my existence. literally created this fic for one scene in mind, only to not add it because i didnt have time, im actually devastated.
anyway enjoy my loves <3
BWAT MASTERLIST â MASTERLIST
divider by my bby @barnesonly
The night was going perfectly until you walked in.
Bucky had a sweating bottle of beer hooked between two fingers, the label curling pink under his damp thumb.
Sam was pressed against his side, yelling something loudly idiotic directly into his ear; something about a bet, or a dare, or a girl whose name Bucky would forget by morning. He caught none of it.
The kitchen was chanting his name. The sound bounced off the sticky counters and the sweat-slick walls, a drunk, gleeful roar for a drinking game he didnât remember starting, let alone winning.
He bared his teeth in a grin, let the noise wash over him like a wave of approval he was too buzzed to question.
Some girl he couldnât name had dragged her glitter-dusted fingers across his cheekbone an hour ago, leaving a streak of lime-green that caught the strobe light like a neon sign against his skin.
Steve had been pretending not to laugh about it for the last twenty minutes, mouth tight, eyes bright with amusement every time he caught Bucky working the room with a fresh smear of sparkle on his face.
The whole house smelled like it was sweating out its own wild heart; weed smoke curling thick through the pulsing lights, cheap perfume wrestling with spilled beer and tequila, the sour-sweet musk of bodies pressed too close for too long.
It smelled like a night everyone would be pretending not to regret by the time the sun burned through the blinds.
A girl from Tonyâs econ classâEden⌠or Edith, he couldnât rememberâhad her fingers locked around his wrist, tugging him toward the hallway where the bass bled into something slower, heavier.
The lights back there flickered green, pulsing like a heartbeat under the floorboards. She was pulling him toward the dark, and her lips were parted, and she was saying something he didnât need to hear to understand.
Bucky let himself be pulled.
One step. Part of a grin. His thumb dragging across her knuckles in a promise he had made to a hundred girls before her. He was already opening his mouth, ready to offer something charming and perfectly hollow.
Then the front door opened.
He didnât hear it. Not over the bass that was rattling the drywall. Not over Samâs drunken cackle. Not over the sharp crash of glass shattering somewhere behind him, Thor probably, baptising another piece of the house with whatever expensive bottle heâd smuggled in from Norway. The kitchen cheered.
But Buckyâs head turned anyway.
Like gravity had taken the decision out of his hands.
You stepped in behind Natasha, Gamora a quiet shadow at your shoulder, and you were already laughing, hand pressed to Natashaâs forearm, mouth shaped around a sound the party swallowed whole.
You hadnât seen him yet.
That, he thought, was always the worst part. Those few seconds where he got to want you without having to hide it. Where he could let the grin slide off his face and just look at you.
Let himself want, openly, stupidly, while the party roared on around him and his hand was still wrapped around some other girlâs wrist.
He must have gone still. Must have stopped grinning, because Sam followed the line of his stare like a bloodhound catching scent.
Sam groaned, and slapped a heavy hand against Buckyâs shoulder.
âOh, here we fucking go.â
He felt like an impatient puppy, and he hated it, hated the way his pulse had picked up, the way his palm had gone clammy around the bottle, the way he couldnât stop tracking the curve of your ass as you drifted through the crowd.
Eden/Edith was still talking. Her fingers were sliding up his forearm, nails scraping lightly, trying to reclaim the heat sheâd had a lock on before the front door opened.
She didnât know it yet, but she had absolutely no chance.
Bucky let her touch linger for a beat longer than polite, just long enough to make her think she was still in the running, then he let his gaze drift past her face like sheâd already become background noise.
She was still talking, something about a quieter room, a better view from the upstairs balcony, but her words were just shapes in the air, meaningless vibrations against the bass.
He waited. Watched you, Natasha and Gamora carve out a corner of the living room, claiming a sagging couch and a half-empty bottle of something pink. You settled into the cushions like you owned them, one leg tucked under you, head tilted toward Gamora as she said something that made you smile.
And then Scott Lang appeared, as if summoned by the scent of a female audience, already gesturing wildly with both hands, launching into a story that was probably 80% fabrication.
The girl from econ was still talking. Bucky shrugged her hand off his arm and walked away mid-sentence.
He crossed the room with the lazy, unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going and knew heâd be welcome when he got there. Scott was still going, his voice rising in pitch as he reached the climax of whatever tall tale he was spinning now.
ââand I swear to God, Hope looked me dead in the eye and said, âIf you canât fit it through the door, itâs not coming home with us.â And I said, âWatch me.ââ
âThat did not happen, Lang,â Natasha cut in, shaking her head, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.
âOn Hopeâs life it did,â Scott insisted, pressing a hand to his chest. âWould I lie to you girls?â
The three of you exchanged a look. It was skeptical, humoured, a shared hum that was more mocking than affirming. Scott opened his mouth to continue, but Bucky was already moving into the gap.
âLadies,â he said, drawling the word like it was a gift he was bestowing. He smiled, a little lopsided, the lime-green glitter catching the light as he shouldered his way into the space between you and Gamora on the couch.
âFor fuckâs sake, Barnes,â Gamora muttered, but she shifted, grudgingly making room. Buckyâs focus was already locked on you, his body angled toward yours like a compass needle finding north.
He settled in, his thigh pressing against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of your jeans. He slung an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers dangling just behind your shoulder, claiming the space around you like it was his by right.
âParty started at nine,â he said, his voice already slurred with alcohol and the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was the best thing in the room. He was grinning, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. âItâs almost twelve. Whatâs your excuse?â
You laughed, and the sound of it hit him somewhere low in his chest. âYouâve never heard of fashionably late, Buck?â
He rolled his eyes, the gesture exaggerated and fond. âWhatever, doll.â
The word hung between you, before your hand moved almost on instinct. Your thumb came up to his cheek, pressing gently against the glitter clinging to his skin. The green flecks caught the dim light, and your touch was featherlight, curious, your brow arching as you rubbed at the shimmer.
âAnd where is this from?â you asked, your voice carrying that edge of playful interrogation he knew too well.
Buckyâs brain short-circuited. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers lingered just a second too long ,it was enough to make him forget his own name, let alone the girl whose hands had been all over him an hour ago. He blinked, swallowed, and the lie came easy.
âBarton.â He said it flatly, like it was obvious. âGot bored. Started throwing glitter at people. You know how he gets.â
He held your gaze, hoping the alcohol flush hid the flicker of guilt. He didnât want to say some girl blonde chick whose face heâd already forgotten. Didnât want to see that hint of somethingâjealousy? disappointment?âcross your features. Even if he wasnât sure it would.
Before you could press further, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. His fingers were warm, slightly sticky from condensation and beer, and he tugged gently, an insistent pull that was more plea than demand.
âCome with me.â
You didnât move. Your grin was still in place, but your body stayed rooted, and you tilted your head, giving him your best scolding look, the one that made his stomach twist because it meant you were about to say no.
âI just got here, Buck. Donât be rude.â
He huffed, the sound escaping him like an impatient child denied a treat. His jaw tightened, and he turned his head, addressing the two women lounging beside you with exaggerated politeness that was almost ridiculous given his disheveled state.
âMay I steal your friend for a few moments? Please?â He even tacked on a smile, though it came out a little strained.
Gamora didnât bother hiding her irritation. She shot him a look that could curdle milk, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like dumbass.
It was Natasha who answered, her eyes flickering between the two of you with an amusement that made Bucky feel like a specimen under a microscope.
âJust bring her back in one piece,â Natasha said, raising her glass in a lazy toast. âPreferably still clothed.â
Buckyâs mouth opened, but no words came out. He didnât have time to form a response, because you were already opening your mouth to protest, and he wasnât about to give you the chance.
He tugged. Harder this time. You stumbled forward, a surprised laugh escaping your lips as he pulled you off the couch and into the crowd. His hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, a warm anchor as he weaved through bodies and noise, dragging you behind him like a prize heâd won.
âWhere are you taking me, Bucky?â you called over the music, your voice half-laughing, half-breathless.
âYouâll see,â he shouted back, not bothering to turn around. His eyes scanned ahead, spotting the staircase, the path clear for now. He felt your wrist shift against his grip, and without thinking, he slid his hand down, interlacing your fingers with his.
Behind him, across the room, Edith/Eden was still watching. Her glare burned against the back of his neck, but he didnât feel it. He didnât feel anything except the warmth of your palm pressed against his, the sound of your laughter cutting through the bass, and the need to get you alone.
By the time the door slammed shut behind them, the bass from downstairs was just a dull throb through the walls, a welcome relief from the chaos of the party.
Buckyâs room was a disaster; clothes spilling out of an open drawer, the sour tang of old beer cans mingling with the familiar musk of his cologne, a single lamp casting a weak amber glow over the wreckage.
He didnât spare it a second glance, making a beeline for his dresser like a man on a mission.
You lingered by the door, arms crossed, taking in the scene with a slow, deliberate sweep of your eyes. âJesus Christ, Bucky,â you said, your voice flat and deeply amused. âYouâre a pig.â
Bucky snorted, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest. He didnât bother turning around. His fingers dug through the wreckage of his top drawer, pushing aside a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a stray condom wrapper that had seen better days.
âCrash here tonight,â he tossed over his shoulder, the words slurring just a little around the edges, âand you can be my maid of honour. Organise my sock drawer. Judge my questionable life choices.â
His fingers finally closed around the small metal tin hidden at the very back. He pulled it out like a trophy, turning just in time to catch the affronted scoff that escaped your lips.
âYou wish, Barnes.â
Your voice was sharp, dismissive, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Bucky held your gaze for a beat too long, something hot and unguarded flickering in his chest. His mouth moved before his brain caught up. âYeah,â he murmured, turning to his desk to hide the sudden heat creeping up his neck. âSweetheart, I wish every damn night.â
He busied himself with the familiar ritual of rolling; paper, weed, a careful distribution; refusing to look back, refusing to see if your expression shifted.
A beat of silence. Then your voice came again, softer now, laced with amusement. âYou know, youâre cute when your brain-to-mouth filter is busted.â
He snorted, ducking his head to hide the grin spreading across his face. âShut up.â
He was methodical despite the drink swimming in his veins, surprisingly steady. He sprinkled the weed, spread it even, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger with a practiced ease that came from plenty of late nights just like this one.
His tongue darted out to wet the edge of the paper, sealing it shut with a final, satisfied press.
When he turned around, holding the blunt up between his fingers like a prize, his grin was crooked. âLook what I got.â
You had perched yourself on the edge of his bed, hands planted behind you, legs crossed. The springs creaked under your weight. That same infuriating, amused smile was painted across your face, like he was a puppet and you were the one pulling the strings.
Like his entire purpose in the universe was to make you laugh, to make you roll your eyes, to make you look at him with that perfect mix of exasperation and warmth.
And God help him, heâd take it. Heâd take every scrap of attention you threw his way.
âOn a scale of one to âIâm about to make a terrible decisionâ,â you asked, tilting your head, âwhere exactly are you right now, Bucky?â
He crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of you. The blunt hung loose between his fingers.
âEnough that I know exactly how bad of an idea this is, sweetheart.â His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, fingers warm and calloused. He pulled you to your feet before you could brace yourself.
You stumbled into him, palms flat against his chest, the blunt pressed gently between your bodies for a fleeting second. âAnd Iâm doing it anyway.â
He didnât let go. Instead, he slid his hand down, threading his fingers through yours, and tugged you toward the window, the one that led to the fire escape.
âCâmon. Letâs get high.â
Fifteen minutes dissolved into a warm, syrupy haze where time stopped mattering and the only gravity left in the universe was the curve of your body against his.
Bucky was laughing; a low, breathless, almost giddy sound; right against your open mouth. The space between you had surrendered completely, chest to chest, your thighs brushing his, the bitter-sweet taste of the blunt lacing every shared exhale.
Heâd stopped passing the joint a while ago. Now it was just a prop, a thin ember burning slowly between his fingers while he held it up to your lips like he was feeding you something sacred. You took a drag without him asking, lips parting automatically, eyes never leaving his.
âThat was my last,â you murmured as you pulled back, the smoke curling from your lips in a lazy ribbon.
You didnât bother aiming it away from him. He wished youâd blow it directly into his mouth so he could taste you.
âNo such thing as âlastâ with me, sweetheart.â His words were slow, syrup-thick, drunk on you more than the alchol in his system. âYou started this. Gotta finish what you started.â
He brought the blunt back to your lips before you could argue, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. You took another hit, holding his gaze like a challenge.
âYouâre such a bad influence on me, Barnes.â
Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the dopey grin on his face mirroring yours. âIâm the bad influence?â
He leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough, amused murmur. âBaby, Iâm just following your lead. You walked into that party looking like a full-course meal. You climbed out my window. Youâre the one keeping me out here, freezing my ass off, just to watch you smoke my weed and smile at me like Iâm your favourite toy.â
He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
âIf anyoneâs the devil here, sweetheart⌠itâs definitely you.â
Your dopey smile stretched wider, pushing up your cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. He almost groaned at the sight. The way you looked at him; like he was a puzzle you were enjoying taking apart, piece by piece.
âShut up,â you said, your voice soft, fond, dismissive.
The words were barely a whisper before his came, immediate and rough.
âMake me.â
The air between you snapped taut. Your smile faded into something heavier, something that made his pulse skip and slam double-time. He didnât move. Didnât breathe. He just stared you down, waiting, daring you, his arm tightening around your waist like he was ready to hold you there forever if thatâs what it took.
Your eyes dropped to his lips.
Yes. Yes. Close the distance. Kiss me. Let me feel those lips against mine.
He watched you watch him. Watched the hesitation flicker behind your hooded eyes. Watched the want and the caution war inside you. He wanted to beg. Wanted to grab your jaw and bridge the gap himself.
But he held still, letting you make the call, letting you feel the weight of the choice hanging between you.
Instead, you broke the spell with a grin, that same infuriating, playful grin, and shoved him square in the chest.
âAs fun as this is, watching you turn into a lovesick mess, Natâs gonna send a search party if Iâm gone much longer.â
You didnât wait for an answer. You twisted out of his grip, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to flash the smooth skin of your lower back as you climbed back through the window.
Bucky bit back a groan so sharp it almost hurt. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a frustrated breath that fogged in the cool air. His entire body was humming, wired, aching.
He didnât give himself time to think. He followed you on your heels, dropping through the window and landing in the mess of his room just as your feet hit the floor. His hand shot out, catching your wrist, spinning you gently but firmly back to face him.
âYouâre gonna pay for that, you know.â
Your eyebrows lifted, amused. âPay for what?â
âLeaving a man hanging.â His voice was lower now, rougher, stripped of the playful buzz. âMaking me follow you around like some puppy. Dangling yourself in front of me and then slipping away.â
You tilted your head, that infuriating smile still playing at your lips. âPoor Bucky. Must be so hard, wanting something you canât just charm your way into.â
His jaw tightened. There was no malice in your voice; just teasing, still wrapped in that same playful edge that had been driving him up the wall all night.
But something in him snagged on it anyway.
Maybe it was the weed, loosening the screws in his head. Maybe it was the beer, sticky and warm in his bloodstream.
Maybe it was the simple, agonising fact that you were standing in his room with your mouth still soft and swollen from smiling at him, your wrist warm and alive under his thumb, acting like he was insane for wanting the very thing you kept placing just out of reach.
Buckyâs thumb pressed into the delicate skin over your pulse. He felt it skip. Felt the flutter of it beneath his touch, like a bird trapped in a cage of bone and breath.
âMaybe Iâm not trying to charm my way into it.â
Your smile didnât fall all at once. That wouldâve been merciful.
It faded slowly, like a candle snuffed from across the room, a gradual dimming that left shadows in its wake. Your brows pulled together, the teasing tilt of your head softening into something careful. As if you were reading the fine print of a contract you hadnât agreed to.
Bucky shouldâve stopped there.
He knew he shouldâve. He could feel the edge of it under his feet, that familiar precipice where the air changed and you started looking for the nearest exit without ever moving toward the door. Your eyes flickered, just once. Toward escape.
But he was drunk. He was high. And he was so goddamn tired of wanting you like a dog waiting under a dinner table for scraps, hungry and patient, and always left with nothing.
So he kept going.
âMaybe Iâm just trying to figure out what the hell you want from me.â
Your eyes searched his face, hunting for the joke, the punchline, the easy way out.
For one second, you looked almost wounded. Like he had reached past the game and touched something raw without asking first. Your lips parted, and something flickered behind your eyes.
Then you blinked, and it was gone. Wiped clean like a slate.
âBucky.â
He hated the way you said his name then. Soft. Gentle. Like a warning whispered to a child on the verge of a tantrum. Like you were trying to calm something down before it made a mess.
âWhat?â he asked, though his voice had already lost its bite, gone flat and hollow.
âYouâre drunk.â
He laughed once, short and humourless, the sound scraping out of his throat. âYeah, you said that already.â
âAnd high.â
âAnd still not stupid.â His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him.
Your lips pressed together into a thin, unreadable line.
There it was. The wall. Not slammed up, not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but Bucky felt it like a physical shift in the air. Your wrist went still in his hand, no longer warm, no longer responsive. Your shoulders drew back half an inch, a subtle retreat.
Your gaze flicked past him, toward the door, toward the party, toward anything that was not this room and the thing he had just dragged into the light.
His stomach dropped before you even spoke.
âI should go back downstairs.â
Of course.
Bucky let go of your wrist like it had burned him. His hand fell to his side, fingers curling into a loose fist, the ghost of your pulse still tingling against his palm.
âRight.â
Your expression shifted. Something tight and wounded flickered across your features before you smoothed it over.
âDonât do that.â
âDo what?â
âThat.â You gestured vaguely at his face, at the flatness in his eyes, the bitter set of his jaw. âAct like I did something.â
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, swallowed by the bass that kicked harder for a few seconds, rattling an empty beer can on his desk. The sound skittered across the wood like a nervous heartbeat.
Bucky dragged his tongue across his teeth, tasting smoke and bitterness. He nodded once, like he had just figured something out. Like the pieces had finally clicked into place, and the picture wasnât pretty.
âYou didnât,â he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. âThatâs kind of the whole point, isnât it?â
Something flashed across your face.
Hurt, maybe. Guilt. A flicker of recognition at the truth buried under his words.
Or maybe he was making things up again because he wanted so badly for there to be something underneath all that pretty nothing you kept giving him. Wanted it like a bruise he couldnât stop pressing.
Your voice was quieter when you said, âI was just joking with you.â
âYeah,â he said, forcing a smile that felt wrong on his mouth. âYouâre good at that.â
The air stalled between you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there in the weak amber light of his disaster of a room, the glow spilling from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.
Close enough that he could still smell smoke on your breath, mixed with something sweet, your lip gloss, maybe, or the conditioner you used. Far enough that he knew if he reached for you again, you would probably let him.
That was the worst part.
You would let him.
You would let him touch your waist, pull you into him by the hand. You would sigh against his mouth like you had been waiting for it. You would make him feel like he had finally cracked through every wall you built.
And then tomorrow, in front of everyone, you would smile at him like none of it had happened. Like he was just another face in the crowd.
Bucky swallowed. His throat clicked dryly.
âGo on, then,â he said, nodding toward the door. âNatâs waiting, right?â
Your eyes lifted to his.
He could tell you didnât like that. Could tell by the tiny pinch between your brows, the way your mouth parted around a response you didnât seem to have ready. He had pushed too hard, and now you were scrambling for solid ground.
But you still went.
You brushed past him, shoulder grazing his chest, and he hated himself for noticing the contact, the warmth of you through the thin fabric of your top. Hated himself more for wanting to turn his head and follow the line of your back as you moved away.
At the door, your hand closed around the knob. The metal turned with a soft click.
Then you paused.
âBuck?â
He looked at you because he always looked when you said his name like that.
You seemed to regret calling for him the second he did. Your face softened, and for one stupid, awful second, he thought you might come back. He thought you might say sorry. He thought you might say anything real enough for him to hold onto.
Instead, you gave him a small smile.
âDonât sulk too much.â
Then you slipped out, leaving the door half-open behind you. The hallway light bled across the floor, carrying muffled voices and the thrum of music.
Bucky stood there for a few seconds, heart punching slow and heavy against his ribs, listening to the party swallow you back whole.
Then he laughed under his breath,low and mean and mostly at himself. The sound scraped out of his chest and died in the empty air.
âYeah,â he muttered to the cluttered room. âSure.â
Bucky hated spring festivals.
That was a lie.
Usually, he loved this shit. Loved the noise, the way the quad swarmed with bodies in a heat that felt almost reckless for April, the sun bleaching the grass and pavement into something too bright, too clean.
Loved the cheap beer poured into plastic cups and hidden inside soda cans, the shameless excuse to get drunk in broad daylight and call it school spirit.
Usually, he would have walked in like he owned the whole fucking place.
Today, he trailed Sam and Steve through the crowd with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and a mood that sat heavy in his chest; sour, curdled, thick enough to spoil the entire afternoon.
Sam was talking. Steve was answering. The two of them had been at it for at least five minutes about something Bucky couldnât muster the energy to care about.
Something about whether Clint could legally enter the pie-eating contest twice if he changed his shirt between rounds.
âHe wore a wig, man,â Sam was saying, his voice threaded with genuine affront. âLike that was supposed to make people forget heâs still Clint fucking Barton.â
Steve exhaled a short, tired laugh. âThe volunteer was a freshman. She panicked.â
âShe panicked because he called himself Clara Barta.â
Bucky stared past them at a girl in a neon-green cowboy hat trying to scale someoneâs shoulders and nearly eating shit in the grass.
He wasnât hearing any of it properly.
His eyes kept drifting before he could stop them. Over the food trucks. Across the knot of bodies near the makeshift stage. Past the sorority booth selling overpriced lime slushies.
Toward every flash of gold jewelry, every laugh that pitched too close to yours, every figure moving beside a redhead or a girl with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
He was not looking for you.
He wasnât.
He had told himself that before they even left the house. Had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging his toothbrush across his teeth with too much force, and decided it with a mouthful of mint and stubbornness.
He did not care if you were there. He did not care if you saw him.
He cared, specifically and deeply, about not caring if you didnât.
If you came up to him, he would be normal. Worse than normal. He would be casual. Cold, even. Polite in a way designed to make you feel stupid for once.
He would not give you that pathetic, eager opening you always seemed to find in him, the one you could press your fingers into until he forgot every reason he had to be angry.
No.
This time, if you wanted his attention, you could fucking work for it.
âYou good?â Steve asked.
Bucky blinked.
The question cut through the static in his head like a blade he hadnât realised was already buried there. Sam and Steve had both stopped walking.
They were looking at him now. Sam with one brow arched high enough to belong on its own zip code, Steve wearing that careful, irritating brand of concern that made Bucky want to throw something soft and harmless directly at his face.
The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The breeze carried the scent of grilled meat and spilled soda, and somewhere a group of girls screamed with laughter over the loudspeaker.
âWhat?â
Samâs mouth twisted into a grin that was half amusement, half disbelief. âHe lives.â
âIâm good,â Bucky said, the words flat and dismissive.
âYou sure?â Steve pressed, his voice quieter now.
âChrist, Rogers, I said Iâm good.â
Sam lifted both hands in surrender, palms out. âNobody said you werenât. You just looked like you were trying to blow up a lemonade stand with your mind.â
Bucky looked over.
Sure enough, he had been glaring in the vague direction of a table draped in yellow streamers, a handwritten sign propped crooked against a stack of plastic cups reading FRESH LEMONADE $3.
The freshman behind the table, a blonde in a floral sundress, met his stare for half a second before quickly dropping her gaze to the pitcher, her shoulders hitching like sheâd been caught stealing.
Great. Perfect.
Now he was terrorising citrus vendors because some girl with pretty eyes and a talent for emotional warfare had ruined his entire fucking week.
âIâm getting a drink,â he muttered.
âFrom the lemonade stand?â Sam asked.
âFuck off.â
Steve sighed, a long, tired exhale that Bucky knew too well, but by then he was already walking.
The festival sprawled across the quad in every direction, bright and loud and obnoxiously alive.
Someone had draped green streamers from the trees, their edges curling in the afternoon breeze. The grass was littered with crushed cups and abandoned flyers and bodies lounging in the sun.
A group of guys from the rowing team were shouting around the dunk tank, already shirtless, already sunburnt to a shade of pink that had to hurt. Music pulsed from the stage where some sophomore with a guitar was butchering a song Bucky vaguely recognised.
