it always ends in a fight

27 // Just call me Ollie // Bisexual // Gender Fluid // They/Them // MINORS DNI //🍉

[buttybarnes1917]

Masterlist

I get a lot of inspiration from songs or albums; I don't update often, but I'm currently workshopping a lot of Bucky stuff, so stick around if that sounds like something you'd like. i block people who follow me who don’t have age in bio 👋🏻

I write for:

Obi Wan Kenobi Eddie Munson Bucky Barnes

[keytomylockhart]

sexy to someone

Jack Abbot x Reader

i want to be sexy to someone is it too much to ask? sexy to somebody, it would help me out – sexy to someone, Clairo

summary: you finally put yourself back out there and set up a date for your night off. to your utter humiliation, you get stood up. the night takes a turn when you see your attending, Jack Abbot, who suggests you have dinner together since you're already all dressed up.

tags/warnings: age gap (reader is a resident), oral (f + m receiving), dacryphilia, protected piv sex, dry humping, crybaby!reader, idiots in love, ER references because I can't help myself :), the tiniest hint of puppy play, discussions of jack's amputation,

wc: 10k

a/n: I'm realizing that I have a tendency to write about jack abbot saving reader from mediocre and shitty men... and you know what he would!!!! genuinely thought this would be a cute lil 5k fic and then... oh well!! being short-winded is not my thing lol

credits: gif credits to @wesandresons

8:21. 

You checked your phone for the millionth time. 

You were supposed to meet him at the restaurant at 7pm, and he was almost an hour and a half late. 

Well, you hoped he was late. You hadn’t yet accepted the probable fact that you’d been stood up. I mean, you were no stranger to chaotic schedules, unplanned overtime, and last minute catastrophes that had to be dealt with. Residency often rendered your social life moot; you could barely keep up with your commitments at the hospital, let alone a vibrant dating life. Maybe he had an equally demanding job; maybe there was a plausible excuse for why he left you stranded in this Italian restaurant without the decency of a “sorry, not interested anymore” text. 

You looked at your phone again–8:26. Okay, you’d give him 4 more minutes before you decide to pack it up. You try to subtly survey the restaurant for any sign of him, but are met only with the pitying looks of the waitstaff, who would, in all likelihood, be the only ones benefitting from this humiliation ritual. The hostess checked in with you at the bar regularly, the bartender had given you a glass of merlot on the house, and a very kind server brought you a charcuterie board to nibble on–had even brought you extra olives when you commented on how they were your favorite. They were all getting fat tips–or at least as fat as you could afford. 

8:31. Despite your best efforts you felt tears pricking at the corners of your eyes and your throat got that tight, achy feeling that precedes a sob. You felt so foolish. 

You looked up at the ceiling, blinking the tears away and tried to even out your breathing. 

You didn’t even want to go on this date. You’d all but sworn off of dating, the ROI not worth the emotional whiplash you were subjected to more often than not. It was becoming harder and harder as you got older to open up to people, expose your vulnerabilities and greatest fears, only to have them spit back in your face when things didn’t go their way. 

So you stopped with the apps, stopped the meaningless dates that were nothing more than a hookup vehicle for most. But your friends had convinced you that you needed to get back out there, that things would be better in Pittsburgh–the proverbial ocean filled with different, better fish than your hometown. And perhaps they were tired of hearing you wax poetic about the hazel-eyed night shift attending that you had no chance with. 

But you did want to find that person. As much as you were an independent, capable woman–doctor, even–the truth was you were lonely. Your days consisted of going to work, where you spent 12+ hours caring for Pittsburgh’s sickest, and coming home to microwave whatever sad frozen meal you had in your freezer. Sometimes you had the energy to join some of the night shift for post-shift breakfast, but that was about it. 

You wanted someone to share your life with, to ask about your day or if you’ve eaten. Someone who knew that your favorite flower was lily of the valley, but since they were too expensive you would settle for a bouquet of peonies; that you loved horror movies even though they scared the daylights out of you; that knew you loved olives but hated pickles. Someone who knew you, inside and out. 

There was a chasm in your chest that ached, that yearned for someone to take care of you–not financially, though you wouldn’t be opposed to that–but emotionally. To tell you that you were good, worthy, that you weren’t too much or too clingy. That wanted you as much as you wanted them. That felt the tension leave their shoulders when they looked at you, because you just being there made things better. 