Normally, it would have been easy.
Smile. Drink. Flirt. Win something stupid from one of the booths while the crowd cheered like it mattered.
Let a girl press herself against his side, her fingers trailing his arm, while Sam heckled him from the sidelines and Steve pretended he wasnât entertained by the whole spectacle.
That was what pissed him off most.
Everything used to be so fucking easy before you.
Bucky grabbed a red plastic cup from one of the coolers near the fraternity table, the ice water sloshing over his fingers, and took a long drink without bothering to ask what was in it.
Too sweet. Sharp underneath, a chemical bite that tried to singe the back of his throat. Probably spiked by Thor, judging by the way it burned all the way down.
Good.
He drank again, letting the cold settle in his chest like armor.
âBucky!â
He turned, half out of reflex.
A girl from his psych lecture waved at him from beside the ring toss booth, her hair catching the sun, her smile too eager.
She was wearing a tiny green top that probably would have interested him three months ago, or three weeks ago, or any other version of himself that had not become clinically insane over a girl who called him needy like she knew exactly where to press and exactly how much pressure it would take to make him explode.
Her name was Mia.
Maybe. Maya? No. Mia.
Bucky smiled anyway.
There. Easy. He could do easy. Heâd been doing easy his whole damn life.
âHey,â he said, walking over with the lazy confidence that still fit him when he remembered how to wear it, âYou runninâ this scam?â
She laughed immediately, like he had given her something better than the joke deserved. Her eyes roamed his chest, his arms, the casual way he held his cup. âItâs not a scam. Youâre just bad at aiming.â
âThatâs hurtful. Iâm great at aiming.â
âProve it, then.â
Bucky leaned one hip against the edge of the booth, letting his grin widen. Behind him, he could practically feel Sam and Steve watching from somewhere near the food trucks, probably exchanging some kind of wordless commentary with their eyebrows.
Mia handed him three plastic rings, her fingers brushing his palm. She let them linger a second longer than necessary, her smile softening into something intentional.
Bucky noticed.
He also noticed that he felt nothing.
Not nothing exactly. He felt the dull satisfaction of being wanted. The little ego-stroke of someone looking at him and deciding he was worth the chase.
He felt the shape of his old self settle over him for a second, familiar as a jacket he had left hanging in his closet, still fitting, still comfortable.
But underneath it, his attention kept pulling elsewhere.
He threw the first ring.
The plastic sailed wide, skimming the neck of a glass bottle before spinning uselessly into the trampled grass.
Mia laughed, bright and sharp. âGreat at aiming, huh?â
âWind interference,â he said, already reaching for the next one.
âThere is no wind.â She laughed again, softer this time, her fingers finding the bare skin of his forearm.
âSpiritual wind, then.â
Bucky made himself look at her. Really look. He cataloged the curve of her mouth, the warm spread of her smile, the little glitter sticker pressed beneath one eye.
She was pretty. Genuinely pretty. Warm and open and offering him something he didnât have to work for.
He should have wanted that.
He wanted to want that. He wanted to feel the familiar heat of being chosen, the lazy satisfaction of a girl deciding he was worth her time.
But the wanting felt hollow. A reflex without the fire behind it. His body was here. His mind was already somewhere else, straining toward a frequency he couldnât stop chasing.
Then, somewhere behind him, a laugh cut through the noise.
Natâs laugh, recognisable even in the middle of a crowd.
It wasnât yours. He knew the difference better than he wanted to. Yours was quieter, wryer, often aimed at him rather than with him. But Natasha was the anchor of your little constellation, and where she wasâŚ
Buckyâs whole body went tight.
The casual slouch of his shoulders hardened into something rigid. The easy smile on his mouth faltered at the edges, cracking just barely before he caught it.
He hated himself before he even turned his head. Hated how transparent he was.
Slowly he glanced over his shoulder.
And there you were.
By the slushie booth, standing in the loose triangle you always formed with Natasha and Gamora. Sunlight was threading through your hair, setting the edges of you on fire. A lime-green cup was balanced in your hand, the crushed ice inside melting into a watery gradient against the plastic.
You were listening to something Natasha was saying, your head tilted at that familiar angle, your mouth curved into the shape of a smile that didnât quite touch your eyes.
You looked beautiful. You looked miles away. You looked exactly the way you always looked when you were present but not entirely there.
Bucky went still. Like a fucking idiot.
After that, Mia became background noise.
Pretty background noise, sure. The kind that came with a sugar-sweet laugh and a glitter sticker catching the late-afternoon sun beneath one eye. Smiling background noise with soft fingers that kept finding excuses to graze his wrist every time she handed him another plastic ring, letting her touch linger a beat longer than necessary.
But background noise all the same.
Bucky tried. He really fucking tried.
He let his weight shift onto one hip, leaning against the edge of the ring-toss booth with practiced ease. He laughed when she laughed, let his eyes drop to her mouth once because that was the sort of thing he used to do without thinking, a reflex heâd honed over years of easy conquests.
He even let her fix the collar of his jacket when she reached for it. Her knuckles grazed the side of his throat, a brief pressure against the warm skin just above his collarbone.
It should have sparked something smug and familiar in him, a pleasant shiver of being wanted.
Nothing.
Worse than nothing.
Because the whole time she was talking all he could think was that her laugh was too bright. Too clean. Too eager to please. It didnât catch him under the ribs the way yours did, didnât hook into something raw and leave him breathless.
Her teasing landed too soft. Too safe. Not sharp enough to make him want to chase it, to earn it, to prove himself.
She touched him like she knew he wanted to be touched, generous and open and unquestioning.
And he hated that too, because you never gave him anything that simply.
You made him work for scraps and then looked surprised when he started starving.
Mia said something. He missed it entirely.
âRight,â Bucky said, because it sounded safe enough.
Her brows lifted, âYou have no idea what I just said.â
He smiled, charming and empty, a reflex that had never failed him. âI was distracted by your beauty.â
She laughed, pleased despite herself, and shoved lightly at his arm. Easy. So fucking easy.
His gaze still slid over her shoulder.
You were still by the slushie booth, one elbow propped on the counter, the heel of your palm digging into the wood. Your head was tilted toward Natasha, who was gesturing emphatically about something.
Gamora stood half a step behind you with her arms crossed, like campus security hired by hell itself. You had a lime-green straw between your fingers, the plastic bent near the top from where you kept worrying it with your thumb.
You were not looking at him.
Good. Fine.
Bucky turned back to Mia and threw another ring. It sailed in a shallow arc, bounced uselessly off the neck of a bottle, and dropped onto the trampled grass at the base of the booth.
Mia made a sympathetic noise, her lips pursing. âSpiritual wind again?â
âViolent spiritual wind.â He grabbed another ring, testing its weight in his palm.
âYouâre terrible at this.â Her hand landed on his bicep when she laughed, staying there a little too long.
Bucky let it.
He let it because maybe you would look over and see it. Maybe you would see her hand on his arm, see her leaning into his space, see him not pulling away. Maybe you would realise he had options. Lots of them.
Girls who laughed easily and touched without hesitation and made him feel like he was winning instead of losing.
He did not need you.
He didnât.
He had never needed any girl to want him. That was the whole point. Girls liked him. Girls came easy. Girls wanted to be chosen by him, and he had always been good at choosing, at taking what was offered, at moving on before anyone could get too attached.
So maybe you should see that.
Maybe you should watch someone else touch him, watch someone else laugh at his jokes, watch someone else look at him like he was something worth having.
Maybe you should feel even half as stupid as he had felt standing in his room after you left, the silence still ringing in his ears.
Your eyes moved.
Just once.
A quick glance over Natashaâs shoulder, brief enough that anyone else would have missed it. A flicker of movement, a shift in focus. You looked at him and then away again.
Bucky should have felt triumphant.
He should have felt vindicated. Relieved, maybe. Like he had finally managed to press one finger into the soft place beneath all your careful indifference and prove there was something there.
Instead, his stomach twisted into a knot that sat heavy and cold.
Because you did not look angry.
You looked away too fast for him to understand anything at all.
And that was worse.
Mia was still smiling up at him when he turned back, her head tilted just enough to catch the tail end of the afternoon light across her cheekbone.
Her mouth was parted, ready to laugh at whatever he said next.
âYou want to try again?â
No.
The word cut through him clean and fast.
He wanted to walk across the quad. He wanted to cross the trampled grass and the careful, deliberate distance you had carved between you like a border he wasnât allowed to cross.
He wanted to stand in front of you and ask why you had looked at him like thatâlike he was the one doing something wrong just by existing, just by letting someone elseâs hand rest on his arm.
He wanted to grab your stupid green cup out of your hand and press his mouth to the plastic rim, taste whatever sugar-sour thing you had been nursing all afternoon, because, for a reason that made him feel deeply, disgustingly pathetic, he wanted his lips to touch where yours had been.
He wanted to ask why the fuck you got to look wounded when he was the one bleeding out all over the place.
He set the last plastic ring down on the counter.
âYou know what?â His voice came out easier than he felt, smooth and practiced. âIâm gonna quit while I still have some dignity.â
Mia laughed, âYou had dignity?â
âOnce. Briefly.â He dragged a hand through his hair, let his mouth curve into something rueful and self-deprecating. âFreshman year, I think. It was a Tuesday. I peaked early.â
She shifted closer, the toe of her sneaker brushing against his. Her fingers grazed his wrist again. He could feel the opening there, easy, the way girls always were.
All he had to do was lean into it. Let the conversation carry. Let his hand find her waist. Let himself get lost in something simple for once.
Instead, he stepped back.
âSee you around, Mia.â
Her face flickered. The smile didnât drop, but something behind it cooled. A subtle tightening around her eyes, a slight press of her lips.
âMaya,â she corrected.
Fuck.
Bucky blinked.
He smiled anyway, because what else was he supposed to do?
âRight. Maya.â He let the apology bleed into his voice. âSorry.â
Her smile thinned.
Bucky deserved that too.
He turned and walked away before he could make it worse.
For the next two hours, Bucky made a point of being seen and not approaching.
He let Sam drag him toward the food trucks, let himself be pulled through the thick crowd of students and families and drunk upperclassmen.
He let Steve talk him into watching Clint get disqualified from the pie-eating contest. Thor had stood up from the judgesâ table, pointed a finger the size of a hot dog, and loudly accused Clint of being âthe same small blond criminal in a wig.â
The crowd erupted. Clint flipped him off with a mouthful of whipped cream. Steve laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Buckyâs shoulder.
Bucky laughed too. He did. It came out at the right time, in the right pitch, convincing enough.
He stood by the dunk tank while Rhodey heckled Tony into climbing onto the seat. Tony was wearing a linen shirt that probably cost more than Buckyâs entire closet, and he looked profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of getting wet.
He kept his distance. But never so much distance that he could not see you.
That was the pathetic part.
His body moved on its own, tracking you like a compass needle finding north. He always arranged himself somewhere with a clear line of sight. Near the stage when you drifted toward the booths.
By the food trucks when you wandered toward the grass, your silhouette cutting through the golden haze.
Close to Steve when Steve decided to talk to Natasha, because then Bucky had an excuse to stand twenty feet from you and pretend it wasnât intentional, pretend he was just hanging with his friend while he watched your every move.
But every time your face turned away, his mood soured. Every time you smiled at someone else, he wondered what they had said, what they had done to earn that warmth that he couldnât seem to coax from you.
He was exhausting.
But he couldnât stop.
By late afternoon, the sun had started to dip behind the science building, turning the quad warm and gold at the edges. The light slanted long across the grass, casting everything in a honeyed haze.
The air smelled like fried dough, cut grass, spilled beer, and the sharp chemical sweetness of the slushie machine that had been running too hard all day, its motor grinding low and tired.
Bucky had finally lost sight of you.
At first, he told himself it was a relief.
Good.
Great.
Maybe you had left. Maybe you had gone back to your dorm. Maybe the festival could go back to being a festival instead of a slow, public study in how little self-respect James Buchanan Barnes apparently had left.
He lasted thirty seconds.
Then his eyes were moving again, dragging across the quad like a searchlight. Toward the drink stands. Over the line at the food trucks, scanning faces. Past the stage, where the band was packing up their equipment.
Back toward the slushie booth, where Natasha was now talking to Wanda, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.
You were not beside her.
Gamora was there, though, standing with her arms crossed in that way she had. Her eyes cut toward him like she had known exactly where he would be looking.
Bucky looked away immediately.
His pulse hammered in his throat.
Fuck.
He shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and turned in the opposite direction, jaw tight, pulse irritated beneath his skin. He was not looking for you. He was not going to walk around this whole fucking festival like a lost dog because you had vanished for five minutes.
âHey.â
Bucky turned too fast.
And there you were.
Standing behind him. Sunlight soft around your shoulders, spilling through the gaps in the trees behind you, catching the faint sheen of condensation on the clear plastic cups in your hands. Two iced coffees.
For one stupid second, he forgot to be angry.
The feeling arrived in his chest before he could stop it. A loosening. A warmth. The same stupid, gravitational pull he had been fighting all day, undoing him with a single glance.
Then you smiled at him.
Not the teasing, knowing curl of your mouth that made him want to grab you by the waist and pull you into somewhere quiet. This one was smaller. Softer. Almost shy. The corners of your lips lifted slowly, like you were testing whether it was safe to show him that part of yourself.
He did not trust himself to name it.
âThey messed up my order,â you said, lifting one of the cups a little. The ice shifted inside, a soft, crystalline sound against the plastic. âGave me hazelnut instead of caramel.â
Bucky stared at you. He could smell the coffee now, faintly bitter, cut with something sweet.
You held the cup out toward him.
âI remembered hazelnutâs your favourite.â
That was all.
One sentence.
One stupid fucking coffee.
And Bucky felt every cruel, petty thing he had been rehearsing all day loosen in his hands. They slid through his fingers like water, leaving nothing but the raw, embarrassing truth beneath.
He was supposed to be cold. He had planned it. If you came over he was going to look at you the way you looked at him in dayligh; casual, polite, with nothing owed. He was going to make you work for his attention. Make you feel the distance.
Instead, he took the coffee.
His fingers brushed yours around the damp cup. Your skin was cool and wet from the condensation, and the contact was brief but electric. He felt it in his fingertips, up his wrist, settling somewhere low in his chest.
âThanks,â he said.
The word came out awful. Pathetic. Barely even mean. It was soft when he had wanted it hard. Grateful when he had wanted indifferent.
Your eyes searched his face, careful and quiet. There was something watchful in the way you looked at him, like you were reading a line of text you had read before but were trying to understand differently this time.
âYou havenât talked to me all day.â
Bucky gave a shrug. The motion was stiff, defensive. He brought the straw to his mouth and wrapped his lips around it, buying himself a second.
âBeen busy.â
âI saw.â
The straw stopped against his lips.
There it was. Not an accusation exactly. Not jealousy either. Just two words, soft enough to slide under his skin. They found the tender places, the ones he had been trying to protect, and settled there.
He took a sip to give himself something to do.
Hazelnut. Sweet. A little bitter underneath. Warm on his tongue despite the ice.
Of course you remembered.
He lowered the cup. The plastic was slick in his grip.
âDid you?â
Your mouth tightened slightly. A small, almost imperceptible press of your lips that told him the words had landed where he meant them to.
âBucky.â
He hated that too. The softness. The warning.
âWhat?â he asked, and even to his own ears it came out harder than he intended.
âYouâre being weird.â
He let out a short laugh. It was hollow, barely more than a breath. âIâm being weird?â
Your eyes dropped to the coffee in your hand. The condensation had started to pool between your fingers, and you shifted your grip, watching the water trail down the plastic.
That should have helped him. That should have given him something solid to stay angry with. He wanted you to roll your eyes. He wanted you to smirk, to toss some sharp little joke at his feet and dare him to pick it up. He wanted you to give him a reason.
But you did not.
You just stood there, looking smaller somehow in the middle of all that noise. The festival kept spinning around you and you were still. Quiet. Waiting.
Then you said, âAre you mad at me?â
He was finished.
He hated that he was finished before he even opened his mouth. Hated that the question undid him so completely, that it found the lock and turned it without effort. Hated that you could stand there with a small, uncertain crack in your voice, and he would fold every single time.
Bucky looked away. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tasting coffee and bitterness and something that felt too much like surrender.
He brought the coffee to his lips again. Just to have something to do with his hands. Just to keep from saying something he could not take back.
âWhy would I be mad?â he asked, because apparently he had decided to be a dick anyway.
You did not answer immediately.
The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut, and Bucky watched the shape of your mouth as it hovered around words you werenât ready to say.
When he looked back at you, your face had gone still in that careful way he was beginning to recognise. The muscles around your eyes had softened, your lips parted just slightly, and there was a patience in your expression that felt heavier than any accusation.
âI donât know,â you said, and your voice was thinner now. âI thought maybe the other nightâŚâ
You trailed off.
The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, fragile. The kind of opening that could be filled with anything; with hope, with blame, with the truth neither of you had been brave enough to say aloud.
Buckyâs grip tightened around the coffee cup. The other night. So you did remember. You werenât pretending it hadnât happened, werenât going to let it dissolve into the haze of party noise and cheap beer.
âYou thought maybe what?â
Your lashes lifted. Your eyes met his, and there was no deflection in them now. No clever sidestep.
âI didnât mean to make you feel stupid.â
The words went straight through him.
Clean through the ribs, past the armour he had spent the last three days layering over his chest, settling somewhere deep and tender. It was meaner than anything cruel would have been.
Because that was it. That was the thing he had been carrying around and dressing up as anger, because anger looked better on him than humiliation. You had made him feel stupid. Stupid for wanting you.
And now you were standing in front of him with hazelnut coffee and remorse in your eyes, saying the one thing he had not known he needed to hear.
His anger lost its shape.
It did not vanish. He could still feel it, somewhere under his breastbone, hot and sore, a bruise that had not finished healing. But it had nothing to hold onto now.
Bucky swallowed. The motion was dry, his throat tight.
âYou didnât,â he lied.
Your brows pinched. The disbelief was immediate, a small furrow forming between your eyes that told him you had seen right through the denial.
He sighed, hating himself, hating you a little, hating the way his body was already angling toward yours like it had forgiven you without consulting him.
âFine,â he muttered, the word scraping past his teeth. âMaybe a little.â
Your mouth softened. The corners of your lips turned down in a way that was not quite a frown, more like a quiet admission of guilt.
âIâm sorry.â
There it was again. Another scrap. Barely enough. Two words that should not have been enough to undo the knot in his chest, but somehow they were.
Bucky looked down at the coffee in his hand. The ice had melted more now, the water pooling at the bottom of the clear plastic. Then he looked back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.
âYou always apologise with beverages?â
âOnly when Iâm feeling generous.â
âDangerous habit.â He tilted his head, letting the smirk settle into something more real. âIâm very bribable.â
Your smile came back slowly. It started in your eyes first, a flicker of warmth that spread to your lips, and God, there he went. There he fucking went.
All that resolve, all that careful, bitter distance, folding inside him like wet paper because you looked at him with warmth again.
âYouâre cheap,â you said.
âNot cheap.â He shook his head, the coffee cup swinging in his grip. âAccessible.â
âThatâs worse.â
âYou say that like youâre not standing here trying to buy my forgiveness with six dollars of iced coffee.â
âSeven fifty,â you corrected, and there was a spark of humour in your voice now. âCampus pricing is criminal.â
He laughed before he could stop himself. The sound came out rough and surprised. But there it was, and it loosened something between you, closed the last of the distance.
Your smile widened at the sound, and something in his chest went soft and stupid and loyal.
Across the quad, Sam caught his eye from beside the food trucks. He was standing with a paper tray of fries halfway to his mouth, staring at Bucky over the top of them with an expression flat with disbelief.
His eyebrows were raised, his head tilted in a slow, accusatory shake.
Bucky ignored him.
He looked back at you, and the festival noise swelled around you again, but it felt distant now. Muffled. He nodded toward the far end of the festival where the temporary rides had been set up near the parking lot.
A cheap spinning thing with hanging seats was creaking in slow circles, its lights flickering green and white even though the sun had not fully gone down yet.
Nearby, a smaller ferris wheel groaned every time it moved, looking only slightly safer than a lawsuit.
âYou wanna go on a ride?â
You glanced over, your gaze following his nod. Your brows lifted, a flicker of amusement crossing your face.
âWith you?â
âDonât sound so horrified.â
âIâm not horrified.â You turned back to him, and there was a glint in your eye now. âIâm considering the risk.â
Bucky tilted his head, trying for careless and landing somewhere much softer. The words came out before he could stop them, âCâmon, sweetheart. Let me be a bad influence.â
You looked at him for a second too long.
Then you stepped closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm as you moved past him.
âFine,â you said, the word carrying a reluctant smile. âBut if I die, Iâm haunting you.â
Bucky followed immediately, coffee in hand, heart gone embarrassingly light.
âGood,â he said, âThen at least youâd be consistent.â
For the last three years at NYU, Tony Stark had treated the end of spring semester like a religious holiday.
A very expensive, deeply obnoxious holiday that involved a beach house weekend at his parentsâ sprawling Malibu mansion, that forced you to acknowledge how much money some people had just by existing in its shadow.
First-class flights for anyone he deemed entertaining enough to invite, which was a broad and chaotic metric.
Enough alcohol to poison a small country, and a guest list he described as âintimateâ in the same way someone might call a riot âspirited,â given that it usually hovered somewhere around fifty people.
Closest and dearest friends, Tony called it.
Which, for Tony, meant anyone he had laughed with more than twice, anyone who looked good in bikinis, anyone who owed him money, anyone he owed money, and at least three people he claimed were âessential to the ecosystemâ despite no one else being entirely sure who they were.
Bucky had always loved it.
How could he not?
It was a weekend designed for him to love. Sun-warm skin and salt-crusted hair, the sharp iodine scent of the Pacific mixing with expensive cologne. Music vibrating through the glass walls deep into the night, until the floors hummed under his feet.
Top-shelf liquor sloshing into cheap red cups because Tony loved the visual dissonance of it, the clash of refinement and raucous excess. People half-dressed and fully drunk before the sun had even properly set.
Bodies, careless and comfortable, everywhere, draped over pool chairs, melting into leather couches, disappearing into guest rooms with sheets that cost more than his tuition.
And this year was supposed to be the best one.
Senior year.
The final spring before reality politely asked everyone to grow up. Before the forced enthusiasm about internships, leases, and entry-level jobs that paid barely enough to justify the commute.
Before the slow, quiet humiliation of being twenty-two and realizing the world had never promised to stay exactly how it was.
The last Malibu trip had a gravity to it, even if no one wanted to say that out loud. Everyone could feel it pressing down on their shoulders.
Steve said it once on the plane, because of course he did.
Mid-flight, with the Pacific stretching blue and endless beneath them, he said something earnest and quietly devastating about how strange it was that they would probably never have this much time together again.
Sam threw a pretzel at his forehead with surgical precision. âStop making the trip sad, Rogers. Youâre gonna manifest a bad vibe.â
Bucky had laughed along with everyone else.
He was good at that. Keeping things light. Acting like the future was just some vague concept waiting politely far away from him, instead of a door already clicking shut in slow motion while they werenât looking.
Besides, he had more pressing things to occupy his head.
Like the fact that you were coming.
Not that he was thinking about that. Not obsessively. He hadnât checked the group chat four times to see if Natasha had confirmed the flight details. He hadnât hovered near the baggage claim exit a little too long, pretending to stretch his shoulders out, stomach tightening every time the automatic doors slid open.
He hadnât carefully packed the black shirt, the one you had touched once, months ago, fingers smoothing the collar, your smile going slow and private in a way that he had replayed more times than heâd ever admit.
He was just excited for the trip.
That was all.
The house came into view just as the car turned up the long private drive, a ridiculous sprawl of glass and white stone sitting above the water like it had been dropped there by God specifically to make poor people feel unwelcome.
The Pacific flashed blue beyond it, bright enough to hurt, the sun catching the surface in a million tiny explosions of light. Palm trees leaned over the road, their fronds swaying lazily in the salt-warm breeze.
The afternoon sun poured itself across everything, turning the windows gold and the pool a hard, glittering turquoise, the kind of color that looked fake in photographs but was somehow real here.
Tony stood out front in linen trousers and sunglasses, arms spread wide like a cult leader welcoming his congregation home.
âMy children,â he called as soon as the car doors opened. âYou made it.â
Sam stepped out first, stretching his arms over his head, his spine cracking in a way that made Steve wince sympathetically. âYou say that like we survived war and not a six-hour flight where you slept through turbulence.â
âI survived being seated beside Barton,â Tony said, pulling his sunglasses down his nose just enough to make eye contact. âWhich is worse.â
Clint, emerging from the next car with his hair flattened on one side. âI heard that, Stark.â
âYou were meant to.â
Bucky climbed out after Steve, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, the warm Malibu air hitting him all at once. The air was different here. Thicker. Slower. It made you want to breathe deeper.
Somewhere inside the house, music was already playing, a low, thrumming bassline that vibrated through the glass walls. Someone had arrived before them and started early, because of course they had. Tonyâs parties never waited for the host.
Bucky looked toward the road before he could stop himself, his gaze dragging along the curve of the driveway.
No other car yet.
He looked away immediately, his jaw tightening.
Sam, because he was a terrible person and a worse friend, noticed.
âSubtle,â he said, the word drawn out.
Bucky frowned. âWhat?â
âNothing.â Samâs grin widened, but he didnât push further. He knew better than to push Bucky when he was already coiled tight.
Steve had the decency to say nothing, but his mouth did that thing where it pressed flat at the corners, the kind of silent judgment that was almost worse than Samâs teasing.
Bucky shoved past both of them, his duffel bag thumping against his hip, and grabbed his bag from the trunk before anyone else could offer to help.
âIâm getting a room before all the good ones are gone.â
Tony scoffed. âPlease. Your rooms are assigned. Iâm not running a hostel.â
Sam paused mid-step, his duffel slung over one shoulder. âYou assigned rooms?â
âObviously.â Tony turned on his heel, leading the way inside. âIâm not having a repeat of the Cabo incident. Some people donât know how to handle free choice sleeping arrangements.â
Clint, trailing behind, muttered, âThat was one time.â
âIt was twice,â Tony shot back, not looking back.
The inside of the mansion was already half-chaos. Suitcases abandoned in the entryway, a pair of heels kicked off and left under a marble console table, a half-empty bottle of champagne sweating on the counter of the kitchen island.
A bowl of limes sat on the kitchen island, untouched and decorative for now, though Bucky gave it six hours before Thor tried to bite into one whole.
Bucky followed Tony upstairs with Sam and Steve, his bag slung over one shoulder, his footsteps padding on the wide wooden staircase. He tried very hard not to wonder where you would sleep.
Tried and failed.
Which room would you get? Would you be on the same floor as him? Across the hall? At the other end of the house, where heâd have to walk past a dozen doors just to catch a glimpse of you?
Tony stopped at the end of the hall and pointed at a door like a bored hotel concierge, his hand a lazy gesture. âRogers, Wilson, Barnes. Try not to destroy anything structural.â
Sam pushed open the door and whistled low, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. âDamn.â
Steve stepped into it after him, his gaze sweeping across the king-sized bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the balcony that jutted out over the lawn. âThis is excessive.â
âThatâs the family motto,â Tony said, already turning away, his phone buzzing in his pocket. âThereâs food in the kitchen. Drinks on the terrace. Donât break the bed, Iâll know.â
Bucky went in last. Ocean-facing, because Tony was an asshole who pretended not to be thoughtful.
The room was huge, the bed draped in white sheets that looked impossibly soft, the glass doors slid open to let the breeze in. The water was visible beyond the slant of the lawn, a deep, endless blue that seemed to go on forever.
He dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and walked to the balcony, his hands gripping the railing.
The warm Malibu air hit him again, thicker now. The sound of the party drifted up to meet him, carried on the breeze; the low thrum of music from inside the house, the clatter of ice in glass.
Down below, the patio had already started filling.
Someone was carrying crates of alcohol toward the outdoor bar, bottles clinking with every step. Rhodey was arguing with Tony about speaker placement, his hands moving in broad, frustrated arcs while Tony gestured at the pool like he was explaining architecture to a child.
A few girls Bucky vaguely recognised from campus were stretched near the pool on lounge chairs, their sunglasses pushed up into their hair, laughing too loudly at something Thor said while he stood at the edge of the water, gesturing broadly.
Still no you.
He let his gaze sweep the patio once, just once, the way you might check a clock you already knew the answer to.
Fine.
He had time.
He could get settled. He could take a shower, let the hot water loosen the knot wedged between his shoulder blades.
Behind him, Sam appeared in the open doorway of the balcony, his silhouette filling the frame.
âDonât start,â Bucky said, not turning around.
Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. âI just came to tell you Tonyâs making drinks downstairs.â
âGreat.â
âAnd to remind you that this is supposed to be a fun weekend.â Samâs voice was light, conversational, but the words had edges.
Bucky turned from the balcony then, the ocean falling away behind him. The breeze caught his hair, pushing it across his forehead. âI know how to have fun, Sam.â
âHistorically, yes.â
Before Bucky could respond, Steve appeared behind Sam in the doorway, his shoulder brushing the frame as he stepped up.
He looked between them with that resigned expression, the one that said he had walked into the middle of something and would now be forced to participate, like it or not. âWhat are we talking about?â
âNothing,â Bucky said.
âHis disease,â Sam said at the same time.
Bucky stared at him. âMy what?â
Sam held up a hand, ticking off fingers. âSymptoms include staring at doors. Emotional constipation. And abandoning perfectly nice girls mid-conversation when a certain someone walks into a room.â
Steve sighed. âSam.â
âWhat? He needs medical attention.â
Bucky grabbed one of the pillows from the bed behind him and threw it at Samâs head. Sam caught it easily, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.
âSee? Irritability. Another symptom.â
Bucky rolled his eyes, but heat crawled up the back of his neck anyway. âIâm not doing this all weekend.â
âGood.â Samâs voice dropped then, the grin fading around the edges, âDonât.â
It was said lightly, but not entirely.
Bucky looked at him. For a second, the room shifted into something less like sparring and more like concern.
Samâs shoulders loosened, the humor bleeding out of his face just enough to show the worry underneath, the part of him that had watched Bucky turn himself inside out over you for months and did not find all of it funny anymore.
Steve stepped forward, his voice gentler now. âJust... donât spend the whole trip waiting for her to decide your mood.â
Buckyâs jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple jumped.
He wanted to tell them they were wrong. He wanted to say you did not decide anything. That he was fine.
But the words sat heavy in his mouth, and he couldnât force them out.
So he said nothing.
From downstairs, Tonyâs voice carried up through the open doors, bouncing off the glass and the stone. âFirst round is ready, you ungrateful peasants!â
Sam clapped his hands once. âSaved by alcoholism.â
Steve gave Bucky one last look then turned and disappeared toward the hall.
Bucky followed, because staying behind would look pathetic, and he had already met his quota for the day.
Downstairs, the house had grown louder. More people had arrived while he was up there. Bags piled by the stairs, sandals kicked off near the sliding doors, laughter spilling in from the patio in overlapping waves.
Tony was behind the outdoor bar in sunglasses, pouring something violently green into a row of cups while Pepper stood beside him looking like she had already accepted Godâs plan for her evening.
Bucky took a cup the second Tony handed him one.
It tasted like lime, expensive vodka, and exactly what he needed. The alcohol burned a clean path down his throat and settled warm in his chest.
Perfect.
He tipped his head back and drank half of it.
By eleven, Bucky was absolutely, spectacularly shitfaced.
The whole mansion seemed to tilt and breathe around him, swaying on its foundations in slow waves of green pool light, salt-scrubbed air, and the sweet, cloying scent of expensive liquor bleeding from every glass.
Someone had thrown all the glass doors to the patio wide open, letting the party spill out of the house and down toward the pool, toward the dark strip of beach below, toward the ocean rolling black and endless under a crescent moon.
Bucky was having the time of his fucking life.
He had spent the last hour ricocheting between Samâs shoulder and Steveâs long-suffering presence, laughing so hard his ribs ached and his vision blurred.
Tony had climbed onto the kitchen island at some point to deliver a toast no one had asked for, sloshing amber liquid onto the pristine marble. Bruce had lost a sandal. Rhodey had found it in the freezer, holding it up like a trophy.
Thor had challenged half the house to a drinking competition and laid them out, one by one, a trail of empty glasses and ruined egos stretching behind him like a battlefield.
Bucky, because he was an idiot and because the liquor had convinced him he was invincible, had tried to take him on.
Thor drank like he had been weaned on kerosene and raised by wolves. Bucky had made it three rounds before Sam materialised at his elbow and physically removed the cup from his hand.
âToo pretty to die on Tony Starkâs imported marble,â Sam had said.
Bucky had laughed in his face.
Then his heel caught on nothing and he nearly pitched headfirst into a decorative fern the size of a small car, catching himself on the wall at the last second.
And you had seen it.
You had seen him almost eat shit beside a fern, and instead of looking unimpressed, instead of giving him that careful, distant smile he had grown to hate, you had laughed.
Your head tipped back, the long column of your throat exposed, one hand pressed to your mouth as your shoulders shook. Natasha leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and you laughed harder, nodding.
It was the best sound he had heard all night. The best thing he had seen all month.
You werenât ignoring him tonight. Not even a little. He had been braced for it, waiting for the familiar wall to go up, but it never came. Since the moment you arrived, you had been sweet. Warm. Present in a way that made his chest feel too tight and his hands itch to reach for you.
Honey, he kept thinking, the word a stupid, syrupy refrain in the back of his mind.
You were warm like honey tonight, golden and thick and spilling over everything. He was a fly caught in it, too far gone to care.
And fuck, you looked good.
That was the other problem, the one pressing insistently against the front of his jeans with every glance you threw his way.
You were trying to kill him. There was no other explanation for the top you had chosen. Thin and tight, clinging to the curve of your torso like it had been made specifically to undo him.
The fabric shifted with every breath, catching the light, and the neckline dipped just low enough to make his mouth go dry. Every time you lifted your arms, your boobs shifted and threatened to spill out entirely.
A possessive, animal part of him wanted to cup them in his palms, slide his thumbs over the soft swell, tuck them back in himself and never let them go.
Your shorts were no better. Sitting high on your thighs, hugging the flare of your hips, leaving acres of bare skin on display. He kept wondering how you had managed to squeeze into them and whether he was going to survive watching you walk away in them one more time.
He was not proud of himself. He wanted to pounce on you right there, in front of everyone, sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, taste the salt and sugar on your skin.
He wanted to haul you against him and find out if you felt as soft as you looked.
You wandered back to him sometime after Tonyâs third terrible toast, barefoot now, your sandals abandoned somewhere by the pool. In your hands, you held two little glass shot glasses, the liquid inside them a violent, fluorescent pink that glowed under the patio lights like a dare.
Bucky looked at the shots, then at you.
âNo.â
You blinked at him, a pout already forming on your lips. âNo?â
âI challenged Thor,â he said, as if that explained everything. âIâm cut off. Sam declared a moratorium on my alcohol intake for the sake of my liver and the integrity of the marble flooring.â
âThat was stupid,â you said, but your eyes were warm, amused.
âThank you, sweetheart. Iâm acutely aware.â
Your smile widened. God, there it was. That specific, dangerous curve of your mouth that made the bottom drop out of his stomach every single time.
You stepped closer, close enough that the cold plastic rim of one shot glass pressed lightly against his chest, just over his heart. âCome on, Buck,â you said, your voice soft and honeyed beneath the thrum of the bass. âOne more. Just for me.â
He should have said no. He had every intention of saying no.
Then your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Just the tips of them, hooking into the fabric, not enough to pull him toward you, just enough to hold him there.
âFine,â he heard himself say, the word a complete and total surrender. He was weak and you were evil and he wouldnât have it any other way.
The two of you clinked the plastic cups together and threw them back.
The liquid hit his tongue. Sugar first, cloying and thick. Then vodka, sharp and medicinal. And something aggressively sour that made his jaw clench and his eyes water.
You made a face immediately, your nose scrunching up, your eyes squeezed shut, a soft sound of disgust escaping your throat.
Bucky laughed so hard he had to brace one hand against the edge of the counter behind him. âAwful, right?â
âAwful,â you croaked, coughing once into your fist.
âYou brought it to me,â he pointed out, still grinning.
âI wanted you to suffer with me,â you murmured, your voice hoarse from the liquor.
âRomantic. You really know how to make a guy feel special.â
âDonât get excited.â
âToo late.â The words came out rougher than he meant them.
He was already excited. Had been excited since you walked through the door in that top, looking like everything he had ever wanted and had no right to touch.
You leaned your shoulder into his side, just for a second. Maybe for balance. Maybe because you wanted to. The weight of you pressing into him, fitting too perfectly into the curve of his body.
Bucky looked down at you. Your mouth was wet from the shot, shining under the dim glow of the patio lights. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, warm, fixed on his mouth.
He didnât think about it. His hand found your waist, fingers spreading over the bare skin exposed by the crop of your top. You were soft and warm and solid under his palm, and the contact sent a shiver of heat up his arm.
âYouâre drunk,â you murmured, your breath brushing his collarbone.
âSo are you,â he countered, his thumb tracing a slow, idle circle on the dip of your hip.
âMm. Maybe.â You didnât pull away.
âDefinitely.â
âYou always this handsy when youâre drunk, Barnes?â The question was velvet over steel, a challenge wrapped in silk. But you leaned into him instead.
Buckyâs thumb shifted against your waist, sliding higher, tracing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric of your top.
He felt the soft intake of your breath, the way your stomach tightened under his touch. âNo,â he said, the word dropping an octave, sliding under the bass of the music, rougher than before. âJust when youâre dressed like that.â
You sighed against him, warm and tipsy, your cheek brushing his shoulder as if you had every right to be there.
âI think I need to call it a night.â
Buckyâs head snapped down so fast the room tilted with him.
âNo.â The word came out instantly, offended and pathetic. Then again, worse. âNo, no, no.â
You laughed, and he felt it more than heard it, the soft shake of your body against his side. He had one arm locked around your waist, fingers splayed over the exposed strip of skin where your tank had ridden up.
âItâs only eleven,â he protested, tightening his grip like you might dissolve into the party if he let you breathe too freely. âPartyâs gonna go on for another couple of hours.â
âThat sounds like a threat.â
âDonât leave me alone.â
Your smile curved against his neck. âThereâs like forty other people here, Buck. Iâm sure you wonât be that lonely.â
He made a wounded noise into the crown of your head. âNone of them are you.â
The words came out before he could dress them up as a joke, before he could hide them behind a grin or a roll of his eyes.
You went quiet for half a second.
Then you tilted your face up to him, eyes glassy-bright from alcohol and the green spill of party lights. âI wanna explore Malibu tomorrow. Iâm not wasting the whole day hungover because you need attention.â
âYouâre so boring,â he groaned, dropping his forehead briefly to your temple.
âAnd yet.â
âAnd yet,â he repeated, the words heavy, loaded, full of everything he couldnât say.
âIâll let you take me to my room, then.â
Bucky pretended to consider it. Really sold it too, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like this was a difficult sacrifice and not the only thing he wanted in the world. âIf thatâs the only way to keep you with me.â
âIt is.â
âWell.â He pulled you closer, his hand sliding more securely around your waist, his fingers pressing into the warm skin of your hip. âWho am I to deny a lady?â
âOh God.â
You laughed again, the sound soft and breathless, and Bucky started walking before you could change your mind.
Or tried to.
The first few steps were a test of faith. The floor seemed to tilt and roll beneath him like the deck of a ship, and the hallway stretched and contracted in confusing rhythms.
You pressed tighter against his side, your arm sliding around his waist to steady both of you, and every time your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, Bucky had to remind himself that he was escorting you to bed, not dragging you into his mouth.
The mansion blurred around him. He passed a painting of a sailboat. Then another painting of a sailboat. He definitely took a wrong turn past a large, ugly vase.
Behind him, Sam called out something that got swallowed by the bass. Someone else whistled, low and knowing.
Bucky ignored all of it.
All he cared about was the feel of you tucked under his arm, the soft drag of your breath on his neck, the way your hip bumped against his thigh with every stumbling step. The air through the open windows smelled like jasmine and salt and the faint, clean scent of your perfume mixing with the liquor in his veins.
âIs this even the right way?â you asked as he led you past a framed painting of something expensive and ugly.
âYes.â
âYouâre lost.â
âIâm exploring Malibu.â
âThat is not what that means.â
He shushed you, then immediately turned down the wrong hallway.
By the time he found the staircase, both of you were laughing too hard to move quietly. You clung to his shirt as he guided you up the stairs, your body shaking against his, and every time your fingers curled against his chest, Buckyâs pulse kicked harder.
He opened the door with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
The room was dark except for the moonlight spilling through the balcony doors, silver and heavy, painting everything in soft shadows.
The bed was massive, white sheets tangled from where he had thrown his duffel earlier. His shirt hung off the back of a chair. His shoes kicked carelessly near the dresser. The balcony doors were open a crack, letting in the sound of the waves and the cool night air.
You stepped in beside him, looked around for one long second, then burst into laughter.
âThis is not my room, Buck.â
Bucky blinked.
Looked at the bed. Looked at his duffel on the floor. Looked at you.
âOh.â
He turned back to you, trying very hard to arrange his face into something less guilty.
âOops.â
You laughed harder, your head tipping back, your hand pressing to your stomach like this was the funniest thing that had happened all night. And maybe it was. The sound was bright and unguarded, and Bucky wanted to bottle it.
âI cannot believe you,â you said.
âHonest mistake. Tragic, really. Very confusing architecture in this house.â
âSure.â
You should have turned around.
You should have made him find the right room. Should have rolled your eyes and dragged him back into the hallway before he could get any more ideas, before Bucky remembered exactly how little space there was between want and stupidity.
Instead, you walked farther in.
Then you collapsed backward onto his bed.
You fell into the mattress with a soft, breathless sound, the white sheets whispering beneath you. Your hair spilled loose across his pillow. The tank top had ridden up from the fall, baring the soft curve of your belly, the delicate jut of your hipbone just above the line of your shorts.
The moonlight sliced silver across your thighs, caught the damp shine of your lips, traced the lines of your body and turned your skin to shadow and glow.
You looked obscene.
You looked perfect.
Like you had been poured into his bed by some cruel, generous god.
Bucky stayed frozen at the foot of the bed. His hand was still on the doorknob, a solid point in his grip, the only thing keeping him upright. His blood was too loud in his ears. He was wrecked.
Thrown off.
Completely, catastrophically fucked.
âYouâre in my bed,â he said, the words scraping out of him rough and disbelieving, a rasp that barely carried over the sound of his own pounding heart.
You stretched one arm over your head, a slow motion that arched your spine against the sheets and made the fabric of your top strain across your chest. Your ribs lifted. Your shorts shifted. You looked soft, drunk, a problem he wanted to have forever.
âSo I am.â
Bucky swallowed, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet hush of the room.
The alcohol was a warm, syrupy fog settled deep in his skull, blurring his edges and dulling his sense, but some sliver of awareness remained, sharp enough to recognise the disaster unfolding in front of him.
He tried to keep the mood light, to sound like the version of himself that could laugh this off and walk away.
He let out a breathy, unconvincing laugh.
âCâmon, get up. Let me take you to your room.â
âMhm-mhm,â you hummed, a sound so lazy and content it made his stomach clench.
You closed your eyes and arched your neck, baring the long vulnerable line of your throat to the mercury glow of the moon. Your pulse beat visibly just beneath your skin, a delicate, rhythmic flutter that made his mouth water.Â
Fuck, he wanted to sink his teeth into that skin. To taste your heartbeat on his tongue. To mark you. âBut Iâm so comfortable here, Buck.â
His mouth was sandpaper. He tried to swallow again and failed, the motion scraping against his dry throat.
âYou gonna get me in trouble, honey.â The words came out rough, a warning wrapped in something that sounded almost like a plea. Please donât make me do this. Please donât let me do this.
You lifted your head from the pillow, your hair spilling across his sheets and gave him a slow smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.
âYeah?â you murmured, your voice turning syrupy. âHow?â
You werenât just looking at him. You were fucking him with your eyes, taking him apart piece by piece without lifting a finger.
âFor fuckâs sake,â he heard himself mutter.
He felt the last thread of his self-control snap. The sensible part of his brain went entirely offline, leaving nothing behind but pure, aching, consuming want.
He pounced on you, covering your body with his, the mattress groaning under his sudden weight. You met him halfway, surging up to meet him, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt and yanking him down into your mouth.
The first taste of you was sweet, fucking relief.
Expensive vodka, the lingering sugar of your lip gloss, the faint salt of your skin, and something purely you. It flooded every empty space inside him, drowning out every doubt, every hesitation.
He groaned loudly into your mouth, a raw, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.
He couldnât get enough. He forced your mouth open wider with his tongue, sliding inside, tasting. Shit, he couldnât stop. He didnât want to stop.
Every rational thought dissolved into static, overwhelmed by the wet heat of your mouth, the soft give of your body beneath him, the way you kissed him back like you wanted to devour him too.
He wrenched his mouth away, just far enough to pant against your lips, his forehead pressing to yours. His breath came in ragged, desperate heaves.
âWeâre drunk,â he breathed, the words scraping out of him like a confession he didnât want to make. âWe... we shouldnât do this.â
And then he felt it.
One of your legs slid up, the smooth, warm skin of your thigh brushing his hip before your calf hooked around his waist, locking him firmly against you. There was no escape now. You had him trapped.
Your hand came up, your palm cupping his jaw, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You pulled his mouth back to yours, your lips brushing his as you spoke.
âBut I want to,â you murmured against his lips. âDonât you?â
Bucky never claimed to have any strength. He had never pretended to have a strong will. Not when it came to you.
He dove back into your mouth like a man starving, like a man drowning who had finally found oxygen. His hands were everywhere now, making up for every moment he had held back.
They roamed down your sides, feeling the heat and softness of your body beneath. Down to your waist, gripping the bare skin where the fabric had ridden up. Lower still, over the flare of your hip, the silky expanse of your thighs.
And then your ass. Fuck. Perfect and full, fitting into his palms like it was made for them. He grabbed handfuls of it, squeezing, kneading, pulling you harder against him as he ground his hips into yours.
The moan you let out was muffled against his mouth, a broken, breathy sound that vibrated through his entire body and went straight to his cock.
His hips rolled forward in a rough, involuntary thrust, grinding his aching hardness against the heat of your cunt, the friction electric even through the thin layers of fabric separating you.
A guttural groan tore from deep in his chest, swallowed by your mouth as he kept moving against you.
Your moans were muffled against his mouth, your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him to you like you were afraid heâd disappear. The world had narrowed to the slide of his tongue against yours, the damp heat of your breath mingling with his.
But he couldnât get enough. Every taste made him hungrier. Every sound you made drove him further past the edge of reason.
He broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, pushing himself upright, his chest heaving. Your hands followed him immediately, desperate fingers catching at his shirt, trying to pull him back down, trying to keep his mouth on yours.
âSit tight, honey,â he breathed.
His hands were already moving, clumsy and urgent, fumbling at the button of your denim shorts. The thin metal slipped through his fingers once, twice, before he got it free.
His eyes met yours, dark and serious despite the haze of alcohol.
âTell me to stop, baby.â The words came out low, a last gasp of something that might have been conscience. âTell me to fucking stop.â
You shook your head hard, the motion fierce and immediate. Your hips lifted off the mattress as you shoved at the waistband of your shorts, helping him drag them down your legs along with your panties.
âPlease donât stop, Bucky.â Your voice cracked, âPlease. Iâll die.â
The raw desperation in your voice hit him like a punch to the sternum. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, and he had to bite back a groan, had to clench his jaw to keep from spilling right there like a fucking teenager. Christ.
But first, he needed to see you.
He settled back on his heels, his hands braced on your thighs, and let his gaze travel down the length of your body. His eyes traced the curve of your hips, the soft swell of your belly, and finally, finally, to the place he had been dreaming about for months.
He stared.
It felt like the air left the room. His mouth went dry, then flooded with saliva.
She was beautiful. Perfect. Pretty and glistening, the soft folds glistening with your arousal, the little hooded pearl peeking out like she was waiting for him. He felt like he was going to drool.
A sharp shove hit his shoulder, rocking him back.
âBucky.â Your voice was a whine, âStop staring. Youâre making me shy.â
He let out a laugh, shaking his head slowly. Shy. After everything, you were shy.
He lowered himself, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Another kiss, closer. His lips dragged along your skin, following the sensitive line of your inner thigh.