Was that too much to ask for? 

It’d been so long since someone had even flirted with you, and even longer since you’d hooked up with anybody. Your dry spell was bordering on sahara levels of arid. Hell, at this point, you think you’d cum for the next guy who called you pretty. 

You shake yourself out of your pity party, dabbing your eyes with a napkin and gathering up the courage to ask for the bill, when you hear someone calling your name. Great. You’re halfway to a breakdown over some stupid guy who stood you up, and now you would have to sit through pleasantries with someone when you desperately wanted to go home and cry into a bottle of wine.   

You turned, fake smile plastered on your face.   

The person you least expect to see is the aforementioned hazel-eyed attending. He’s standing by the hostess stand, off to the side, dressed in dark blue jeans and a tight black shirt. It was unfair, really, how good the man could look in the most basic outfit. His shirt was pulled taut across his chest, muscles straining against the fabric and outlining the planes of his pecs. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his strong, freckled arms on display, and sinful thoughts ran through your head at how those arms would feel around you.  

You smiled and waved at him, reluctantly making your way over. It’s not like you can avoid him at this point, though these are less than ideal circumstances to meet him outside of work. 

“Small world,” he joked as you approached, a soft smile gracing his features. 

“I guess so,” you said sullenly, not up to your usual banter.  

“Big plans for the night?” he asked, eyes skating over your form, taking in the pretty red dress you’d donned for the evening, the light coat of makeup you applied, the hairstyle you wrangled your locks into. In any other scenario, you’d be preening under his watchful eye, giddy that he was eyeing you up and down.  

Now, though, you wilted under the attention. The humiliation from the night and the tingly feeling pooling in your gut at his gaze swirled together in some rancid amalgamation of emotions. You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or cry or both, but ideally not in front of him.  

Your silence, apparently, concerned him. He looked at you seriously now, his eyes getting that clinical, assessing look in them as he took you in, “You okay?” he asked, genuine concern lacing his features.  

It was the one question you did not want to be asked. Because, for some reason, you could keep it all inside, bury the feelings as deep as they’d go, as long as someone didn’t ask if you were okay. The barest expression of concern had your lip trembling, throat tight as you managed to squeak out a meek, “I’m fine!” 

You could feel a tear tracing down your cheek, and you wiped it away furiously. Your eyes focused on a spot over his shoulder, unable to bear the pitying look that was undoubtedly on his face.  

“You don’t look fine,” he said softly, hand coming up to rest lightly on your upper arm.  

You shook your head, powerless to staunch the flow of tears now running down your face. “Sorry, I just, uh, I had a date tonight and he didn’t show, so,” you made a helpless gesture, your shoulders shrugging in feigned nonchalance. You felt ridiculous, crying over being stood up in front of your attending who was just trying to make small talk with you. 

You let out a garbled laugh, “Shit, sorry,” you hiccup, “this isn’t your problem, I don’t wanna interrupt your night any more than I already have. Have a good night,” you said, moving to push past him and scurry out the door.  

He grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but gentle, his body blocking your exit. 

“You’re not interrupting. I was just about to place a to-go order,” he said, a hesitant look crossing his face before he continued, “But, uh… would you like to have dinner with me instead?”

You're taken aback. It’s the last thing you expected him to ask you. I mean, it’s not like you haven’t thought about him in this context. On the contrary, Jack Abbot had been the subject of many a ‘boyfriend’ dream over the past year you’d worked with him. He was kind and generous and funny, his humor as dark as yours. He was steady in the face of chaos, a lighthouse in the foggiest of days–a man you could depend on when shit hit the fan. It’s part of the reason you switched to nights. You always felt calmer in his presence, more assured of your capabilities because he believed in you. 

And he was undeniably gorgeous–his fine wrinkles and graying curls set your body ablaze each time you looked at him, your panties soaking through in record time. You loved especially when he went a day or two longer without shaving, his scruffy cheeks looking like a delectable place to sit. 