âMâsorry, sweetheart.â His voice was a murmur against your flesh, âSheâs just so pretty. Been dreaming about her.â
You sighed above him, the sound dreamy and soft. âReally?â
He didnât answer with words. He pressed his mouth to your clit, a single, gentle kiss. You gasped, your hips twitching.
Then he went for the kill.
He dragged his tongue up in a long, slow stripe, from your entrance to your clit, savouring the taste of you; salty and sweet and everything. And then he closed his lips around that little pearl and sucked. Hard.
Your moan was loud, broken, spilling out of you like you couldnât hold it back. It hit him straight in the gut, a jolt of electricity that traveled down to his cock, making him grind helplessly against the mattress, seeking any friction he could find.
He didnât stop. He couldnât. He buried his face in your cunt like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, dipping inside you, then back up to circle your clit. He ate you out with messy, desperate strokes, his moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.
He fucked you with his tongue, pushing inside you, tasting your heat, your want, your need.
Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him harder against you, and he went willingly, eagerly, lost completely in the taste and the sound and the feel of you falling apart under his mouth.
You moaned at the intrusion, a broken, breathless sound that vibrated around his knuckles as he sank his middle finger deep into your slick heat.
You didnât need the encouragement, your hips were already rolling, riding his hand with a desperate, frantic rhythm that made the mattress creak beneath you.
He could feel it building in the way your walls fluttered and clamped around him, chasing that peak with a single-minded hunger that made his mouth water.
âWant another one, sweetheart?â His voice was honey and gravel, the pad of his thumb dragging a lazy, torturous circle over your clit.
You glared down at him from above, your frown sharp and impatient. âStop fucking with me, Bucky.â
He grinned, and pushed a second finger into you without breaking eye contact. The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your parted lips, and he started thrusting harder, deeper, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the quiet room. âDonât wanna fuck with you, baby. I wanna fuck you.â
He felt you clench around his fingers immediately, a violent, fluttering grip that sent a tremor up his arm. A loud, broken moan tore out of you as you came, your body shuddering against his hand, your slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist.Â
Fuck. He stared down at the way you pulsed around him, and his brain short-circuited. If this was how you came on his fingers, his cock was going to be absolutely fucking suffocated inside you.
He didnât give you a second to recover.
He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, stuffing them past his lips, tasting you. He sucked them clean, groaning around the flavour of you, before he was crawling up your body, dragging his chest over your damp, trembling skin.
He thrust his tongue into your mouth without warning, sharing the taste of yourself with you. You opened for him eagerly, moaning into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair and pulling him deeper.
Your fingers found his belt, the buckle clicking open under your quick, determined hands. He heard the rough rasp of his zipper, felt your palms push his jeans down over his ass, and you paused just long enough to squeeze, an appreciative grip that made him groan against your lips.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He was about to fuck you. Actually, really, truly, about to fuck you.
He had to contain his excitement, had to focus on his breathing, or he was going to spill like a goddamn virgin before he even got close to being inside you.
And then your hands were flat on his shoulders, shoving.
He pulled back, frowning, ready to ask what was wrong, but the look on your face stopped him cold. You were grinning up at him, wicked and beautiful.
âLet me suck your cock.â
You didnât give him a chance to respond. You shoved him sideways, trying to climb on top of him, trying to get your mouth on him, and the thought of your lips closing around him almost made his vision go white.
âNo, no, no, no.â He caught your hips, tried to wrestle you back down onto your back. âNo, sweetheart, justâstayâlet meââ
You were laughing, light and playful, but he was deadly serious.
âIf you even breathe on my cock, Iâll cum on the spot. I promise.â His eyes met yours, desperate and honest. âPlease. Not tonight. Just let me have you. Iâve been waiting for thisâwaiting for you.â
You paused on his lap, considering. The laughter faded from your face, replaced by something softer, something thoughtful that made his chest ache.
He had to close his eyes. He had to focus on his breath.
Because your cunt was right there. Right on top of his dick. The heat of you seeping through his skin, the dampness of you threatening to coat his aching length.
He could feel every inch of your weight pressing down over him, and if he looked, if he moved, if he so much as twitched his hips, he was going to lose his entire fucking mind.
And then you began to slowly rock up and down his dick, the friction of your slick heat dragging against him like a live wire. You looked down at him with that small, knowing smile, the one that made his chest ache and his cock throb.
âYouâre really that desperate for me?â
Bucky nodded, his jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Painfully. Desperately. A confession without words.
You leaned down, your lips brushing his in a kiss so quick and soft it was almost cruel. âOkay, baby.â
He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, of gratitude⌠and then his eyes flew wide.
Because you were rising. Rising off his lap. Reaching down between your bodies. Taking hold of his dick in your warm hand, and positioning it exactly where you wanted it.
He was hypnotised. Transfixed. The sight of his own flushed tip nudging against your soaking, glistening entrance made his brain short-circuit.
He felt a drop of saliva escape the corner of his mouth, rolling down his chin, and he couldnât even muster the shame to wipe it away.
Jesus fucking Christ.
You were so tight. The first inch of him sliding into you felt like being wrapped in molten silk, searing and perfect. His eyes flicked up to your face, and he found yours squeezed shut, your lips parted, your breath catching in broken little gasps as you fed yourself his cock inch by agonising inch.
It felt like an eternity before your hips met his, before he was buried to the hilt inside you, and the sight of his cock disappearing completely into your body made his vision haze.
Your thighs settled flat against his, skin to skin, and he gripped your waist so hard he knew heâd leave bruises.
âDonât move,â he rasped, his voice ragged. âStay still for me. Just⌠keep still.â
You clenched around him involuntarily, a soft, reflexive squeeze that made him groan deep in his chest.
âDonât do that. Donât do that.â
You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out, eyes still hazy with pleasure. âI canât help it, Bucky.â
And then you clenched again. Accidentally. Deliberately. He couldnât tell. It didnât matter.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He tried to think of other things. Disgusting things. Anything to keep from spilling inside you like a goddamn teenager.
Cut toenails. Moldy fruit. Steveâs ass. None of it was working. Not when your heat was wrapped around him, not when you were sitting there looking so soft and sweet and patient, waiting for his permission.
He gave a strained nod, his voice barely a whisper. âOkay. Go ahead, baby.â
You smiled and then you rose. Rose until only the tip of him remained inside you. And then you dropped.
Violently. All the way down, slamming into his hips, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs and making him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. And then you were bouncing, riding him like he was a fairy pony, your pace frantic and relentless, your walls gripping him with every upward stroke.
All he could do was try to keep up. He dug his fingers into your hips, his hands guiding your rhythm, and began to fuck up into you matching your wild tempo, chasing the heat pooling at the base of his spine.
Bucky was pretty sure if his heart gave out right now; if he dropped dead beneath you, buried to the hilt, watching you fall apart on his cock, heâd die the happiest man alive.
This was heaven. You were heaven. The way you moved on top of him, taking everything he had, stealing his breath, his sanity, every coherent thought heâd ever had.
And then he realised.
You were still wearing that top.
The thin fabric clung to your skin, damp with sweat, hiding the one thing he needed to see more than his next breath.
Concealing the soft bounce of your tits with every roll of your hips. He reached up with both hands, fisting the hem, and you didnât even notice, too busy fucking yourself on him, too lost in the rhythm to pay attention to anything else.
Until the violent shrrrip of cotton splitting in two cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Your eyes flew open, head jerking back. âBucky!â
ââM sorry.â
The apology came out wrecked, and completely insincere. There was zero remorse in his voice, none in the greedy way his hands immediately found your bare chest, cupping the soft, heavy weight of your tits, his thumbs dragging over the stiff peaks of your nipples.
The moan that slipped past your lips was immediate.
âNeeded to see them,â he rasped, watching the way they filled his palms, the way your back arched into his touch. âNeeded to feel them.â
A breathless laugh escaped you, a soft shake of your head as you planted your hands flat on his chest and steadied yourself. And then you were bouncing harder, riding him like he was made for this, like you were trying to wring every last drop of sanity from his bones.
But he needed more.
The angle wasnât deep enough. He couldnât get close enough. Couldnât be buried deep enough inside you.
Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, his hands locked onto your waist.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he used his hips to wrench you off balance and flipped you onto your back, twisting your bodies until he was hovering over you, and never once did he slip out of the slick, perfect heat of your body.
A delighted, breathless cry tore from your throat at the sudden shift in power. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He reached up, one hand curling around the wooden slats of the headboard. The frame groaned under his grip as he pulled back and snapped his hips forward. Harder. Deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room mixing with your ragged breaths and the desperate groans rumbling in his chest.
Bending down, he pressed his mouth to the sweat-slicked curve of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, to feel your pulse flutter against his lips. âI need you to cum,â he grunted against your skin. âPlease, baby. Need it.â
âHuh?â The word came out dazed, strangled. You hadnât heard him. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lips parted, completely lost in the relentless rhythm of him pounding into you, too far gone to process anything beyond the next wave of pleasure building in your core.
âCum now,â he grunted, the words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. âShit⌠now.â
He drove into you harder, each thrust a desperate, punishing demand. The headboard groaned against the wall, the frame shuddering with every brutal snap of his hips.
Your nails raked down his back, sharp, frantic lines of fire that he felt all the way down to his bones. And then he heard it; a choked sob that broke past your lips. Not pain. Release.
There. Heâd found it.
âRight there, Buckyâright thereââ
The cry was wrecked, broken, a plea that sexed through him like a current. He zeroed in on that spot, that deep, swollen place inside you that made your voice crack and your back arch off the mattress.
He bullied it with his cock, over and over, relentless, until your moans dissolved into something shattered and raw.
Then you broke.
He felt it in the way you clenched around him first; a sudden, violent flutter that turned into a pulsing grip, suffocating his cock, milking him with wave after wave of your release.
Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders, your thighs locking around his waist, and the sound you made, a broken, keening gasp, was the most beautiful thing heâd ever heard.
It was enough to push him over.
Bucky let go.
His balls drew up tight, a hot rush of pressure building at the base of his spine, and then he was coming⌠violently, uncontrollably, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you with a guttural groan that sounded more animal than human.
He stayed buried deep, pumping into you through the aftershocks, his body trembling above yours, every nerve electric and raw.
For a long, suspended moment, there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing and the slick, wet press of skin against skin.
Then his body went lax.
He collapsed onto his elbows, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his weight pinning you into the mattress as he tried to remember how to breathe. The high was liquid and warm, a blanket of bliss settling over his bones.
And thenâ
âYouâre not gonna be weird about this, are you?â
The words came soft. Disarmingly soft. That was the cruelest part of it.
You pressed them into his skin, your cheek turned against his hair, your voice a low, sleepy murmur. One hand rested loose at the nape of his neck, thumb tracing an idle, almost tender path across the damp skin there.
Like you hadnât just carved something out of him.
Bucky went still.
He forced his lungs to keep moving. Forced the tension in his shoulders to dissolve before you could feel it. His face was still buried in the curve of your shoulder, his mouth hot and wet against your collarbone, his body a weighted, useless thing draped over yours.
The room smelled of them. Sweat and salt and the crushed-flower sweetness of your perfume, tangled with the raw musk of sex that clung to the sheets.
Below, the house was still alive. The bass was a distant heartbeat through the floor, the drone of voices rising and falling like surf against stone.
Ten seconds ago, he had been floating in it.
Ten seconds ago, he had felt stupidly, dangerously complete.
The whole night had collapsed into this single moment; this bed, this room, the slick, fluttering grip of your body around his, your fingers knotted in his hair, holding him at the center of something that felt, for one perfect, delusional instant, like it mattered.
He had let himself thinkâ
No.
He didnât get to finish that thought.
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he laughed, a short, easy sound that he shaped into exactly the right shape.
âWeird?â He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. âMe?â
Your mouth curved, âYeah. You.â
He gave you the grin. The practiced one. The one that had saved him from worse than this.
âSweetheart, Iâm the most normal guy you know.â
A beat. âThat is deeply untrue.â
You laughed then, and the sound hooked into his ribs. He let himself feel it, just for a second. There. Itâs fine. Keep it light.
He could do this. He could keep the room warm if he didnât push. He could lie here, tangled in you, and pretend the words hadnât hit him like a fist.
Slowly he shifted his weight and pulled out of you. The sound was wet, obscene in the quiet, and it twisted something low in his gut. The heat he had been drowning in vanished the second he was empty.
The chill that replaced it crept up his spine and settled cold in his chest.
Still, he didnât move away.
His arm stayed heavy across your waist, palm spread flat against the curve of your hip. His thumb began a slow, lazy stroke against your skin, a betrayal of every intention he had to act unaffected.
Bucky swallowed the bitterness climbing his throat and ducked his head, pressing his mouth to the warm skin just under your jaw. Not quite a kiss. Soft enough to deny.
âRelax,â he murmured against you, the words a low vibration. âIâm not gonna propose before breakfast.â
Your fingers paused against his cheek. For one terrible second, he thought he had said the wrong thing.
Then you huffed a laugh, thinner than before. âGood.â
Good.
Bucky smiled anyway, pressing it into your skin.
âWouldâve been a nice proposal, though.â He said it like a joke, because apparently he couldnât stop picking at the bruise. âReal romantic. Me, you, Tonyâs guest room, half the house tanked downstairs.â
âYouâre an idiot.â
âYeah,â he said softly, lifting his head to look at you properly. âProbably.â
Your smile flickered.
There it was. That tiny break in you, so fast he would have missed it if he hadnât spent months training himself to read your face. Your eyes searched his, and for a breath, he thought you might take it back.
Thought you might pull him down and kiss him until the hollow ache in his chest stopped screaming.
Instead, your gaze dropped first.
âI just donât want things to get complicated.â
Bucky stared at you.
Complicated.
You were in his bed. Your body was still warm and pliant beneath his hand. You were still wet with him. The scratches from your nails were still raised and stinging on his back. His heart was beating so hard it felt exposed, shameful.
And you were talking about complicated like it was something waiting outside the door, not something you had already dragged in by the throat.
He nodded once. âRight.â
Your eyes flicked back to him. âBuckââ
âNo, I get it.â
He didnât get it, yet he got it perfectly.
Both were true. It was becoming a theme with you.
He pulled the blanket up over your hip because some stupid, aching part of him noticed you shiver. Then he settled back beside you, close enough for your shoulder to press against his chest, close enough to pretend nothing had shifted if he tried hard enough.
And he did try. God, he tried.
He let his lips graze your temple. Let his hand find yours under the sheet. Let himself feel the way your fingers curled, briefly, around his before loosening again.
Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, a bright, drunken shriek that cut through the bass like glass.
The music kicked louder, the walls shuddering with it, the whole house groaning under the weight of bodies and noise.
You closed your eyes.
Bucky stayed awake, watching the ceiling blur above him.
Your warmth was pressed all along his side, your thigh hooked loosely over his, the damp glide of your skin against his making it impossible to forget where they had been ten minutes ago.
And your words were still lodged cold beneath his ribs, sharp as swallowed glass.
Not weird. Not complicated. Not a thing.
He turned his head and looked at you anyway, because he was weak, because he was stupid, because he had apparently decided that dignity was optional where you were concerned.
Your face had softened into sleep. Lashes dark against your cheeks, lips parted just enough to let the slow rhythm of your breath slip through.
You looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the girl who could walk into a crowded room and tilt his whole goddamn world sideways without breaking stride.
He hated you a little then.
The thought came sudden and ugly, rising from his chest like bile.
He hated you.
Hated the way you could lie here, still slick with him, your body still marked from his hands, and ask him not to make it mean anything.
Hated the way you took his wanting like it was expected, like it was easy, like he hadnât spent months carving pieces of himself off and pressing them into your palm while you barely noticed.
Selfish, he thought.
And yet his arm tightened around you anyway.
Selfish fucking brat.
You take and you take and then you get scared it might mean something, so you push it away before it can push back.
The words burned through him. He imagined saying them. Imagined the way your mouth would part, the little furrow between your brows, the wounded look you would try to hide.
Good, some cruel part of him whispered. Let it hurt. Let you feel stupid for once. Let you feel even half of what I feel right now.
He wanted that. For one vicious, starving second, he wanted to hurt you exactly where you had hurt him.
Then you shifted in your sleep. Barely a breath of movement, a sigh, the slow curl of your fingers against his chest, your palm pressing flat over his heartbeat.
And Bucky melted.
He looked down at your hand resting over his heart and felt the anger lose its teeth.
Not disappear,it stayed there, sore and simmering beneath his ribs, but it had nowhere to go when you were tucked against him like this, soft and warm and trusting him with your sleeping body even while you refused to trust him with your heart.
His throat tightened.
âYouâre so fucking confusing,â he whispered, the words barely a vibration against your hair.
He turned carefully onto his side, gathering you closer despite every reasonable part of him screaming to pull away.
His arm slid around your waist, his palm spread wide against the dip of your back, and you came easily, your forehead finding the hollow beneath his jaw as if your body knew where to belong.
The party roared on beneath them. Drunk and careless and alive. The whole house shaking with it.
And Bucky lay there, holding you, feeling like someone had cracked his chest open and left it that way.
He should have moved away. Should have rolled onto his back and let the cold settle between them, let it harden into the shape you had asked for.
Should have protected himself before morning came and you slipped back into whatever version of yourself could smile at him over breakfast like he hadnât been inside you, like you hadnât held his face in your hands and asked him not to love you.
Instead, he held you tighter.
Because this was still more than he had before.
Because despite everything, you had become the shape of his world.
His want began and ended with you. His mood rose and fell on the sound of your laugh, the lift of your eyes, the careless brush of your fingers against his.
You made him desperate and angry and embarrassingly alive. You made him feel chosen. You made him feel disposable. You made him feel completely insane.
And he would take it. Every scrap. Every confusing, contradictory piece.
He would take it because he didnât know how to stop.
Bucky closed his eyes, his jaw tight enough to ache, his arms locked around you like holding on hard enough could keep the morning from coming.
âDonât worry, sweetheart,â he murmured into your hair, almost mean with the tenderness bleeding through it. âI wonât be weird.â
a/n | my initial plan was after the smut reader avoids, and then bucky freaks out and screams at her during another party and lays out all his frustrations that steve and sam have to physically remove him. three months pass without contact until you two see each other again and we finally get a look at whatâs going through readerâs mind and ends with hurt/comfort and hopeful ending
He crushes the rock between his teeth first, right in front of you, jaw flexing, then spits the damp, half-melted powder directly onto your open cunt. It lands in a messy, uneven smear across your clit and the soft inner folds, already starting to dissolve in the heat and slick thatâs been dripping out of you since he ordered you onto your back and spread your thighs with both hands.
âLook at that,â he mutters, voice low and almost fond. âPretty little hole all dressed up for me.â
He doesnât use his tongue right away. He uses the flat of two fingers firstârubbing the wet powder in hard, working it into every crease, pushing some of it inside you with short, filthy thrusts. The burn hits almost immediately: sharp, chemical, electric. Your hips jerk. He just presses his palm down on your lower stomach and keeps going, smearing, scooping, forcing more of it deeper until your cunt is glossy and pink and faintly frosted with whatâs left.
Only then does he lean in.
The first lick is slow and deliberate, broad and flat, from the bottom of your hole all the way up over your clit. He collects everythingâcoke, cum, the thin string of spit he left earlierâand swallows it like itâs nothing. Then he does it again, harder, tongue pointed this time, fucking into you with it, chasing every last grain thatâs tried to hide inside. The sound is wet and obscene. Heâs breathing through his nose like an animal.
When he finally seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, itâs not gentle. Itâs greedy. He sucks like heâs trying to pull the powder back out of your bloodstream, tongue lashing, teeth grazing just enough to make your thighs jump. Two fingers slam back into you mid-suck, curling hard against that swollen spot that makes your vision white out, and he keeps sucking through the whole thingâloud, messy, spit running down his chin and onto the sheets.
Youâre shaking. Heâs not done.
He pulls off just long enough to spit a thick string of coke-laced saliva directly onto your clit, then smacks it lightly with two fingers so it splatters. The sting mixes with the chemical heat and the ache of how empty you suddenly feel. He watches your face the entire time, dark eyes half-lidded, mouth shiny.
âAgain,â he says simply.
He doesnât wait for permission. He just ducks back down, spreads you wider with both thumbs, and starts licking like heâs trying to clean you out completelyâlong, filthy strokes that drag from your hole to your clit and back, occasionally stopping to suck hard enough that the wet sound echoes. Every time you try to close your legs he forces them open again. Every time you moan too loud he bites the soft inside of your thigh hard enough to leave a mark, then goes right back to eating you like heâs starving.
By the time he finally lets you come, your cunt is swollen and twitching and still faintly tingling from the coke, and Rafeâs face is a messâlips red, chin dripping, pupils blown. He doesnât wipe it off. He just crawls up your body, presses his wet mouth to yours so you can taste yourself and the chemical burn, and murmurs against your lips.
âNext time Iâm packing it in deeper. See how long you can keep it in while I fuck you.â
Before you sleep, do you want an invite to my community?
well now that certainly is going to ruin my sleep schedule. you've got me intrigued, Iâd love to join (but also how exactly does an invite to a community work)
"I've got a secret," I whisper to you as we flick on the TV and I press a vibrator to your clit. "But you need to promise this won't change how you view me." I flick the vibrator up a notch. "Promise me." A quick kiss to seal the promise.
"I made a little game. It's like one of those Choose Your Own Adventure ones where you choose what happens next," I say as something shifts in the darkness of the black TV screen. An audible click, and suddenly light is scattered across the scene. Light from a lamp you recognise very well. It sits on your bedside table after all.
"Every night, I've... I've been filming things for this little game. Fuck... you're wet." My throat's so dry right now. In the video, I'm groping your tits, you realise. I'm pulling down your pyjamas and fondling your holes. Touching you. One hand clearly holding up the phone and the other... molesting you in your sleep. Squeezing and pinching with roughness that I usually wouldn't have when you're awake. I can hurt you a little more while you sleep. It's not like you'll feel it.
"God... I'd always begin the night like that. By groping this slutty little body of yours. How could I resist? Look, baby, now you can choose what happens." I say as three options pop up on the screen, prompting us to choose one. "Do you want to see me fuck your tits? Eat your cunt? Or do you want to see how I used your throat while you slept? Mhm? Yeah, you do? How nasty."
You can tell that it's another night. Different clothes, a different pillow cover. But you'd watch me pull my cock into view of the camera. Slapping your sleeping face lightly before grinding against your cheek. As I flick the vibrator against your cunt, you watch me gently pull your mouth open and spit in it. Again and again, until I finally put my cock in. "I was lubing up your throat for my dick. You understand, baby, don't you? I only did it because I had to," you hear me whisper.
The sloppy, icky, filthy sounds of your mouth being used blare out of our speakers. Your mouth. Used like some cheap little cum dumpster. You feel my teeth sink slightly into your neck. Hot breath swirling across your skin as you watch me slide in and out of your pretty lips, your eyes firmly shut. Soon, another prompt pops up.
"Now it's time to decide where I should fuck you. And don't worry... we can always play this game again. You want that, don't you? I was terrified you'd hate me at first, but you're such a fucking freak, I've realised you love this more than me. Anal? Or your pussy?"
You make a choice, and suddenly we're watching another video. Another night. Different pyjamas. Different bed covers. You shudder as your pussy squelches under that vibrator. How many nights had I done this to you? How many times have you been taken advantage of without even realising it?
"God... you were such a tight fucking squeeze. You were so, so tight every time I fucked your ass. Every time. Look, sweetie. Can you hear me groaning? Can you tell how much I loved it? Fucking the shit out of your unconscious ass? You usually need me to go much slower when you're awake... but at night? When you're passed out? I can go as hard and as fast as I want. I can treat your ass like it's some disposable fucking fleshlight. Just as it should be used."
On screen, you watch me pound your abused asshole again and again. You watch my veiny, slick cock thrust in and out, the dim light of the lamp casting soft shadows across the veins of my cock. Squelching with each thrust. You feel it in your cunt as you watch me spank your ass, watching it ripple. This is what it looks like when you're getting ass raped, you realise. And you love it.
"One more choice, baby. Last one and then you can cum," I say. "Where do you want me to cum? In your ass? On your ass? Your mouth? Your face? Or in your cunt?" There are more options â a lot more options â and I scroll down the list, firing them off to you. You find yourself clenching your fists and spreading your legs farther, practically grinding against the vibrator as you realise how many times I must have used you. At least.
"Your tits? That's pretty hot, isn't it?"
We watch me take my cock out of your ass, before gently turning you over. In the darkness, there's only the frantic, needy sounds of me jerking my cock over your tits. The tip of my dick slapping against your slutty chest, grazing it and leaking trails of precum.
"That's a good girl. You've played this game so, so fucking well. And you still love me, don't you? Yeah, you do. Such a good little somno pet. You were so much fun to play with, baby, and now you can cum," I whisper into your ears. "Just cum for me, baby. Cum to the sight of yourself being violated. Cum to the sight of my cock spewing cum all over those pretty tits of yours. You can do that for me, can't you? Oh fuck, baby, your cunt sounds so fucking messy right now. Holy shit, you can cum. I want you to cum so bad. Just. Fucking. CUM."
I watch your knees quiver, and your body fold and writhe while you cum, as my own jizz splatters across your tits.
"Such a good fucking girl. We'll try some of the other options next time. Would you like that?"
ę° wc ęą 15k words
ę° summaryęą after stalking you for years, dex is completely unprepared for the dizzying reality of finally being invited into your lifeâyour apartment, your bed, your soft thighs opening for him so sweetly that he can barely tell where fantasy ends and addiction begins.
.á contents |
18+ (MDNI), stalking, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f&m!receiving), pervert!dex, canon!dex, fbi!dex, horny!reader, oblivious!reader, stealing, panty sniffing, panic attacks, mental breakdown, suicidal dex, mentally unstable dex, canon compliant, somnophilia, dub-con, inexperienced!dex, mentioned murder, humping, groping, spit swapping, finger sucking, creep!dex, breeding kink, fluff, dark romance, manipulation, gaslighting, all in dex's pov
.á lizzyâs note |
this fic has been plaguing my life for the last three months and now im finally free. genuinely just wanted to write smut, then forced myself to create plot leading up to it. trying out a new layout, pls don't burn me at the stake.
at this rate stay tuned for my next dex fic in 2027 <3
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated â¨
divider by @uzmacchiato
Dex loved sushi night Fridays.
You two had settled into the routine months ago without either of you ever really acknowledging it. Fridays after work. The same tiny sushi place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the sign flickering like it was running on borrowed time.
Inside was all warm amber lighting and fogged windows, the air thick with rice vinegar and the low hiss of the grill.
The hostess smiled the second you walked in now, already reaching for a menu you never looked at, because you already knew what you wanted, and Dex already knew youâd order it before you did.
You referred to it as your âcheat day,â something Dex privately thought was bullshit. You were always working on cutting back on takeout or âtrying to be healthier,â only to cave every Friday night without fail.
But the word cheat implied you were doing something wrong. Indulging something shameful. And he hated the idea of you apologising for your own appetite.
Heâd watched the pattern long enough to know it by heart; Sushi Fridays. Thai food on bad days (red curry, extra spicy, no matter how much it made you sweat). Wingsâany kind reallyâ when you were too tired to cook⌠or on your period.
And coffee, too much coffee, all throughout the week, the same two-pump vanilla order from the cart on 47th.
Dex didnât think you needed to worry about your weight. The thought irritated him every time it surfaced, a low-grade static at the back of his skull. You were beautiful exactly as you were.
If he had things his way, youâd indulge every craving that crossed your mind. Midnight milkshakes. Extra dessert. Those strawberry candies you liked from the bodega near your apartment.
Heâd drive across the city at two in the morning if you suddenly decided you wanted dumplings or lemon cake or greasy diner fries.
The restaurant lights caught against your jewelry when you moved, tiny gold hoops glinting near your jaw. Warm light softened everything about you.
Your skin took on a honeyed tone, the shadows beneath your cheekbones gentle rather than sharp. It made you glow in a way Dex had never been able to properly explain to himself.
Like candlelight catching honey, or the last sun ray through a window at dusk.
He watched you pick up another fried roll with your chopsticks, your nose wrinkling slightly when it nearly slipped apart before you got it into your mouth.
That made him chuckle. A sound that died in the hollow of his chest, swallowed by the space between his ribs.
God.
He needed this.
Needed the quiet rhythm of it after the last week spent buried in FBI work. The lies. The noise. Too many voices in his ear, too many meetings, too much time spent orbiting Wilson Fisk and his suffocating shadow.
His apartment never helped either. Too quiet and too still. Silence had a way of making his thoughts louder, the walls pressing in until he had to pace just to feel like he still had room to breathe.
But here, things feltâŚÂ normal.
Outside, rain poured weakly past the windshield of Dexâs car.
The wipers had been off for a while now, leaving the glass streaked with dried residue. The heater hummed low near his knees, filling the car with dry warmth and the heavy, layered smell of fried tempura, soy sauce, and burnt coffee that had long gone cold in the cupholder.
Across the street, through the fogged window of the sushi place, you laughed suddenly at something on your phone, leaning forward across the table.
Dex smiled before he could stop himself.
He adjusted the takeout container balanced carefully in his lap before it tipped against the console. The plastic lid was beaded with condensation, the heat of the food fogging it from inside.
Soy sauce packets crowded the cupholder beside the coffee and crinkled napkins were shoved messily near the parking brake.
One dumpling had leaked grease through the paper container onto his slacks minutes ago, a dark stain spreading across the fabric near his knee, but he barely cared.
He hadnât even registered the warmth of it until it had already cooled.
Dex stuffed another piece of sushi into his mouth absently, chewing without tasting, his eyes never leaving you.
The rice was a little dry. The ginger had that sharp, stinging bite that made the back of his throat tighten.
Heâd picked up the order right before you came in, timed it so the food would still be warm when he settled into the driverâs seat.
His monocular rested against his thigh for barely a second before he lifted it again automatically. He settled it back against his socket without thinking, the world snapping into that familiar, compressed clarity.
His pulse eased the moment your face sharpened back into focus.
There she is.
Chin propped lazily into your palm now, reading something intently on your phone. A server passed behind you carrying a tray and even distracted, you looked up at him automatically. Sweet and polite.
Warm in that effortless way that still twisted something painfully tight inside Dexâs chest after all these years.
You gave pieces of yourself away carelessly without even realising it. A smile here. A laugh there. A small wave to a regular who held the door for you.
You never hoarded your warmth. It just spilled out of you, abundant and unguarded, and Dex collected every stray drop like a man dying of thirst.
His thumb moved slowly against the steering wheel, tracing the seam where the leather had begun to crack near the top.
This was exactly what he needed after the week heâd had.
Just you and him.
The thought surfaced without permission, settling somewhere deep behind his sternum. He let it sit there as his hand drifted toward the glove compartment without looking away from you once.
The latch gave with a quiet click, and his fingers found the familiar bundle by touch alone, soft cotton folded neatly in the dark, tucked beside his registration and a crumpled gas receipt.
He drew it carefully into his lap, keeping his eyes fixed on your silhouette through the monocular.
The pale fabric bunched lightly in his fist. The lace trim was cool against his palm, delicate, a detail heâd traced with his fingertips so many times that he could map it blind.
Almost absentmindedly, like a man reaching for a cigarette or rubbing a familiar scar, he brought the stolen panties toward his face and inhaled slowly.
The smell hit him in stages. First the faint, clean scent of your vanilla lotion, the one you applied after every shower. Then the warmer note of your shea body oil, the one you massaged into your elbows and knees before bed.
Beneath that, something warmer and distinctly you, something saline and soft that settled low in his stomach hard enough to make his slacks tighten slightly. A familiar, hungry ache that bloomed behind his fly at just your scent.
He held the breath for a long moment, letting it steep in his lungs, before exhaling through his nose.
A small souvenir heâd rewarded himself four months ago, after letting himself into your new loft late one night to make sure everything was secure.
Youâd forgotten to latch one of the windows facing the fire escape. Careless sweet thing. The lock had been loose, the frame warped slightly from humidity, and when heâd tested it with his fingertips, it had swung open without resistance.
Dex had fixed it for you before leaving. Tightened the screws on the latch, oiled the track, made sure it would hold.
Heâd found the panties in your laundry basket on the way out. A pale blue cotton pair, with a small tear near the waistband that youâd never bothered to mend. Heâd slipped them into his jacket pocket before he could think better of it.
Across the street, you laughed again, shoulders shaking lightly this time, your head tipping back just enough to expose the column of your throat.
He exhaled softly through his nose, smiling along with you like he really was sitting across the table
Just you and him.
That was all he needed.
He didnât know what to think when he saw the newspaper.
For one suspended second, there was nothing. Not anger. Not fear. Not even confusion. Just a sharp, empty stillness, like a pin had dropped somewhere inside his head and every part of him had gone quiet trying to hear where it landed.
Dex had been sitting there for hours, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the bank of screens showing Fiskâs penthouse from every angle. The man himself was visible in one frame, seated at his dining table. Calm and unbothered like always.
Then the paper landed in front of him.
FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN.
Agent Kane shifted beside him. âIâm sorry, Dex. This isnât right,â she said quietly.
He heard her voice, but it came from somewhere far away, as if she were speaking through water. The words landed and dissolved.
Dex stared at the headline until the letters stopped being letters and became just shapesâblack ink pressed into pulp, arranged by somebody who didnât know him, didnât care about him, didnât understand anything about what heâd done or why.
The static began to rise. It always started like this, a low hum at the base of his skull, building as the world pressed in.
Around him, the room kept moving. Agents passed behind his chair, their footsteps a rhythmic interruption. Phones rang in overlapping cadences. Somebody laughed too loudly near the elevators, the sound slicing through the air before smearing into everything else, sharp and meaningless.
He could feel them looking at him.
Not directly, none of them were stupid enough to stare. But he felt the glances anyway. The way people looked at car wrecks when they slowed down just enough to see blood but not enough to admit they wanted to.
His jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple pulsed once, twice.
He was being used as a scapegoat.
By the time Winn and Hattley called him into the office, the static had thickened. It filled the room around their fake sympathetic voices.
âWeâre going to find out who leaked this,â Hattley said, leaning forward with that practiced look of concern people used when they wanted to seem human.
Dex looked at her mouth while she spoke.
Not her eyes. Her mouth.
The words were too clean. Too prepared. Every syllable landed exactly where she wanted it to, like sheâd rehearsed this conversation. There was no surprise in her tone, no real outrage. Just a performance of solidarity.
She was lying.
They all were.
The thing inside him stirred, restless and cold. He pressed it down. But it was harder now, when the structure heâd trusted was cracking around him, when the rules heâd followed were being used to crush him.
It had been the Bureau.
They were throwing him under the bus because someone had to bleed publicly, and it was easier if it was him. Easier because he had no wife waiting at home. No kids. No loud, charming friends in the office to make a scene on his behalf.
Easier because he was useful until he wasnât, precise until precision made them uncomfortable, disciplined until discipline stopped protecting him from becoming disposable.
After everything, they were disposing of him.
If he followed the rules, he could be normal. He could be safe. Everyone else could be safe.
But the rules had just thrown him away.
âThink of it as a paid vacation,â Hattley said, offering a thin smile that didnât reach her eyes.
The static in his skull sharpened.
Dex looked down at his badge before he realised heâd already taken it off.
He didnât remember doing it. His fingers had moved on their own, undoing the clip, sliding the leather folder from his belt.
Now it sat in his palm like something foreign, the gold shield winking at him tauntingly.
His hand didnât feel like his own when he set it on the desk. The leather made a soft, final sound against the wood. Then the gun. The weight of it leaving him felt wrong in a way that made his stomach tighten sharply.
Badge. Gun. Credentials.
Structure.
Mercerâs voice rose in his head before he could stop it.
Get a job with structure, Dex. Rigid structure. Stay disciplined. Stay useful. Routine is important for you.
Routine. Rules. The job gave him rules. Rules told him what to do. Rules made the edges of the world sharp enough to hold onto. Without them, everything blurred.
Everything bled into everything else. The thing inside him pushed against its cage like an animal scenting an open door.
And now they were taking it away from him like it was nothing.
By the time he reached the hall, the migraine had settled behind his right eye, hot and pulsing. It pressed against his optic nerve, sending thin spokes of light across his vision.
Nausea turned slowly in his stomach, a greasy, rolling sensation that made his throat tighten.
He was aware of his body in pieces. His pulse hammering in his wrists, too fast. Sweat cooling under his collar, the fabric damp and clammy against his neck. The empty space at his hip where his gun should have been.
Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
By the time he stepped back out into the hall, the Bureau felt wrong around him. Hostile in a way it hadnât ten minutes ago.
But the air had changed. It pressed against him differently now, thick and heavy, as if the building itself had decided he didnât belong here anymore.
He walked past an agent heâd worked with for two years. The man met his eyes, then looked away.
Dexâs fingers twitched at his sides.
None of it belonged to him anymore.
Or he didnât belong to it.
The job was gone. The badge was gone. The rules were gone. And without them, he felt himself starting to come apart at the seams, the threads that held him together snapping one by one.
His breathing thinned. Too shallow. Too fast. The edges of his vision began to grey, just slightly, like someone was turning down the lights from far away.
He needed out.
He needed air.
No.
Not air.
You.
He needed to see you. Now.
The thought cut through the static like a blade. A fixed point in the chaos.
Dex looked down at his watch.
6:17 p.m.
Thursday.
You did your grocery shopping on Thursdays after work because you hated weekend crowds. End of the week, but not the weekend. Practical. Smart.
Sometimes you bought tulips even though you worked at a florist and could probably get better ones for free.
He had never understood that.
He loved that he didnât understand that.
The Bureau, Hattley, Winn, Fisk, the paper, the headline, the badge sitting on that desk like a dead thing. None of it mattered. Not right now.
Not when his mind was splitting open and the only thought holding him together was the image of you standing under grocery-store fluorescents.
He turned before heâd fully decided to move.
His feet carried him toward the elevator. Each step felt like pushing through water. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in, then expand, breathing with him.
By the time he reached the elevator and pressed the button, his jaw ached from clenching. His hands were steady, but only because he had trained them to be.
Inside, everything was coming apart in small, quiet pieces. Like a dam with a thousand tiny cracks, water seeping through each one, the whole structure holding only by habit and memory.
That was fine.
He didnât need the badge.
He didnât need their rules.
He had you.
The drive from the bureau to the grocery store did nothing to settle the storm clawing through Dexâs chest.
His palms were slick against his slacks. Heâd just walked in. Empty-handed. Bereft of purpose beyond the single, desperate need screaming through every nerve ending in his body.
Find her. Find her. Find her.
The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him inside a world of too-bright lights and Muzak and the sharp chemical sweetness of floor cleaner.
His tie felt like it had shrunk two sizes since heâd left the Bureau, the knot pressing against his throat like a noose. He tugged at it once, twice, but it only made it tighter.
The migraine was still there, settled between his eyes like a hot coal. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, throbbing pressure that made the aisles seem to swim when he moved his head too fast.
And Mercerâs voice.
She was there, in the back of his skull, the way she always was when things got bad. But today she wasnât the steady, grounding presence he remembered.
Her voice flickered and warped, sliding between registers like a broken radio.
Stay calm, Dex. Breathe. Youâre okay.
Then, lower, twisted. Freak. Look at you. They threw you away because they saw it. They knew what you were.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
You were supposed to be better than this. All that discipline. And you canât evenâ
âShut up,â he muttered under his breath, but the words came out wrong, too loud, and a woman passing with a toddler shot him a strange look.
He didnât care.
He checked the endcaps, the seasonal displays, the little stand with flowers near the entrance because you liked stopping there.
You werenât there.
His breathing got thinner, shallower, each inhale less satisfying than the last. A tightness gathered behind his eyes, hot and humiliating, frustration swelling so quickly it scared him.
Not here. Not here. Notâ
He crossed the store, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor. He passed a man in a dark coat who frowned at him. He ignored him. He rounded the corner into the makeup aisle and his chest seized.
Empty.
The shelves stretched out before him, neat rows of bottles and tubes and compacts reflecting the harsh light. A woman stood at the far end, examining a lipstick, but she had different hair. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The frustration crested, crested, broke.
Tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked furiously against them. His throat closed. His hands shook.
This was stupid.
This wasâ
Where the hell are you?
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The pressure helped, briefly, grounding him in pain instead of panic. He counted to ten. Then to twenty.
He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way Mercer had taught him when he was thirteen and didnât know how to exist without breaking things.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Youâre in control, Dex. Youâre always in control.
But the voice was quiet now, drowned out by the static.
He dropped his hands and looked up.
There.
The fruit and vegetable aisle. Eight feet away. Your back.
And everything stopped.
The world snapped into focus like a lens being adjusted. The lights dimmed to something bearable. The buzzing of the fluorescents faded to a dull hum.
A shock ran through his system, ice-cold and bracing, like being splashed with water in the middle of a fever dream.
His throat worked. He swallowed once, twice.
He dragged his eyes up, angry at himself and not angry at all. Angry that he couldnât just walk up to you, couldnât just be normal, couldnât justâ
His hands were still shaking.
His chest was still tight.
His breathing was still too shallow, too fast, each inhale catching on something sharp lodged in his lungs.
He was still falling apart, and you were right there, six feet away, squeezing pears and humming to music he couldnât hear, and he couldnât calm down.
The realisation hit him like a fist to his throat.
If he couldnât pull himself together now, if he couldnât drag his shattered pieces back into something resembling a whole person, he was going to have a full mental breakdown with you a few steps away from him.
He couldnât let that happen.
He couldnât.
He stood at the end of the aisle, frozen, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes fixed on the curve of your spine and the gentle sway of your hips as you moved down the display.
And for a long, terrible moment, he didnât know what to do.
The word nectarines repeated in his skull like a lifeline.
He didnât know why that particular fruit had caught his attentionâmaybe because they were closest, maybe because they were red and blushing and reminded him of the colour your lips had been at the diner.
It didnât matter. He grabbed one, then another, turning them over in his trembling hands pretending to inspect them.
Three steps away. You were three steps away.
Dexâs shoe scuffed against the linoleum as he adjusted his stance, positioning himself so he could see you in his peripheral vision without turning his head.
Look at something else. Let your eyes find the target naturally. But his eyes werenât listening.
They kept sliding back to you, hungry and helpless, drinking in the curve of your hip where your sweatpants rode low.
He could smell you.
EstĂŠe Lauder. Beautiful Magnolia.
He knew the scent because heâd bought a bottle once, from a department store in Midtown, just to understand what it was that clung to your clothes and lingered in the air long after youâd passed.
Heâd sprayed it on his pillow that night and buried his face in the fabric, breathing you in until the noise in his head quieted to a hum.
He inhaled now, deep and long, hoping it would do the same.
It didnât.
His hands were still shaking. He could see the tremors as he turned a nectarine over, the fruit wobbling in his grip like heâd never held anything in his life.
Just breathe, Dex, Mercer whispered, but her voice was thin, frayed, like a recording stretched to breaking.
We donât know how this got out, Hattleyâs voice cut in, smooth and false, dripping with pity. Weâre going to find out who leaked this.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
He wanted to hit something. Wanted to drive his fist into the display of nectarines, into the wall, into his own skull if it would make them stop.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your breathing. On the fact that this was the closest heâd been to you in years.
But nothing helped.
The voices swelled. The migraine throbbed. His hands shook. His chest constricted. And he was drowning, drowning, drowning in the fluorescent light of a grocery storeâ
âExcuse me.â
The world snapped into silence.
Dexâs head shot up so fast his neck cracked. His eyes found yours, and everything in him locked up like a circuit breaker tripping. You were looking at him.
He stared.
He blinked.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The silence stretched, and your smile tightened at the edges, just slightly. You cleared your throat, shifting your weight, the picture of casual confidence.
âI donât know if this is gonna sound a bit creepy,â you said, and your voice was smooth, rolling, the same voice heâd heard a thousand times in his memory, âbut do I know you?â
His heart stopped.
Then restarted at double speed.
Say something. Say something normal. Say something human.
âIââ He cleared his throat. The sound was raw, scraping. He forced a smile onto his face, âI donât think so.â
You tilted your head, studying him. âNo, I do.â
There was no room for argument in your voice. No uncertainty.
He tilted his head, mirroring you. Let his eyes narrow slightly, as if he were searching his memory.
As if he didnât have every moment heâd ever seen you catalogued and cross-referenced in his mind.
As if he wasnât memorising the way the light caught in your hair, the faint sheen of gloss on your lips, the tiny beauty mark just above your collarbone.
You snapped your fingers, before pointing to yourself. âI used to work at this diner a few years ago. I donât know if you know itâBel Air Diner, maybe?â
He let the pause hang. Let his brow furrow. Let himself pretend, when all he wanted to do was reach out and touch you to make sure you were real.
âBushwick?â he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.
Your eyes lit up, and the sensation of seeing that, of being the cause of that light, was like injecting ecstasy straight into his veins.
âYeah!â You nodded, your smile widening into something that crinkled the corners of your eyes. âThe one on the corner of 9th Ave. Thatâs the one.â
Dexâs breath caught. He swallowed, trying to find his footing, trying to remember how to be a regular person, having a conversation with a woman who had no idea that she was the only thing that had kept him from falling apart for years.
âYeah,â he said, and his voice cracked on the word. âYeah, I remember.â
âBut you donât remember me?â
Dex blinked at you, the words landing like a slap he didnât see coming.
For a long, terrible second, his brain seized, caught between the instinct to apologise and the dawning realisation that you were teasing him.
You were teasing him.
The corners of your mouth curved, and there it was, a glint in your eye, a playful tilt to your chin that heâd never seen before.
Not in all the hours heâd spent watching you. You were straightforward. Bold.
In his head, you were soft. Sweet. A little shy, maybe, the way youâd duck your head when a customer thanked you, the way youâd bite your lip when you were concentrating on an arrangement.
Heâd built a version of you that was gentle and malleable, a fantasy that existed to be consumed, not to talk back.
âIâm kidding,â you said, after his silence stretched a beat too long. Like you could see him drowning and had thrown him a line.
He hated himself.
The feeling was familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition, but this was a fresh, raw kind of hatred that made his palms itch.
The Dex in his mind, the one heâd imagined a thousand times, would have had a smooth response ready. Would have leaned against the display, flashed a grin, said something that made you laugh.
That Dex was charming. That Dex was normal.
But that Dex wasnât real. And the real Dex was standing here, sweat beading at his temples, hands shaking.
He scrambled, forcing a smile onto his face that he hoped read as charming rather than manic.
âNo, no.â His voice came out too quick, too eager. He reined it in, softened his tone. âI do remember you now. Iâm just surprised you remember me.â
You tilted your head smiling, and the movement pushed the apples of your cheeks up. God, you were beautiful.
âCan never forget a handsome face,â you said.
Handsome. She said handsome. Sheâs flirting with you. Thatâs what this is. Say something back. This is how it works. So do it.
But his brain was a white-noise void, every thought scattering like roaches in harsh light.
His smile felt brittle on his face, but he held it there, hoping you couldnât see how badly his hands were shaking.
âThank you,â he managed, and the words came out rough, almost shy.
He shifted the nectarine to his other hand, wiping his palm against his slacks in a motion he hoped looked casual. Then extended his hand.
âDex.â
You smiled and told him your name. Like he didnât already know it. Like he hadnât whispered it into the dark of his apartment with his fist wrapped around his cock, gasping it into his pillow like a prayer.
Your hand slid into his.
The contact was electric. Your skin was warm, soft, impossibly real against his calloused palm.
He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, from letting the sensation wash over him and drown him.
Every nerve in his body screamed at him to pull you closer, to bring your hand to his mouth and press his lips to your knuckles, to your wrist, to the delicate skin where your pulse beat just beneath the surface.
Instead, he shook your hand once, twice, like a normal person, and let go before he did something he couldnât take back.
âSo, Dex,â you said, drawing his name out just slightly, testing it, like you were deciding whether you liked the way it felt on your tongue.
You had no idea heâd been waiting to hear you say it for years.
âWhat brings you to the supermarket atââ you glanced at your phone, then back at him, a small smile playing at your lips, ââseven pm on a Thursday.â
Simple question. Normal question. The kind of question one person asked another when they wanted to keep a conversation alive, when they wanted to prolong it.
And you hadnât even seemed to notice that he had no shopping cart. No basket.
Just himself, standing here in the produce aisle like a man whoâd wandered in off the street with no purpose other than to stare at fruit he had no intention of buying.
There was no way he could tell you the truth. That just hours ago heâd been framed by the FBI, scapegoated for an ambush heâd had no part in, cast out of the only identity heâd ever known.
That heâd spent the last hour spiraling in his car, hallucinating voices, pressing a gun to his own jaw before forcing it back into the glove compartment.