Your mind was plagued by obscene fantasies of him, the sinful images assaulting you at the most inopportune times. You knew he’d treat you right, wouldn’t prioritize his pleasure over yours. He was older, experienced, not a kid fumbling around in the dark, searching for your most sensitive spots and coming up empty. You imagined the way his stubble would feel on your skin, his jaw scraping down your neck as he pressed kisses there, moving lower and lower until he was nestled between your thighs, mouth hot against your aching pussy. The way he would stretch you out and fill you up, have you desperate and begging for more. 

You’re snapped out of your lustful daydream when he says your name, an inquiring tone meant to prompt a response. Oh right, he asked you a question. 

You shook your head, not because you didn’t want to have dinner with him, but because you didn’t want to do so under these conditions; you didn’t want to be a charity case. 

“That’s very kind, but you don’t have to have a pity dinner with me. I’m a big girl, I can handle a little rejection.” 

“It wouldn’t be a pity dinner,” he shook his head immediately, “come on, you got all dressed up, let me at least buy you dinner for your trouble.” 

He cleared his throat, “Unless you really don’t want to, obviously, and I’ll let it go,” he said, “but I’d hate to see you go home cryin’.” And he looked so sincere, his pretty eyes so soft and squishy, all but pleading for you to accept his offer.  

You chewed on your lip, considering it. It wouldn’t be the worst way to spend your night. As of now your plans for the rest of the night were getting sadder by the moment. Things could only go up from here, you supposed. “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure,” you nodded. 

“I’m positive,” he said, hand coming up to rest on the small of your back, guiding you back up to the hostess stand. “Table for two, please.”

The two of you were sat at a corner booth near the back of the restaurant, the section secluded and not too loud. It was a classic Italian restaurant–warm, dim lighting illuminated the space from antique sconces on the wall, the walls were a beautiful exposed red brick, and the tables were candlelit and laid with red and white checkered cloths. The leather of the booth was soft but worn, the cracks spidering out and indenting into the back of your thighs a sign of how well loved this place was. 

The booth forced you close together, your thighs not quite touching each other, but close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. His scent is intoxicating, all warm amber and oud, mixed with a hint of citrus and his natural musk. It took all your power not to burrow your nose into his neck and inhale deeply. 

You were lucky to have the same waitress that checked on you at the bar, though you did have to assure her that this was not the man who stood you up. You were honestly a little concerned at the death glare she gave him at first–a true girls girl. 

“So, Dr. Abbot, how was your day off?” you asked, fiddling nervously with the hem of your dress. Despite your easy rapport at work, it felt awkward to be sitting here with your attending, especially when you were desperately trying to keep your feelings for him at bay. 

“Oh it was fine, picked up a shift with the SWAT unit and didn’t get shot at, so, you know, all things considered,” he said, then waved his hand dismissively, “and please, call me Jack. We're not at work,” a slight blush spreading across his cheeks. 

“Okay, Jack,” you laughed, the tension easing a bit as you threw formalities out the window.  

“I would ask you how your day off was, but I think I have a pretty good idea,” he said with a teasing lilt.

“Yeah, not my best moment. This is partially why I stopped dating, I hate getting my hopes up,” you said, a little more vulnerable than you intended but you supposed you were past that now. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I think whatever man decided to let you slip through their fingers is a fuckin’ idiot.” 

You sputtered a bit at that, your cheeks heating up. It was a kind platitude, and you wished that it made you feel better, but it did little to alleviate the pit in your stomach that made you feel small; that screamed that you weren’t good enough.

“But enough about that asshole. Do you want to order an appetizer?” he asked, scanning the menu. 

“Oh no, I’m okay, thank you.” 

“You sure? My treat, remember, don’t worry about prices.” he looked up, concerned. 

“I’m fine, really,” you bit your cheek, reluctant to spit it out, “our waitress may or may not have given me a pity charcuterie board at the bar.” 

His face was still for a moment before you saw the edge of his mouth betray him, quirking up in a suppressed smile. 

“Don’t you dare laugh,” you warned, your own resolve already breaking as you took in how pathetic the situation actually was. “It’s not funny!” you laughed, smacking him lightly on the shoulder with the menu. 

“No, no, definitely not,” he intoned, a look of mock-seriousness on his face before he broke out into a laugh, “I’m sorry! But it is objectively a little funny,” he hedged, hands held out defensively to block another menu attack.  