That heâd driven here not for groceries, but because your Thursday evening routine was the only fixed point left in his collapsing world.
He couldnât say any of that.
So he said the first plausible thing that surfaced from the scrambled mess of his brain.
âEnd of the week,â he heard himself say instead. The words came out rough, but he pushed through. âBut way less crowded on weekends.â
You raised your brows, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. âSo I guess Iâm not original at all, huh?â
You were making a joke, and heâd walked right into it and now he was supposed to respond. Laugh. A laugh would be normal. People laughed at jokes. That was the expected behavior. He should laugh.
He made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle but came out more like a choked exhale, his lips stretching into a smile that felt too wide, too stiff.
âGreat minds think alike, I guess.â He tried for laid-back, tried to make his shoulders relax, but they stayed hunched, like he was bracing for impact.
You tilted your head, just slightly, and hummed in agreement.
And then there was a pause.
A little one, at first. The kind of pause that happens naturally in conversation, where one person waits for the other to speak next.
But it stretched. It grew. It filled the space between you like something physical, and Dex felt it pressing against his chest, tightening around his throat.
Say something. Sheâs waiting. She gave you an opening and now youâre letting it die.
But his mind was a blank wall.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough and too loud in the quiet aisle. âSo, uhââ He glanced down at the nectarine in his hand, then back up at you. âYou come here often?â
The words landed and he wanted to die. You come here often? That was the line heâd pulled from his brain.
The most generic, clichĂŠ, forgettable question in the history of human interaction. The kind of thing a mannequin would say if it were programmed to simulate human speech.
He braced for the look. The one that would say really? delivered with a curl of the lip, a shift of weight away from him. Heâd seen that look on womenâs faces before, when a man tried too hard or said the wrong thing.
So when you let out a laugh, genuine and surprised, it hit him like a punch to the chest.
You were laughing. At him, maybe, but not at him. With him. Like you found him funny, endearing even. Like his awkwardness wasnât a turn-off but a joke you were both in on.
Dex felt his face go warm. He rubbed his brow, a nervous tick he couldnât control, the heel of his hand pressing against his forehead as if he could massage away the embarrassment.
âYeah, I heard it when I said it,â he murmured, almost to himself. âSorryâŚâ
He risked a glance at you through his fingers, and you were looking at him with an expression he didnât recognise.
You looked like you were trying not to smile and failing, the corners of your mouth twitching upward.
His heart was hammering so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers.
âIâll give you a pass for now,â you said, a smile breaking through fully now.
Dexâs mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Nothing came out.
He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. âThanks,â he said again , the word barely above a whisper. âIâIâll try to do better next time.â
You raised your brows again, but your smile didnât shift. In fact, it seemed to deepen, the corners of your mouth curling with delight. âNext time?â
The question hung in the air, but to Dex it felt like a tightrope. One wrong step and heâd plummet.
He hoped to God you couldnât see the sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pulse was visibly jumping in his throat.
Adapt. You have to adapt. Sheâs smooth, sheâs quick, sheâs going to eat you alive if you donât keep up.
He forced his mouth into something resembling a smile, though it felt more like a grimace on the way up. âYouâre the one who said for now.â
And thatâs how Dex ended up with your number.
Thirty minutes earlier, Dex had been sitting in his car, the engine off. His spare gun had been in his lap, cold and heavy.
Heâd pressed the muzzle against the soft skin under his chin, felt the metal dig in, tasted the copper of a future heâd almost chosen.
His career. His structure. His livelihood. His reputation. All of it gone, stripped away in a single afternoon by people whoâd used him and discarded him like a broken tool.
One pull. Thatâs all it would have taken.
Now, driving home, the streets of New York blurring past his windshield in streaks of neon and headlights, Dex felt something he couldnât name.
It wasnât relief, exactlyâthe weight of what heâd almost done was still there.
But it was layered over with something else, something bright and unfamiliar, like sunlight breaking through clouds after a storm.
He kept glancing at his phone. It sat in the cupholder, screen dark, but he could feel it like a beacon. Your number.Â
Your number, given willingly, freely, without coercion or manipulation.
The thought made his chest ache, a dull, insistent pressure behind his ribs. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, and let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob.
It was a high heâd never experienced before. And he was terrified of coming down.
He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, cut the engine, and sat there for a long moment, staring at his phone. The screen was dark, but he could still see your face, the memory of your smile burned into his eyelids.
And then his phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a number he didnât recognise, but the area code was familiar. New York. Manhattan.
He stared at it for three rings. Four. Five.
His thumb hovered over the decline button, but something made him pause. Something cold and familiar, settling in his gut like a stone.
He answered, âHello.â
âWhen I was a boyâŚâ
His skin wasnât buzzing.
It was flaying itself from the bone, a high-frequency current ripping through every nerve ending until he couldnât tell where the violence ended and his own body began.
The climb back through his window was a smear of pure sensation, the groan of the frame digging into his bruised ribs, the distant wail of a siren that might have been real or might have just been the echo of the screams still ricocheting inside his skull.
He tumbled into the living room, the red suit clinging to him like a second skin of sin and sweat, and the silence of his apartment hit him like a physical blow.
He spared a blank look at the microwave. 2:37 AM.
The high was curdling. The exquisite, crystalline purpose Fisk had injected into his veins was souring into a dense, suffocating fog.
The voices in his head were warping and overlapping, layered with the fresh screams of the people heâd just killed.
They werenât separate voices anymore. They were a single, roaring static that made his skull feel too small for his brain.
He fumbled at the gloves, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, tearing at the constricting seams.
The helmet followed. The seal broke with a soft hiss of trapped breath, and the cool night air of the apartment hit the raw cuts on his cheekbone and split lip like a strip of litmus paper.
He wasnât in control. He was a passenger, a ghost haunting a machine made of meat and bone.
The machine moved on autopilot, carrying him across the sticky floor through the debris of his life, toward his closet. His safe.
His fingers knew the combination better than his conscious mind. Beep. Beep. Beep. The door swung open.
Mercerâs tapes.
He reached for them, his fingers brushing the familiar edges, and he could already hear her voice in his memory. She would fix this.
She would rebuild the walls, draw the clean lines of the diagram, soothe the static into structured silence.
He paused.
The tapes felt dead in his hand. Cold. Alien. The thing inside him, that had killed tonight with a terrifyingly genuine grin splitting his face under the mask, revolted.
Structure was a cage. Control was a lie he told himself so he didnât have to look at the abyss. Mercerâs voice was the voice of a woman who had never existed, a blueprint for a life he had never actually lived.
He didnât want to be fixed tonight.
He wanted to be real.
He set the tapes down. The plastic clattered against the wood shelf, and the sound was a door slamming shut on his old self.
His body, no longer his to command, drifted to the phone on the nightstand. The screen was a blinding star in the gloom of his apartment.
Before he could rationalise the catastrophic stupidity of it, his thumb pressed the call button.
The phone pressed against his ear. The flat, electric hum of the dial tone filled his head.
First ring. A knife.Â
Second ring. His breathing turned ragged, harsh stabs of air in and out. He couldnât control it.
His hand shook, the tremors traveling up his arm to his chest, making his heart rattle against his ribs.
Third ring. Where the fuck were you? The thought was a claw in his chest, desperate and raw, scratched out from the bottom of his fractured soul.Â
Fourth ring. Despair hit him like a bullet. The rejection he deserved. The silence he was born for.
His thumb was already moving to sever the connection, to retreat into the familiar dark, to let Mercer be the only voice he ever heard again.
The click.
A breath on the other end. The soft rustle of sheets. The sound of someone shifting out of sleep, pulling themselves back to consciousness for him.
A voice, sleepy and warm, cutting through the static in his soul.
âHello?â
He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His throat had sealed itself shut, his tongue a dead weight.
The buzzing in his head didnât stop, it changed, shifting from static into a high, thin whine of pure panic.
What the fuck was he doing?
He should hang up. He should hang up right now, pretend this never happened, crawl back to the tapes and let Mercer stitch him back together.
But he didnât move.
ââŚhello?â
Your voice again. Groggy, yes, but there was an edge now. Caution. Awareness creeping in.
He could picture you propping yourself up on an elbow, squinting at the phone, trying to place the unknown number glowing in the dark.
He cleared his throat.
âHi. Itâs Dex.â
Silence. Long enough that he felt his stomach drop through the floor.
âFrom the grocery store,â he added, stupidly. âEarlier today.â
More silence. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of how insane this looked.
He had your number for less than twelve hours. He had called you at 2:37 AM. There was no version of this that didnât make him seem unhinged.
Then your voice came through, softer now, a hint of recognition bleeding through the drowsiness.
âOh. Guy from the fruit aisle.â
The words were flat, stripped of the teasing lilt from earlier. He winced. He was an idiot.
But he couldnât hang up either.
âYeah,â he said, and his voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat again, harder this time. âSorry. I know itâs late. Iââ
He stopped. Ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair. The words werenât coming. They never came when he needed them. âI couldnât sleep.â
A beat. Then, âYou call everyone you meet at the grocery store when you canât sleep?â
There it was. The faintest edge of something, not quite playfulness, but not hostility either. A testing of the waters. He latched onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.
âNo,â he said, and the honesty slipped out before he could stop it. âJust you apparently.â
The silence that followed was different. Softer. He could hear the rustle of fabric on your end, like you were shifting, settling deeper into the conversation.
âYouâre weird, you know that?â you said, but your voice had lost its wariness. There was a thread of amusement in it now.
âI know,â he said. He didnât even try to deny it.
He could have left it there. Could have apologised again, said goodnight, let you go back to sleep.
But the buzzing in his head was quieter now, drowned out by the sound of your breathing on the other end of the line.
âI was wondering,â he started, and his mouth went dry again. He pushed through it. âIf youâre free tomorrow. Or, I guess, today now. For dinner.â
The words came out rushed, jumbled together like he was afraid heâd lose his nerve if he didnât get them all out at once.
He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the rejection.
Another long pause. Then, a soft, breathy sound that might have been a laugh.
âYouâre asking me out at three in the morning?â
âDepends on if you say yes,â he said, and the words surprised him. They were smoother than heâd intended, a sliver of confidence he didnât know he possessed.
Your laugh came through fully this time, quiet and warm, and something in his chest cracked open.
âThatâs a good line,â you said. âYou rehearse that?â
âNo,â he admitted. âIâm kind of making this up as I go.â
âPretty good for improv.â
He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, almost a smile. âDoes that mean youâll say yes?â
A beat. Then, âDepends on what youâre offering.â
He let out a breath he didnât realise heâd been holding. His fingers tightened on the phone, grounding himself in the plastic and the warmth of your voice.
âAnything you want,â he said. And he meant it.
Dex prided himself on focus.
It was the cleanest thing he had, the discipline that held the loose pieces of him together. But here, across the table from you, that focus was a dead wire. Useless.
Ten minutes in and he still couldnât land anywhere. His eyes kept skirting, from the deep crimson painted across your mouth to the sharp neckline of that tight black dress, down to where the fabric pulled across your chest.
He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, forced himself to your eyes instead. The dark liner made them bottomless, pulling at him with every slow blink.
His body was wired tight, locked up like he was bracing for impact. Every breath measured. Every movement too careful.
Terrified of the wrong word, the wrong look, shattering whatever luck had gotten you here.
You took a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. Then you tilted your head, a smile catching at the corner of your mouth.
âRelax. Youâre sitting like Iâm gonna jump over this table and bite you.â
The image slid under his skin before he could stop it.
Iâd let you, he thought. Anywhere you wanted.
He locked that down, managed a rough chuckle. âStill canât wrap my head around why you said yes.â
You shrugged, setting the glass down. âGot nothing better to do. Thought I might as well get a free meal with a hot guy.â
Hot. You called him hot.Â
Then your eyes narrowed. âUnless youâre one of those guys who believe in fifty-fifty for the first date.â
The question caught him off guard. For a second, he just stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. Then he let out a choked laugh, shaking his head quickly.
âNo. No, god, no. I promise.â
âGood.â
Your voice softened into something warm, teasing. You leaned back in your chair, swirling the wine in your glass, and the candlelight caught the curve of your smile.
The waiter appeared and Dex grabbed the menu like a lifeline, staring at the words without reading them.
He nodded when you ordered, asked for the same thing. When the waiter left, you leaned forward, elbows on the table.
The neckline of your dress dipped just slightly, and he caught the black lace underneath.
Fuck. Were you doing this on purpose?
âSo, Dex from the fruit aisle.â Your voice had dropped, stripped of the teasing edge from earlier. Something warmer now. âTell me something about yourself.â
His stomach dropped. Just a flash. He pushed it down.
âIâm an FBI agent,â he said. Safe. Simple enough. âOrâwas. Itâs complicated.â
You raised an eyebrow. âComplicated how?â
âThe kind that makes for a bad first date story.â He tried to smile. It came out crooked.
You laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in his chest. âFair enough. Iâll take a rain check.â
He nodded, scrambling for footing. âWhat do you do?â
You rolled your eyes and he felt a flicker of panic before you huffed, amused. âJust a florist. Completely boring compared to chasing bad guys, Iâm sure.â
Thereâs nothing boring about you. The thought hit him hard and fast, and he heard himself say it out loud before his brain could catch up. âThereâs nothing boring about you.â
You let out a small laugh. âSo you do know how to sweet talk a girl.â
He couldnât hide the blush that crawled up his neck to his ears, burning against the collar of his shirt. âIâm just saying it how I see it.â
âMaybe,â you hummed, âbut then again you donât know anything about me.â
Never had he heard a more untrue statement in his life.Â
He knew your schedule. Your favourite coffee order. Your comfort shows you loved to binge. Which soap you preferred. Your go to nail colour. How you liked cats and dogs equally.
But he couldnât say that. So he just looked at you across the table, watched the candlelight catch your eyes.
The food arrived. Steam rose from the plates between them, the scent of ginger and soy cutting through the moment. The waiter said something he didnât catch.
âWell,â Dex murmured, âIâm hoping to learn if youâll let me.â
Being here with you was something he had never experienced before.
The night before was a smear of violence but it all felt muted now, distant, like a transmission he couldnât tune into anymore.
Not with you across the table, your voice cutting through the static in his head.
You kept the conversation easy. When he fumbled an answer or went quiet because his brain short-circuited trying to keep up with you, you didnât pull back. You just smiled, shifted, let him find his footing again.
Once or twice he found himself wondering why you were even giving him a chance. You could have anyone. Smarter, smoother, someone without the weight he carried.
It made no sense that youâd picked him. Not that heâd let anyone else close enough to try, but the thought still lingered.
Still, there was a weight pressing down on him the whole time. A clock ticking. He felt it sharpest as the check arrived. Signing it, his stomach twisted into a knot so tight it made him nauseous.
The thought of leaving, of stepping into the cold air alone and watching you walk away, hollowed him out.
He could already feel the emptiness waiting. Maybe heâd just follow you home. Watch you through your window. It would be enough to comfort him.
âHow are you getting home?â The words came out before he could stop them.
âWalked here,â you said, pulling out your lipstick. âGuess Iâll do the same.â
He watched your mouth as you reapplied it, the careful, practiced stroke of colour. He couldnât look away.
âLet me drive you.â
You paused, the compact half-closed. Your eyes lifted to his, and he could see you weighing it, the stranger across from you, the risk of letting him know where you lived. The silence stretched. He felt the whole night teetering.
Fuck. Heâd done too much. He ruined it. Heâd pushed too hard, too fast, and nowâ
âOkay.â
It hit him somewhere between the Williamsburg Bridge and the mouth of your street, a strange hollow equation he couldnât solve.
Away from you, the restlessness ate at him, he couldnât settle, couldnât quiet the noise inside his head.
But here, with you in the passenger seat, so close he could feel the warmth coming off your skin through the space between them, he wasnât any better. His body was locked tight, every muscle braced for a mistake he hadnât made yet.
He couldnât stop glancing at you while he drove.
His hands were rigid on the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the passing streetlight. You leaned back in the seat, your head tilted, completely relaxed, watching the city slide past the window.
No tension in your shoulders. No flicker of anxiety. Just calm. It made him feel transparent, like you could see every loose wire and frayed thread in his head.
By the time he pulled up outside your building, his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, a quick, raw pulse that wouldnât steady.
How had this happened so fast? Heâd spent years wanting you, fantasising about you from a distance, and now that you were here, the wanting had twisted into a kind of fear.
The fear of doing something wrong. Of saying the wrong thing. Of breaking whatever fragile spell had let him into your space tonight.
You turned toward him. Your expression was different now. At dinner, your eyes had been sharp, playful, like a vixen toying with her prey.
But here, in the dim lamplight bleeding through the windshield, your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, and your gaze was wider, softer, something he didnât have a name for.
âI had a good night,â you murmured.
Dex opened his mouth. His tongue felt thick, useless. âMe too.â It came out pitiful, barely a whisper.
You kept looking at him, waiting. Your lashes lowered, then lifted, like an invitation he couldnât decode.
He stared back, frozen. Should he get out? Open your door? Walk you inside? He had no script for this, no smooth line rehearsed. His eyes drifted from yours to your parted lips. Red. Soft.
He was still scrambling through the noise in his head for the right move when your hand moved. It slid up the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair.
Before he could react, before his brain could catch up, you were pulling him forward.
Your lips met his.
For a long, heavy beat, Dex didnât move.
His body locked up completely as the reality of your mouth sank in. You were kissing him. The thought cracked through the static in his brain like lightning. You. Kissing him.
Then instinct took over before he could wreck it. His lips started moving, awkward and unpracticed, trailing behind the rhythm you set.
A shaky breath left him, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he relaxed into the warmth of your mouth, the simple unimaginable fact of it.
Until he felt the wet tip of your tongue brush his bottom lip.
He tensed immediately. His eyes cracked open, found yours closed, your face slack and completely lost in it. He parted his lips. Let you in.
The second your tongues met, a raw sound caught in his throat. His cock hardened painfully behind his zipper, a rush of blood that made everything else go distant.
The taste of you flooded his senses, faintly sweet, the slick slide of your tongue against his. His brain went quiet for the first time all night.
Then something inside him snapped.
The careful, terrified version of himself fell away. He had to touch you. Now.
He pulled his hand off the wheel, lifted it. Fingers spread, hesitated. Your hair? Your waist? Your cheek? He had no idea what he was doing. Every option felt wrong, but doing nothing was unthinkable.
His palm landed on your throat before he could decide.
His fingers curved around the column of your neck, thumb settling against the flutter of your pulse. You moaned into his mouth, pleased and approving, and the sound shot straight through his chest. You liked it.
He pushed harder against your mouth, greedier. The hand on your throat tightened fractionally, pulling you closer across the console.
He didnât care about breathing anymore.
The taste of you flooded every nerve in his body like a drug heâd been starving for his whole life. Heâd rather suffocate against your mouth than take another clean breath of empty air.
Your hands found his jaw, and for a split second his brain screamed that you were pushing him away. Too rough. Too fast. He ruined it.Â
His grip started to loosen, a fresh wave of shame crawling up his throatâ
But your fingers dug into his skin and pulled him closer.
The sound that left him was raw, almost animal. Relief and hunger tangled together as you yanked him deeper into the kiss.
Little noises escaped your mouth, muffled against his tongue, and he tried to memorise each one even as he lost himself in the wet slide of your lips.
His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, fingers curling around the bone, tilting your head back as he pushed further into your mouth.
His tongue swept against yours, messy and desperate. He didnât know what he was doing, he just knew he needed more. He wanted to crawl inside your skin.
Then your palms pressed flat against his chest.
Push.
The separation hit him like cold water. He broke away gasping, and his mouth chased yours before he could stop himself. But you didnât pull further back.
You caught his lips in soft, quick pecks, barely there, just enough to soothe the ache youâd left behind.
Your mouth brushed against his when you spoke, voice low and rough.
âDo you wanna come up?â
Fuck.Â
The words hit him square in the chest, then dropped lower, settling hot and heavy in his gut. He was already nodding before his brain caught up, pupils blown wide, lips wet and swollen.
âYeah,â he breathed against your mouth, âYeah. Fuckâyes.â
Dexâs pulse slammed against his ribs the second the lock clicked behind him.
Standing in your apartment. He forced his eyes to wander like he was stepping in here for the first time, even as his brain catalogued every detail against the map heâd already burned into his memory.
âNice place.â The words scraped out of him, rough and distracted.
He tilted his head at the bookshelf, the framed photograph he knew was your mother, the throw blanket draped over the armchair that heâd watched you buy from a street vendor three months ago.
Every careful glance was a lie, but he wore it like a second skin.
âThanks.â Your voice came from right behind him.
Then your hands were on him again, sliding over his shoulders, turning him around. He went without resistance, boneless under your touch. You pulled him down and met his lips halfway.
Your tongue pushed past his lips and he opened for you like a starving thing.
Your fingers twisted into his hair, yanking his head forward just enough to deepen the angle, and he let you. Heâd let you do anything.
You bit his bottom lip, sucked it into your mouth, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.
His hands began to move. Everywhere. Your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips.
He grabbed desperate handfuls of your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat of your body through that thin dress made his head spin.
You were soft in ways heâd only ever imagined, and his imagination had been thorough, but nothing prepared him for the reality of you pressed against his aching body. He wanted to touch every part of you at once, to map you entirely.
You broke the kiss first, panting, lips slick and swollen. Your forehead rested against his, your breath hot and uneven on his mouth. âI donât do this often,â you murmured, the confession raw and almost shy.
âI know,â he breathed without thinking.
The second the words left him, he felt you stiffen. You pulled back, confusion knitting your brows. âWhat do you mean, you know?â
Dexâs stomach dropped into freefall.
His eyes snapped open, panic flooding his veins.Â
Fuck. Fuck.Â
He scrambled for a lifeline, his mouth opening and closing before the lie managed to crawl out. âI mean IâI know what you mean. Me too. I donâtâI donât do this often either.â
You held his gaze for a long moment. The sharpness in your eyes softened, and you snorted, a puff of warm breath against his lips. âYouâre so weird.â
Relief flooded him so fast it made him dizzy. Before he could dwell on it, you were kissing him again, swallowing whatever fragile composure he had left.
Your hands guided him backwards. He followed blindly, drunk on your mouth, stumbling until the back of his knees hit something soft. You shoved him. Hard.
He landed on the couch with a grunt, bouncing once before settling, looking up at you with wide, dazed eyes.
Before he could ask, you leaned down, bracing your hands on his knees, and kissed him again. Slow and deep, a thorough occupation of his mouth that erased every thought trying to surface.
He melted into it, his hands finding your thighs, stroking the warm skin exposed by the hem of your dress.
You broke the kiss gently, pulling back just enough that he could see you.
You were on her knees. Between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, your lipstick smudged, your hair loose around your face.
The sight of you there stole the air from his lungs.
âWhatâwhat are you doing?â Dex heard himself ask, his voice thin and wrecked, stripped of every layer he hid behind.
You smiled as your hands slid up his thighs, fingers pressing into the muscle.
âHaving my dessert.â
Dexâs brain went completely blank when your fingers found his belt buckle. The soft click-clack of it coming undone rang through the room like a gunshot in his ears.
He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to do something other than lie there like a trembling mess offering himself up to you, but all that came out was a strained, cracked confession,
âAre you sureâyou-you donât have toââ
His hips lifted off the couch cushions anyway.
A complete betrayal of every word coming out of his mouth. His body didnât give a single fuck what his brain was trying to negotiate.
It wanted you. It had always wanted you.
You didnât hesitate. You dragged his slacks and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, baring him completely to the warm air of your apartment.
He shivered, his cock springing free to slap against his stomach with a wet, heavy sound.
He was already painfully hard, leaking against his navel, the swollen head flushed dark and slick, and the sight of you looking at it made his stomach clench so hard he thought he might be sick.
Your hand wrapped around him like it belonged there. A firm grip that made him grunt, his hips bucking up into your fist before he could stop himself.
The heat of your palm was everything. He watched, completely mesmerised, as your thumb swept across the sensitive head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, using it to slick your stroke.
You looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth hovering inches from his tip.
Your breath was hot and uneven against his sensitive skin, and there was a tremor in your voice when you spoke that made his heart stutter in his chest.
âYou donât want me to suck your cock?â
Jesus Christ.Â
The visual was so fucking obscene, you, on your knees, looking up at him with those wide, innocent doe eyes while your hand worked his shaft and your lips hovered so close he could feel the ghost of them.
He had to lean his head back against the couch cushion and squeeze his eyes shut. He was going to cum just from looking at you.
A soft, dark laugh came from between his legs. âThat wasnât a no.â
Before he could answer, something wet touched him.
His eyes snapped open. He looked down just in time to see your tongue trace a slow path along the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
An embarrassing, needy whimper crawled out of his throat before he could strangle it. His hips twitched, desperate to push into the warmth of your mouth, but he held himself still by sheer, crumbling willpower.
You didnât stop. You laid a soft, lingering kiss right on the crown, your lips parting just enough to ghost over the sensitive slit before pulling away.
When you looked up at him, your eyes were dark and hooded, your lips slick and parted.
âKeep your eyes on me, Dex.â
He nodded. A dumb, jerky motion. He didnât trust his voice. He didnât trust anything. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Â
You didnât even have his cock in your mouth yet and he swore he could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with every second you held his gaze.
His hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles white. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a desperate gasp.
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, watching in rapt focus as you parted your lips and took the swollen crown of his cock into your mouth.
Your eyes stayed locked on his. You held his gaze as you sank deeper, inch by agonising inch.
The wet heat of your tongue curled around his shaft, the velvet pressure of your cheeks hollowing as you pulled him further into the slick, perfect heaven of your throat.
Every inch you swallowed made his hips twitch involuntarily against the cushions. Every flutter of your lashes made his stomach clench tighter. He couldnât look away. He couldnât.
Oh, fuck. Your mouth was so warm. So impossibly wet.
The slick slide of your tongue curling around his shaft, the flutter of your throat when the tip pressed against the back of your mouth, he didnât think anything in this world could feel better than having his cock in your mouth.
He was certain of it. This was the single best moment of his entire miserable life. He was ready to die right here and call it a life well-lived.
You pulled back slowly, dragging your tongue along the thick, throbbing vein on the underside of his cock before taking him deep again with a low moan.
A broken whimper crawled out of his throat before he could clamp down on it. âFuckâfuck, I canâtââ His voice was wrecked, barely more than a ragged whisper. âYou gotta stopâor Iâm gonnaââ
You just hummed casually against his slick, swollen tip, your breath hot and uneven against his sensitive skin.
âNo, no, waitâplease, I want it to last,â he heard himself begging, the words tumbling out in a desperate, breathless rush. âIâm not gonna make itâI swear to Godââ
You didnât stop. You just held his gaze with those innocent, wicked eyes and took him deeper.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was so fucking pathetic. Lasting like some inexperienced teenager, his first time all over again.
He tried to think of anything else; baseball statistics, the cold metal of his gun, the layout of the presidential hotel, but it was no fucking use at all.
Every nerve in his body was tuned to the wet slide of your mouth, the curl of your tongue, the soft, muffled gag when he hit the back of your throat.
He squeezed his eyes shut, could feel the frustrated tears prickling hot behind his lids. He couldnât look at you anymore.
He had to stop himself, had to make this last, but his body was betraying him completely, trembling, arching, pushing deeper into your heat.
You took him back into your mouth in a single, fluid motion. Hollowed your cheeks. Pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his shaft.
And when you swallowed around the head of his cock, pulling him deeper into the wet velvet of your throat, he shattered completely.
âOh fuckâIâm comingââ
His hips bucked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into your throat, feeling you gag around him, feeling your throat constrict and pulse as you swallowed, milking the orgasm out of him.
His release slammed into him like a freight train.
Hot, thick ropes of his come spilled into your mouth, and you swallowed around him, milking every drop, refusing to let him go even as he convulsed through the aftershocks.
His back arched off the cushions. His hands fisted so hard in the fabric he thought he might tear it. His vision whited out completely.
When his hips finally stopped stuttering, when his body went limp and trembling beneath you, you released him with a soft, wet kiss to his oversensitive tip.
The tenderness of it made his chest ache.
âIâm sorry, Iâm so sorry,â he felt himself mumbling, the words spilling out before he could stop them. âThat was so fastâI couldnâtâI didnât mean toââ
His hand came up to cover his face, shame and self-disgust crashing over him in waves.
But you wouldnât let him hide. You caught his wrist, gently pulling his hand away, and crawled up his body.
Your lips were slick and swollen, your chin wet with him. You cut off his rambling apologies with a kiss, and his own taste flooded his senses. He groaned into your mouth, as your tongue played with his.
You broke the kiss just barely, your lips brushing against his as you murmured, âThat was the sexiest thing Iâve ever seen.â
He blinked up at you, dazed and trembling. âYeah?â
You hummed against his lips, a slow, satisfied sound. âAnd I canât wait for you to fuck me.â
The words hit him like a spark in a gas tank. The shame, the self-hate burned away in an instant, replaced by an animal surge of hunger.
He looked at you, still dazed, a slow, disbelieving smile pulling at his lips.
He still hadnât ruined anything yet. He still hadnât lost you.
His hands found your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Before you could react, he was moving, wrapping his arms around you and hauling you up with him.
You let out a surprised squeal, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss as he stood, walking blindly toward the hallway where he knew your bedroom was.
Dex lay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter the fragile, impossible peace of the moment.
You were curled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your breathing slow and deep, the sound of someone completely and utterly spent.
He had never felt anything like this. Not once in thirty-two years. This is what it feels like. This quiet. This rightness. This terrifying, exhilarating certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Happiness.
His mind drifted back over the hours, replaying the sharp, vivid highlights like a film he couldnât look away from.
He had learned so much about you tonight. How your breath hitched when he scraped his teeth along your pulse point. How your fingers twisted in the sheets when he found the perfect angle.
You loved being on your hands and knees for him. The first time, heâd followed your lead, sinking into you from behind, gripping your hips so hard he knew there would be bruises.
He pounded into you, watching your body rock forward with every thrust as you cried into your pillows, muffling your pleasure.
But something in him had itched. He hated it like this.
He couldnât see your face. Couldnât watch the expressions that flickered across your features when he hit that spot. Couldnât feel your heartbeat against his chest or taste your moans with his own mouth.
It felt too much like taking, and not nearly enough like having you.
After you came the first time, your body shuddering and clenching around him, he pulled out before you could catch your breath and flipped you onto your back.
He needed to see you. Needed to watch the way your mouth fell open, the way your pupils blew wide when he settled between your thighs.
He buried his face between your legs and drank you in with a need that bordered on worship.
He lapped at your slick, swollen folds until your second orgasm crested, your hands fisting in his hair, your hips grinding against his mouth as you gasped his name into the dark.
By the time your third orgasm rolled through you, he had your legs wrapped high around his waist, his body pressed flush against yours.
He was buried so deep inside you that the world outside the space between your bodies ceased to exist. His nose touched yours. His forehead rested against yours.
He captured your gaze and held it hostage.
âLook at me,â he breathed, the command barely a whisper. âDonât close your eyes. Look at me.â
He wanted you to see everything he had felt since the first moment he saw you in that diner. The obsession. The desperation. The hunger that had consumed him for years.
He wanted you to feel it in the way he moved inside you, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of himself directly into your bloodstream.
He knew you probably didnât understand the full scope of it.
But lying here, in the aftermath, he let himself pretend. He pretended you had been waiting for him all this time. That your body recognised him. That this was always meant to happen.
When he finally let go, he held himself perfectly still, pumping his release deep inside you with a low groan.
He pressed so close that he could feel your heartbeat through his chest, grinding against you as if he could transfer his devotion through sheer physical proximity.
His nose stayed pressed to yours, his lips hovering just over your mouth, sharing the same warm, humid breath.
He whispered things against your lips. Broken things. Beautiful things.
Confessions that would never make sense in the harsh light of day, but here, in the dark, felt like the only truth that mattered.
âBeen waiting so long. So long. I fucking worship you. Youâre mine. Iâm yours. Donât ever leave me.â
His voice cracked on the last word. He didnât care. He let himself be cracked open, let you see the raw, jagged edges of him that he had spent a lifetime hiding.
You didnât answer. You probably didnât even hear him. Your eyes had fluttered shut, your body going lax and heavy against him.
Lost to sleep. Lost to him.
He smiled against your hair, a real smile that softened all the hard lines of his face. He didnât need you to answer. Not tonight.
Just having you here, warm and trusting and full of him, was already more than he ever dared to hope for.
The air in the room had cooled, but wrapped around you, he was warm for the first time in as long as he could remember.
Only twenty-four hours ago, he had been suffocating. Bound by rules and routines and the desperate need to keep himself contained.
But Fisk had shattered the cage he kept himself in. He had shown Dex a version of himself that was raw, hungry, and unapologetic. And instead of retreating from the wreckage, Dex had stepped into it.
He had let go of the ropes and the rules and the white-knuckled grip on control. He had chosen himself for the first time in his miserable, constrained life.
And by choosing himself, he had found the path that curved inevitably, beautifully, right back to you.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His hand splayed across your stomach, feeling the warmth of you.
I did this, he thought, pride blooming in his chest. I chose this. I chose me. And it led me to you.
Dex buried his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing deep into the warm, sleep-soft skin just behind your ear.
He inhaled slowly, letting your scent flood his lungs. You smelled like homeâthe faint coconut trace of your shampoo, the salt of dried sweat from the hours you had spent tangled together, and something deeper, muskier, that was entirely, irrefutably you.
God. This was unbelievable.
And that was where his next problem laid.
He spared a glance down, past the rumpled sheet that clung to his hips, and saw the unmistakable tent of fabric where his cock had hardened again.
He let out a quiet, shaky breath, his eyes tracing the outline of his own need with a mixture of frustration and irritation.
He couldnât fucking help it.
He felt like a kid in a candy store. The kid being him, a thirty-two-year-old man who had never known what it felt like to want something and actually get it. And the candy store was you. Access to your body.
The knowledge that he could touch you, taste you, sink into you whenever he wanted, and you would let him. You would want him to.
He had known it would be addictive. He just hadnât realised how quickly the addiction would take hold, how it would wrap around his nervous system and tighten until he couldnât think of anything else.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
Spooned against you, chest to your back, he felt his hips roll forward in a slow, instinctive grind.
The thick length of him slid into the warm cradle between your thighs, pressing against the soft, slick heat of you through the sheet. A low sound caught in his throat, a choked half-groan that he swallowed against your skin.
Fuck. He should let you rest.
He had been so rough with you tonight. Your body had given him everything.You deserved sleep. You deserved peace.
But his cock didnât give a shit about what you deserved.
Before he could stop himself, his hips rolled forward again, and this time the tip of him nudged past the edge of the sheet, finding the bare, wet seam of your cunt.
He gasped against your shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut. The slide of you against him was obscenely slick, unbearably warm, a friction so perfect it made his toes curl against the mattress.
Shit. You were still leaking him from earlier.
The evidence of what he had done to you was still there, pooled between your thighs, making you slick and ready for him all over again.
He pressed a quick, guilty kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering just long enough to form a silent apology. Iâm sorry. I canât help it. I just... I need you. I canât stop needing you.
His hand moved, sliding over the curve of your stomach, tracing the soft dip of your waist before cupping your breast.
The weight of it filled his palm perfectly, the flesh so soft and warm, molding against his fingers like it was made for him. He squeezed gently, then let his thumb drag across your nipple, feeling the peak tighten and pebble under his touch.
A small shift rippled through your body. A subtle arch of your spine. A soft, breathy sound that caught in your throat.
He froze.
Every muscle in his body locked tight. His breath stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure it would wake you on its own. He waited, suspended in the pure terror of being caught.Â
Sheâs going to wake up. Sheâs going to see what Iâm doing. Sheâs going to realise what a fucking creep I amâthat I canât keep my hands off her even when sheâs asleep, that Iâve been watching her for years, that I am completely, irreparably obsessed with her.
The seconds stretched like hours.
But you didnât wake. Your breathing deepened again, settling back into that slow, even rhythm. Your body relaxed against his, soft and trusting and completely oblivious to the war raging inside his chest.
He should have stopped. He should have been grateful for the reprieve, thanked whatever cruel god had given him this moment, and let you sleep.
Instead, he kept moving.
His hips resumed their slow, steady rhythm, grinding against your soaked cunt, the head of his cock sliding through the mess of his own release and your combined arousal.
The sensation was maddening; a wet, slippery tease that promised heaven without delivering it.
His hand stayed on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, feeling the way your body responded even in sleep.
He pressed his lips to the back of your neck, a long, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of salt and skin. His breath came hot and uneven against your nape.
âIâm sorry,â he rasped against your skin, barely a whisper. âBut I canât... I canât stop touching you. Every second Iâm not inside you feels like Iâm wasting time I donât have.â
His hips rolled again, slower this time, deeper, the blunt tip of him catching at your entrance before sliding away, teasing both of you.
A shudder ran through his entire body.
âPlease. Just a little more.â
The words slipped from Dexâs lips against the warm skin of your neck, a prayer offered to himself more than you, a plea for permission he was already taking.
He buried his face deeper into the crook of your shoulder, breathing you in until his lungs ached, and let his hips move.
There was nothing graceful about it. He rutted against you like a man possessed, the thick length of him sliding through the slick heat pooled between your thighs.
The sensation erased every rational thought. There was only you. The need to be inside you again. To own you. To fill you so completely that you couldnât forget him, couldnât leave him.
His breath came heavier against your nape, as his hand slid from your breast down to your stomach. He pressed his palm flat against the soft curve of your belly and pulled you tighter against him.
The arch of your back pressed your ass directly against his cock, and a fractured groan escaped him.
Thatâs when he felt it. A shift in your body. Your muscles tensed, your breathing changed, the subtle alertness of waking. Your voice cut through the dark, rough with sleep.
âDex...?â
He froze for the span of a heartbeat. Then his hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back just enough for him to press a kiss to your cheek.
His hips never stopped their relentless grind, his cock catching at your entrance before sliding away again.
âShhh,â he breathed against your ear. âGo back to sleep, honey. Iâve got you. Just let me stay right here.â
He needed you to stay in that space between dreaming and waking, where you were pliant and accepting and he could pretend his need wasnât completely out of control.
But you turned your head toward him, your lips parting.
âDexââ
He couldnât let you finish. He kissed you, his tongue sliding into your mouth before you could form the rest of the sentence.
And you let him. No, you kissed him back. Your mouth softened under his, your body melting into his, your tongue meeting his with a lazy, sultry rhythm that told him everything he needed to know.
He felt your hand slide down between your bodies, your fingers searching blindly until they found him.
You traced the slick head of his cock, your touch featherlight, and a shudder ripped through him so violently he had to brace himself against the mattress.
âFuck,â he gasped against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged. âYou want this too.â
You didnât answer with words. You nudged the tip of him against your opening, a silent direction that drove the last shred of his restraint into the dust.
He answered with a small grunt as he pushed inside.
The heat of you swallowed him whole, and he dropped his forehead to yours, breathing you in. A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips, and your fingers curled against his back.
âDex,â you murmured again, but this time it wasnât a question. It was a sigh of surrender. A welcome.
He pressed another kiss to your mouth, before he began to move.
He tried to start slow. He tried to savour the sensation of sinking back into your slick heat. The attempt lasted only a handful of careful thrusts before the hunger surged through him.
His strokes turned hard and punishing. The rhythm of his hips fell into a desperate tempo that rocked the mattress beneath you, the steady thump-thump-thump of the headboard keeping time with the wild beating of his heart.
His hand slid up from your hip, fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach, your ribs, before curling around your throat.
You looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, your pupils blown wide, your lips parted around soft, broken ah-ah-ah sounds that spilled from your throat with every deep thrust.
He leaned down, his mouth hovering over yours, and deliberately let a thick string of saliva fall into your open lips. He wanted more of himself inside you.
More of his taste, his mark, his presence seeping into every crevice of your body.
A low, guttural groan rumbled up from his chest as he watched you swallow it without hesitation, without question. Your throat worked under his palm, accepting him, taking him in, and the sight nearly sent him over the edge.
âFuck,â he murmured against your lips, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he drove into you harder. âYou liked that, didnât you? Touching you while you were asleep. Groping you. Fucking you like I own you.â
Despite the dazed pleasure softening your features, despite the way he was fucking the very thoughts out of your head, you still had the audacity to smile.
That slow, lazy, knowing curl of your lips that had haunted him since the first time he saw it. You hummed a soft, satisfied, âUh huh.â
âYeah,â he breathed, a fractured sound against your cheek.
He hooked your thigh higher over his arm, opening you wider, sinking deeper into your perfect, willing heat.
Your voice came out in fractured moans, but there was a teasing edge to it. ââS fucking hot. Knew you were a freak the second I saw you.â
Dex couldnât help it. A laugh cracked out of him, low and disbelieving, pressed against the warmth of your cheek.
Here he was, balls deep in the object of a years-long obsession, and you were calling him a freak like it was the highest compliment.
The laugh faded into a shuddering exhale as he shifted his angle, driving into you with hard, deep thrusts that pushed the air from your lungs and left you gasping beneath him.
He wanted to leave a permanent mark on your soul. He wanted your cunt to remember the exact shape of him, the exact weight of him.
He wanted the memory of this night imprinted so deeply into your body that you would feel the ghost of him every time you closed your thighs.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, breath ragged and hot.
âIâm gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.â
Your response came as fractured, desperate moans, words swallowed by the rhythm of his hips driving into you.
Without breaking pace, his hand moved. Two fingers pressed against your lips. You opened without hesitation, taking them into your mouth just as you took every part of him.
He pushed them deep, curling them against your tongue in perfect time with his thrusts, a double rhythm that had you moaning around his knuckles.
The sight of you like this; mouth full of him, cunt full of him, eyes glassy and fixed on his face, pushed him to the edge. He could feel the tension coiling tight in his gut, the familiar ache building at the base of his spine.
He was seconds away from coming. But he couldnât. Not yet.
He needed you there first.
With a wet gasp from you, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva breaking between his skin and your lips. His hand dropped without hesitation, finding your clit.
He rubbed fast, precise circles against the swollen bud, his own rhythm faltering as he poured every ounce of focus into your pleasure.
His eyes locked onto your face. He watched every micro-expression. The furrow of your brows, the way your lips parted on sharp, punched-out breaths, the flutter of your lashes as pleasure overtook you.
You looked up at him, dazed and pleading, and he nodded like a man possessed, a dumb, frantic motion that matched the speed of his fingers.
âCâmon,â he breathed, the words cracking. âLet go fâme. Let go, baby.â
And you did.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your back arching, your mouth opening in a loud moan. Dex felt it, the way your cunt clenched around him, choked him, milked him.
The sensation ripped a loud, guttural groan from his chest, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. He closed his eyes, the world going white, and let himself go.
Deep, pulsing spurts of cum filled you, and he thrust into you with every wave, pushing himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there, making sure every drop stayed inside you.
When it was over, the room was filled with nothing but harsh, shared breaths.
He collapsed against you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. He made no move to pull out. No move to let you go. He stayed buried inside you, as close as flesh could get.
âJesus Christ,â you murmured in a daze, the words barely a whisper.
The silence that followed was a dangerous thing. It let the thoughts back in. The insecurity. The horrible, gnawing fear that he had done too much.
He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, hiding, breathing you in until his lungs ached. His voice was rough, muffled against your skin.
âToo much?â
A beat. Then your hand, slow and heavy with exhaustion, slid into his hair. You laughed, soft and drowsy.
âNo.â A pause. âBy all means... keep me in your basement if you want.â
Dexâs eyes snapped open.
The joke hung in the air, clearly just a sleepy, affectionate jab. But he didnât hear the joke.
He heard the offer.
Having you to himself. Forever. In a place where no one else could touch you, see you, take you. A place where you were his, every single moment of every single day.
And if you wanted it... if you offered it up with that same trust you gave him your body, your mouth, your cunt...
Then why the fuck wouldnât he do it?
He lifted his head slowly, looking down at your face. You were half-asleep, lips curved in a soft sex-dazed smile. You had no idea what you had just given him.
His voice dropped, quiet and raw. Completely serious.
âYeah?â
Your lashes fluttered. You hummed, already drifting back into sleep, but the sound was an affirmation. A yes.
His hand slid up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced your cheekbone, and when he spoke, the words were a vow pressed against your lips.
âThen Iâm never letting you go.â
a/n | dex feeling absolutely blessed and a surreality of being seen and chosen by you, meanwhile reader is just a youngho and overly horny
âď¸ warnings: smut, rough sex, reader talks him through it, bucky doesn't dirty talk, he snarls instead, size difference, dumbification (bucky talks like a caveman? idk), talks about consent, period typical misogyny, creampie, praise, breeding kink, spitting in mouth, mating press, overstimulation, bucky loves eye contact
âď¸ word count: 6k
âď¸ a/n: what started out as a 'hahahehe' food for thought turned into a smutty porn without plot fic. ty to @epiphanyrogers for giving me the motivation to write this by feeding me with her own gladiator steve !! reader literally teaches what consent is to bucky, but ultimately the sex is consensual. either way, please tread carefully.
synopsis:
Bucky becomes the reigning champion and naturally, he seeks a prizeâa pretty maiden to bed. You fall victim to his rough handsâto a brute who doesn't even know the meaning of the word "no." Yet to your surprise, despite being a man who takes whatever he wants, he is willing to let you teach him what consent really means.
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The Colosseum is a home for bloodbaths.
There is a symphony of cheers and screams that rings throughout the entire dome. Swords clash against swords, sweat and blood dance together, dirt kicks into the air, and alcohol and spit shoot out of patronsâ mouths.
It is meaninglessâall of it just a cruel form of entertainment for the emperor and his family.
You are thankful that you hadnât been born a male to be pushed into these silly games, but instead, you are a womanâand that might be worse. But for now, despite all the screaming happening outdoors, you find solitude and a somewhat sense of peace near the barracks, sweeping debris and scrubbing the blood and grime off the floors from the defeated champions who walked away, already on the verge of death.
âLook at them,â you breathe. You pause your sweeping, wiping a strand of sweaty hair out of your face as your eyes peer through the wide holes of the wooden gates. âAnimals. The whole lot of them.â
Livia does not need to look up to know what them you are referring to. There is only one kind of ruthless animal in the worldâand that is men.
âDo not stare,â she warns you quietly. âIf they catch you looking, theyâll punish you.â
âPlease,â you scoff. âTheir heads are too far up their own egos to notice us.â
âBig egos, yes.â Liviaâs golden eyes glance over her shoulder from where she kneels on the floor, scrubbing grime. âAnd bodies. They are also quite handsome.â
Your eyes snap to her in revulsion. âHandsome? How can you say such a thing!â You glance back at the two men battling in the center of the dome. âLook at them. They are monsters.â
In the center is a man that you recognizeâBucky Barnes, the reigning champion for years. The White Wolf, is what the Emperor likes to call him. He is fighting another man, not much bigger than him, and certainly a man you do not recognize, meaning a man who will soon be falling to his doom beneath Buckyâs swords.
You have to admit, however, the man was giving The White Wolf a run for his money.
Finally, the man kneels before Bucky in defeat. Bucky raises his sword and delivers the final blow that sends the man to his grave.
Cheers erupt inside the dome. People jump out of their seats to shout and stomp. More debris and dust fall from above, landing on your and Liviaâs facesâmaking you both cough.
The gates of the dome rattle as the heraldâs voice shouts over the roaring crowd.
âVictory belongs to the undefeated! Behold your championâThe White Wolf!â
Thousands of voices chant his name as the dome thumps in a cadence that shakes the stone foundations around you. Through the wooden slats of the gate, you watch Bucky raise his blood-slicked sword to the sky. Unlike the other victors, he doesnât smile. He never smiles.
Livia wipes the dust off her brow. âAnother one to his name. He truly is unstoppable.â
You pull your gaze away. âHe is a butcher,â you mutter.
Livia pushes herself off the floor with a light groan. She lifts the empty wooden basin to her chest. âI am going to refill this,â she says. âWeâre going to need a lot of water to wash the victor up. I will be back.â
The wooden gate in front of you begins to groan as it slowly lifts. You grip your broom tight, moving to the side to make space for the blood-soaked victor to return back inside.
When Bucky steps in, the cool shade of the barracks is pure bliss against his hot body. Behind him steps the herald, adjusting his fine robes and wiping a pristine handkerchief over his sweaty brow, while the champion in front of him bleeds everywhere.
Bucky drops onto a wooden bench, and it creaks beneath his large body. His chest heaves as he catches his breath. With eyes still fueled by the adrenaline of battle, he watches as you approach him with a damp cloth and drop to your knees, wiping the splattered blood from his shins and boots.
âA magnificent display, White Wolf,â the herald boasts, pacing the floor and waving a hand dismissively in your direction as if you were just another piece of furniture. âThe Emperor was thoroughly pleased. The coin will be transferred to your keeper, of course, but the Emperor insists on a personal reward for his favorite fighter tonight. A token of appreciation. Wine? A feast? Or perhaps a woman from the upper courts?â
Bucky does not answer the herald.
You try to keep your eyes down, working on scrubbing the crimson off his leather armor, but you can feel his cold stare watching your every movement, tracing the line of your shoulders and the curve of your vulnerable and exposed neck.
âWe have the finest women prepared,â the herald continues, oblivious. âYou have earned the right to take whatever, or whomever, you please.â
A massive and calloused hand suddenly shoots out. His fingers lock around your fragile wrist, making you wince and drop the rag.
âThis one.â
You meet the championâs eyes, and the spirit behind them terrifies you.
Bucky looks at you, not the way he stares at his opponents, but with something far more lethal. He looks at you as if you are roasted meat served on a silver platter by the Emperor himself. It sends shivers down your spine, and you avert your gaze.
The herald stands confused beside him.
âHer?â the herald sputters, looking down at you in disbelief. âWhite Wolf, she is a mere servant. A floor scrubber. The Emperor offered you a lady of the court. Someone fit for a powerful champion, such as yourself!â
The way the herald utters the word lady sounds like an insult to youâas if insinuating youâre not woman enough for a man like Barnes.
Buckyâs grip on your wrist tightens again as he gives your arm a rough shake, forcing your attention back to him with a gasp.
âWant her,â Bucky grunts, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The herald blinks, his eyes flickering down to you where you kneel before the champion. He clears his throat uncomfortably. âYou must be mistaken, champion. She is nothing but a dirty servantââ
Buckyâs leather gloves creak as he tightens his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the herald falls silent, taking that slight movement from the gladiator as a threat to shut up.
âFine, fine,â the herald mutters with a defeated sigh. âIf that is what pleases you, then she is at your disposal.â
Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You hadnât expected the herald to give you up so easily. You had hoped he would insist Bucky find a better womanâsomeone of higher value, and nowhere near your station.
âWait, sirâyou canât possiblyâ!â
âI will let the Emperor know of your decision.â The herald turns on his heel, continuing to talk as if you arenât even present. âHe will be very amused. Though⌠it does make my job easier, finding another prize⌠I shall consider this a win for the both of us!â
The herald scratches his beard and shrugs as he continues to walk away. You feel like your life is already flashing before your eyes. There are horror stories of men like Buckyâmen who just take and take without remorse. You are no exception. You donât even want to imagine the kind of things he would do to a woman like you once the herald leaves you two alone. Ignoring Bucky entirely, you try to pry your weak arm away from the fighterâs grip and get to your feet.
âSir, wait! Donât leave me here with him!â
But Buckyâs grip remains tight. He hauls you against his broad, bare chest as he stands up. You collide into him with a yelp as he pins you still.
âMine now,â he rumbles deeply.
You try to pull back, your heels digging into the grime stained floor, but itâs like trying to move a stone pillar. âLet me go! I have to finish cleaning, I have toââ
Without a word, he crouches before you and wraps both strong arms over your legs, hauling you like nothing and propping you over his shoulder like a prize he rightfully deserves.
âCome,â Bucky barks without a single opportunity for defiance. âTake you home.â
Your voice is dry from all the shouting and begging for him to release you. Your fists are weak from pounding his back in an attempt to make him let you go. Now, as you sit at the edge of his worn bed in his small homeâwhich feels like itâs being held up by nothing but sticks and tapestryâyou realize all of it was futile.
Tears streak your dirty cheeks as you wipe at them pathetically. You couldnât even say goodbye to your dear friend, Livia. She must be worrying herself sick about you.
Bucky stands large and imposing in the center of the already tiny home. He wastes no time as he strips himself of his clothes, eyes locked onto your trembling frame. This man in front of you has no sense of shame as he leaves himself completely bare, his cock already hard and springing to his muscular lower belly.
You glance up, your breath catching in your throat at his size.
He is huge, his tip already gorging into an angry red while pre-cum dribbles out from the slit. Your eyes follow the veins that decorate his shaft up until you reach the base of his cock, where dark curls sit unruly and trail thinner up to his belly button.
âGood,â he grunts in approval. âLook at me. Only me.â
Buckyâs strong legs stalk forward to meet you at the edge of the bed. All you can do is stare at him with wide eyes. The campfire flickering behind him casts a warm light, highlighting his muscles and the sharpness of his features.
As he gets closer, you scramble backward. His knees dip and creak the bed as he crawls after you. To him, this is a game of cat and mouseâand he doesnât mind one bit. Youâre terrified, but he sees this as foreplay. The two of you continue this until your back hits the stone wall, leaving you nowhere else to run.
âPlease,â you whimper. âDonât do this.â
Then, without warning, his hand shoots out to grab the neckline of your dress. With a simple tug, his mere strength tears right through it.
âNo!â you shriek, your hands coming up to cover your breasts before he even catches a glimpse. âStop!â
Bucky furrows his brows. Your cries and actions only confuse him. His hands grab your arms, trying to pry them away from your chest. He is so much stronger than you; he could easily break you if he wanted to.
âNo! Stop! Iâm not ready!â you cry again, shaking your head as you gather all your strength to fight back. âI said, Iâm not readyâ!â
With your hand acting on a mind of its own, it reaches out and delivers a hard slap across the gladiatorâs face.
Buckyâs head whips to the side, his dark, matted hair covering the features of his faceâyou canât make out his expression at all.
Your eyes go wide, and your hand weakly retreats back to your chest. If you hadnât thought Bucky was going to kill you before, you are certain he is going to skip the sexual act and kill you right now instead.
But, being as stubborn as you are, you hold onto the shovel that digs your very grave.
âI told you to stop,â your voice is shaky, but you try to find your footing. âI said no. Countless times. I did not give you my consent. Donât you know what that word means?â
This is foolish, you think to yourself. Talking to a gladiator like Bucky is like talking to a brick wall. Your words will just go in one ear and out the other.
Bucky slowly turns his head back to you, his gaze locking onto yours with eyes so sharp you could swallow the blade. This is it. Youâre certain this is where you die.
He makes an expressionânot a pained one, but confused. His jaw is tight where your hand just struck him. He doesnât move to strike back like you think he will, and he doesnât wrap his hands around your throat to kill you.
He tilts his head, his face scrunched now in a way that makes him look almost like a kicked puppy.
âNo?â he repeats, treating it like a question.
The syllable sounds clunky, foreign, and deeply awkward rolling off his tongue.
He looks down at your hands, still clamped tightly over your torn dress, and then back up to your glassy eyes.
âConsent?â he tries the next word, his brows furrowing from how unusual it sounds.
You nod, holding your breath. âYes. Consent. I did not give it to you.â
Bucky blinks as the cogs workâor try toâin his head.
The reigning champion of the Colosseum, the brute of a man who knows exactly how to sever someoneâs limb or take a prize by force, looks completely lost. For his entire life, the rules were simple: fight, win, take. No one had ever told him âno.â No one had ever given him a choice, and he had never given anyone else one either.
âConsent,â he tastes the word again, as if trying to see if he likes it or not. Then, he shakes his head. âI donât know.â
Now, you are just as confused as he is.
You stare at the gladiator who kneels before you on the bed. He is probably the most feared man in the empire, yet he sits there naked and baffled by such a basic concept.
âYou donât know?â you whisper. âYou donât know what the word consent means?â
Bucky shakes his head, his broad shoulders slumping a fraction. He looks down at his own massive hands, then back at you, looking almost defeated and unsure of what to do from here.
You let out a trembling breath, slowly adjusting your grip on your torn dress to keep yourself covered as you try to find the words to explain it to a man raised only for slaughter.
âIt means... permission,â you explain softly. âIt means that my body belongs to me, just like yours belongs to you. To take a woman to bed, she has to want it too. She has to say yes.â You gesture weakly between the two of you. âIf I say no, or if I say stop, you have to stop. Otherwise, you are just hurting me. You are just forcing me.â
Bucky listens intently, his dark eyes watching your lips as you speak.
âDonât want to hurt you,â he answers, his voice rough and strained.
That catches you by surprise. You didnât expect that kind of softness out of him. Then, he meets your eyes again and continues. âNot yet, at least.â
You pull the torn dress tighter against your chest with a slight frown, and Bucky notices. He shifts awkwardly on the back of his heelsâhis cock still hard but his mind just as confused.
âHow do I get you to want it?â He rests his hand on your bare ankle, tugging you gently. âLike how I want you?â
You swallow hard as you stare at his large hand wrapped around your ankle. He could grab you and break youâmold you and bend you so easily to his willâbut he doesnât.
âYou have to⌠court me,â you try to explain. âYou have to make me feel safe, and you have to make me want it.â
Bucky tilts his head. Everything you have just saidâeven the word safeâfeels alien to him.
Your teeth worry your bottom lip as you continue. âIt means you donât just take what you want. You touch softly. You talk to me, and you kiss me.â You point a trembling finger to your mouth, then to his. âWith your lips. To show me that you care about how I feel, not just what you want.â
âTouch softly,â Bucky repeats, drilling the instruction into his mind.
You shudder as his hand, once wrapped around your ankle, turns into a gentle caress with his fingertips.
Up and down, his calloused fingertips trace your foot up to your bare calf. He leans over your body, forcing you to lie down beneath him as he hikes up the hem of your skirt. He flattens his palm so it rests heavy against your bare thigh.
âKiss,â he murmurs, his blue eyes tracing the curve of your lip. âMake you safe.â
He lowers his head, his dark, unruly hair brushing against your cheeks as he brings his face inches from yours.
He hesitates for a second, his nostrils flaring like an animal as he breathes you in. Then, with an awkward, slow movement that he isnât at all used to, Bucky presses his lips to yours.
The kiss is clumsy and far too hard at first, but as much as he wants to, he doesnât force his way inside. He doesnât push his tongue into your mouth, demanding dominance. He keeps his mouth pressed against yours, his lips slightly parted, mimicking the action as best as his instincts allow. It is gentle, surprisingly soft, and very wetâhe mightâve even been drooling, aching to kiss you.
He pulls away just a fraction and searches your face for any sign of fear.
âLike this?â he murmurs, his breath hot against your mouth. âSafe?â
Your heart flutters wildly in your chest, except this time it has nothing to do with fear. You stare up at the man before you with wide eyes and wet lips. Bucky studies your face, trying to make out if what he did was right or wrong.
âYâyes,â you breathe out. âThat was good.â
Satisfied with your answer, he leans back down and kisses you again. One hand rises upâslowly, to avoid startling youâand cups your cheek gently. His thumb grazes over the curve of your cheek while his lips explore yours.
A soft, needy sound leaves your lips before you can stop it, and Bucky answers with a deep groan. While one hand cradles your cheek, his other hand slowly rises beneath your dress to grip your smooth hip.
You find yourself unexpectedly leaning into the kiss, matching him until his tongue pokes past your lips and swirls around yours. The two of you breathe heavily, moaning softly against each other as Bucky positions himself between your legs. His cock grows even harder, poking against your warm inner thigh.
He canât take it anymore. Each moan that leaves your lips sounds like yes, yes, yes to his ears. His desperate hands find the waistband of your panties, threatening to tear them.
You suddenly pull away from the kiss with a gasp, catching your breath. Your hand presses against his bare chest, stopping him.
âNo,â you pant as you stare up at him. âStop. Not yet. You have to be patient.â
At the word stop, Bucky freezes. A snarl rips from the back of his throat, and his face twists in frustration. His jaw clenches so hard, his muscles twitch. You wince back into the pillows in fear, thinking you are in over your head and have pushed him too far.
You brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly.
âIâm trying,â he growls, the words tearing past his teeth. âWhat do I have to do? Tell me.â
You open your eyes and see him hovering over you. His large body acts as a blanket of warmth while one strong arm props him up, the muscles straining under his own weight and restraint.
âYou have to touch me,â you explain gently, pulling his hand away from your underwear and bringing it up to your chest. âLike this.â
Buckyâs eyes follow your movement. Your smaller hand rests over his as you guide him to squeeze your breasts. His breathing grows heavier as his fingers tug and start to play with your budded nipple, relishing the way you moan and arch your back into his touch.
âLike that,â you moan softly. âGoodâgood boy.â
He groans loudly at your praise. His dark, unruly hair brushes your skin before his mouth closes over your budded nipple. He begins to lick and suck hungrily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his teeth graze the edge.
âMmâŚâ Your eyes flutter shut at the pleasure, your head tossing back against the pillow while he makes love to your tits.
Encouraged by your sounds, he grinds his thick hard cock firmly against the smooth skin of your bare thigh, seeking any kind of friction to relieve the ache between his legs.
One hand leaves your breast to grip your hip, digging his fingers into your skin to hold you still while he ruts against you like an animal. He whimpers against your chest, drunk on your scent and the high of your soft moans.
âPlease,â he begs, his stubble tickling your bare chest. âSay yes. Let me have you. Now.â
The way he pleads sends a warm rush through your lower belly, a feeling that leaves you craving him just as badly. The man who is used to taking whatever he wants without remorse is reduced to being entirely at your mercy between your legs. A sensation settles inside you that you never thought you would harbor.
Control.
Just one wordâone breathless little âyesââwould send Bucky over the edge. His pleasure and his craving are both held in your hands.
âOkay,â you say, giving him a small nod, satisfied with how well he has done. âYou can have me.â
A growl rips from his chest. Driven by instinct, his large hands grip the waistband of your panties once more, his knuckles pulling taut as he prepares to shred the flimsy fabric to pieces.
âNo,â you interject quickly, slapping his hands away. âDonât rip them! Thatâs rude!â
He scowls as he draws his hand back, a whine of frustration catching in his throat like a disappointed hound. Itâs clear he is unhappy about facing another rule when he is so close to the edge, yet he listens.
âPull them down slowly,â you instruct.
Using every ounce of restraint in his veins, he resists the urge to tear the cloth. He hooks his thick fingers into the sides and slowly pulls the fabric down past your hips and thighs until you are completely bare beneath him.
âThere you go,â you sigh softly, pleased with his gentle movements. âGood boy.â
Buckyâs eyes drop to the slick heat waiting for him. He hovers over your body, his heavy breathing filling the space between you as he positions the thick head of his cock right at your entrance. He rubs himself up and down against you, soaking his length in your arousal and sucking in a breath at the heat of your touch.
He is too bigâimpossibly soâand you arenât sure if he will fit.
âNeed to fuck you,â he grits through clenched teeth. âHard.â
Holding himself at the base, he works at your entrance. His tip slowly slides in, stretching the opening and pushing deep enough to make you arch your back off the bed with a painful hiss.
He pauses at the sound.
âNo,â you whimper, blinking tears away as you peer down at him. âIf youâre going to have sex with me, you have to be gentle.â
His face twists into a strained expression, but he reluctantly abides.
One hand steadies your hip while the other holds his heavy cock, sliding into your warm, tight walls. Your body is so tight, not used to accommodating such a size, but he relents and continues pushing in.
You cry out, eyes squeezing shut as your arms rest on his shoulders for support.
âLook at me,â Bucky commands in a rough, deep voice. When you donât listen, he tilts his head down so he is in your line of sight and tries again. âI said look at me.â
You finally do, and his eyes search yours intently. The ring of blue demands that you look at him, and him only.
âKeep them open,â he instructs. âLook at me. It will feel better.â
So, you do.
You both stare into each otherâs eyes while he slides himself even deeper. As his cock stretches you wide, his brows furrow and his face twists into a snarl, baring his teeth at the tightness of your body until he finally sheathes himself fully inside with a groan.
âGentle,â he rasps brokenly. âGentle. Gotta be gentle.â He repeats the words as if heâs trying to remind himself.
Your legs shake around him, your body trying to get used to his size.
He hasnât moved yet, but you already feel impossibly full. Your walls embrace him, and you feel your body slowly opening up to let him in. As his cock settles deep inside you, pleasure slowly overwhelms your senses.
For Bucky, it feels like pure torture. Your body is snug and warmâlike a wet, tight fist wrapped around his cock, so much better than what heâs used to with his own calloused hands.
âNeed to move,â he curses. âNeed to fuck. Say yes.â
His voice comes out rough and crude, but he refuses to move without your consent.
âHold on,â you whimper, still adjusting to his size. You shift your hips slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the movement only makes him groan in pleasure.
âFine,â he grunts, squeezing your hip.
After what feels like forever, you finally nod your head.
âOkay,â you whisper. âIâm ready.â
And just like that, you open the pearly white gates to heaven for him.
With a hungry growl, he draws his hips back until only half of him remains, and then he slides himself back in. Your lips part in a gasp as he fills you againâhis cock sinking even deeper, kissing your cervix.
âTight,â Bucky clicks his tongue, growing frustrated. âToo tight.â
He pulls out halfway before slamming into you again, and again, and again. Each thrust grows harder and more unrelenting, forcing your body to yield to his cock.
âAâah! Itâs⌠sâtoo muchââ
âWant me to stop?â he groans out painfully and reluctantly, like he doesnât want you to answer with a âyesâ.
âNo,â you manage to breathe out. âDonât stop.â
Moans and gasps spill from your lips every time he fills you. His girth splits you open with every savage thrust, his strong thighs forcing your legs wider for him.
His eyes never tear away from yours. Every time you try to squeeze your eyes shut from the force of his thrusts, he grabs your chin roughly and shakes you, forcing you to look back at him.
âEyes. On. Me,â he hisses angrily.
Squeezing your cheeks to force your lips apart, he drags his thumb down your lower lip to pry them wider. He leans down, his hot breath tickling your skin while his damp strands of dark hair dance over your face.
He spits into your mouth, the traces of it dripping from his lips down to his chin, slicking your open mouth. Itâs wild and savage, unlike anything youâve ever experienced before. Without giving you the opportunity to pull away, his lips cover yours as he forces his saliva to swallow down your throat.
His tongue dances around yours again while he fucks you deeply, each move threatening to break both you and the bed.
Your eyes roll back so far in your skull while your legs dangle helplessly around his hips. Every thrust feels like a punishment for making him wait. Your nerves are crying out for releaseâand eventually, you give in. Your cunt spasms violently around Buckyâs length as bliss overwhelms every single sense.
âOh my god,â you cry. âIâm gonna cumâ!â
Your cries fill the small house as your back arches off the damp bed. Bucky insists on making eye contact with you, holding your jaw and forcing you to look at him while he fucks you through your climax.
You clench him tightly, your pussy pulsing in loving beats and squeezing him for every last drop.
âFuck. Yes. Good, feels so good,â he rasps angrily, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.
His balls slap vulgarly against your wet pussy, traces of your slick clinging to him every time he bottoms out. His balls churn with pent-up seed, aching to fill you deep. Your cries grow louder, your hips shifting around to accommodate the overstimulationâbut itâs no use.
Buckyâs close, so close. While his eyes bore into yours, his pupils dilate with desire. He just needs to get deeper, to fuck you at an impossible angle to pump you fullâŚ
âWait,â you dig your nails deep into his back, making him gasp in pain. âSlow downâitâs too muchâŚâ
He snarls angrily, his hips slowing down just a fraction, but not entirely.
The sound that leaves your lips is a cocktail of pain and bliss. Itâs a sultry sound that encourages him to continue, to take what he wants, but the words leaving your mouth say otherwise.
âNo,â you shake your head. âStop, please. Itâs too much for me. Youâre going to break meââ
His hands release your cheeks roughly as his head drops to press his sweaty forehead against yours. Another animalistic sound tears through him as he forces his hips to come to a stop. His cock stills inside youâpulsing for any form of friction. Just a few more thrusts, and heâll cum. Heâll cum hard. But he stops, because you asked him to.
âNeed to cum,â he pants against your face, taking in the way your eyes have gone teary. âSo close.â
âI know,â you say with a soft sigh, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. âI know. I just⌠just need a minute.â
You let your fingers trail up and down his back, and he shudders at the feeling.
The two of you lie there, tangled in each otherâs limbs while you catch your breath. Bucky waits impatientlyâhis heart beating so fast in his chest as he uses every ounce of restraint in his blood to refrain from fucking you right through the bed.
Your pussy is already swollen and puffy from his size, and the longer he remains stuffed inside you, the tighter your body squeezes around him.
With his forehead pressed against yours, he shifts his knees and hips slightly to get comfortable, but even those tiny, forced movements are agonizing. Breathy moans and grunts escape both your lips, shared in the tight space between you. Itâs sex without the vulgar movements, and it feels far too intimate for a ruthless man like Bucky.
Finally, you grant him permission.
Staring into his eyes, you give him a small nod to let him continue. And the moment you do, the last thread holding Buckyâs control snaps.
He grabs your legs and shoves them high over your shoulders, splitting you wide and pinning you down into a deep mating press. âNeed to go deeper. Hold still.â
You had just gotten used to his size, and the sudden change in position makes your eyes fly open. Your mouth falls open in a gasp as he draws his hips back before bottoming out completely inside you.
His heavy, sweaty body crushes down on yours as he begins to fuck you hard and fast. Every draw of his hips fills you impossibly deep, your stretched cunt molding helplessly around his thick length. He works his hips in a wild, frantic rhythm, chasing his release at full speed before you can say another word to stop him.
âMine,â he rasps through gritted teeth, his chest heaving as his sweat drips onto your skin. âSay it. Tell me youâre mineââ
The force of his hips slamming against yours knocks the breath right out of you, your moans coming out as breathless gasps while he pounds into you. His eyes bore into yours, waiting for you to finally give in.
âTell me youâre mine. Say it.â
You blink through tears of bliss. âIâIâm yoursââ you manage to stammer out.
His face twists in pleasure, baring his teeth as he pins your legs against your chest while the tip of his cock works deep against your cervix. âGood. A perfect sleeve for my cock. Look at me while I cum inside you.â
The sight of your face scrunched in pleasure and vulnerability sends a wave of heat coursing from his lower gut to the very tips of his toes. His cock pulses and throbs inside, slicking your walls with his pre-cumâa warning before giving you the real thing.
âPump my cum,â his large palm settles over your lower belly. âAll in here.â
The thought of you walking around the house barefoot and round with his childrenâgrowing up to be champions just like their fatherâmakes his head spin and his balls grow heavy.
âClose. So close,â he curses and groans over and over, speaking more than he ever has. âHold still. Take it all for me, wife.â
Bucky buries himself as deep as his length will go, pinning you down as his entire body locks tight. His cock pulses, pumping wave after thick wave of his hot seed deep inside your womb.
His head drops into the crook of your neck, his large, sweaty chest heaving against yours as he rides out his pleasure.
He releases your legs for a moment until both your rapid hearts finally slow to a steady beat. Slowly, agonizingly so, he draws his thick length back, pulling out of your slick, overstimulated cunt with a wet suction sound.
You let out a soft, breathless gasp at the sudden empty feeling. A ring of creamy white circles the base of his cock, and his seed dribbles between your foldsâphysical proof of what he just did to you.
Without a word, he grips both your ankles with one large hand, pinning your thighs together and pressing your legs straight up into the air to hold them suspended above you.
You blink at himâdazed, exhausted, and thoroughly used. His cock rests half-limp between his strong legs, so he clearly isnât going for another round.
âWhat are you doingâŚ?â you whisper softly, confused.
He holds your legs firmly in place as his dark eyes scan your bare, trembling body.
âMake sure it takes,â he grunts out, his voice rough from satisfaction. He uses his free hand to trace a warm, possessive line down to your lower belly, pressing down gently right over your womb. âKeep your belly round with my sons.â
You stare up at him in disbelief while your legs are held helplessly aloft by his massive hand. Youâre too exhausted to argue, your brain still foggy from your orgasm. Still, you manage an incredulous laugh.
Does he seriously think propping your legs up like a pair of stilts is going to magically guarantee a pregnancy?
He looks so proud of himself that you donât even have the heart to argue. He squeezes your ankles slightly, letting out a satisfied hum from his chest once heâs convinced his little trick did the job. The smile on his face is almost boyish in a way that does not belong to a rough man like him.
âGood wife,â he praises you. âBirth me healthy champions.â
You let out a soft sigh, fluttering your eyelids shut as fatigue finally crawls its way into your bones.
As you drift into slumber, you make a mental note to teach this brute a lesson on how gravity works. And right after that, youâll teach him what aftercare isâespecially if he plans on keeping you forever and making you his wife.
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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