“It is not! It means that the poor waitress had to go talk to her boss and ask if they could comp an appetizer for the miserable sad sack at the bar!” 

“She probably didn’t call you a miserable sad sack. Maybe sad puppy dog girl, but not miserable sad sack,” he teased. 

You gasped exaggeratedly, “I am not a sad puppy dog girl!” 

“Oh yes you are. It’s the eyes. And the general obedient demeanor," he smirked. 

Oh. Your tummy twisted at that, but you quickly filed it under things that I simply do not have enough time to unpack right now. 

“You’re mean,” you pouted, lip jutting out and arms crossed. You weren’t really upset, but it felt fun to play it up a little bit.  

“Aww,” he pouted back at you, his tone just a tad condescending, “let me make it up to you. What do you say to some good wine and garlic knots?” 

You gnawed on your lip, considering his offer, “what the hell, let's do it. It’s not like I’m going to be kissing anybody tonight anyway,” you said, a little bitter, before realizing that was probably not an appropriate joke to make in front of your boss. 

“You never know, we could always pull a Lady and the Tramp,” he joked, not looking up from the wine menu. 

You were a little stunned at that. Was he… flirting? No. Definitely not. This was a strictly platonic date. Right? I mean, the puppy comment you could explain away, but this… this was different, wasn’t it? Who just jokes like that about the most romantic canine kiss in history? A joke, you settled on. Because you’d already gotten your hopes up enough for one night. 

Dinner was nice. Really nice. 

Conversation flowed freely, starting out in neutral territory with updates about patients, work gossip, whatever the fuck was going on with Robby. But you soon moved out of the work realm and into personal matters. You told him about your childhood–where you grew up, your favorite childhood pets, how much trouble you got into as a teen. 

And you learned a lot about Jack. That he came from a military family that moved around a lot, but spent a large chunk of time in North Carolina. He had two sisters, both older than him. One stayed in North Carolina and the other lived in West Virginia. Both married to military men, and both notorious for giving Jack shit about everything. But they were his rocks when he lost his leg, and then again when he lost his wife, and he was endlessly grateful for them. 

You both loved 90s alternative rock, which surprised you because you took Jack to be more of a classic rock fan, to which he merely glared at you and said that he wasn’t that old. You both had childhood crushes on Winona Ryder; his borne from her role in Heathers, and yours from Girl, Interrupted. He surprised you with the fact that he was a good cook, a fact that seemed unfathomable to you based on his general vibe. 

Now, though, you’d moved to med school stories, and Jack was regaling you with stories about him and Robby back in the day.  

“We must have been… god, I must have been a third year med student, and Robby was… an R2? and he had really pissed me off that night. I don’t even remember what he did, I just remember being so annoyed at him,” he laughed, shaking his head at the memory, “It was a quiet night, so he snuck off to the on-call room to catch a few hours of sleep, leaving me to do all the scut. So, I recruited the help of the charge nurse, Carol, and our attending, Mark, and we applied a cast to his right leg while he was knocked out.” 

He’s cackling now, almost unable to finish his story between wheezing gasps of air, “we paged him, like, 10 times until he answered, and next thing we know he’s bursting out of the on-call room and onto his ass before he even realized what happened!” 

You’re laughing hard now, too, trying to picture a younger version of Robby gracelessly tripping over an unnecessary leg cast in his hurry to answer his page. It sounded so unlike the self-assured, stoic version you knew him to be.  

“Oh my god,” you wheezed, “how mad was he?”  

“Oh he was pissed. Not because of the cast, but because 5 minutes after we paged him, a 15-car pile up came in and he got benched until he could get the cast off. He had to wait for it to dry before he could saw it off, and the whole time he just sat there glaring at me.” 

“Did he get you back?” you asked, hungry for more crumbs of their life before you, before the Pitt as it was now.    

“Yeah,” he rolled his eyes, “the fucker taped nails to his shirt, took an x-ray, and switched out the real film for the fake before I noticed. I was freaking out to Mark, yelling about how this patient needed surgery before they perfed. Meanwhile Mark was in on it, and made me feel crazy when he pulled out the perfectly normal x-ray for my patient. He said, ‘I don’t know what they’re teaching you in school these days, but this looks like a perfectly normal x-ray,’” he said, in an impersonation you could only assume was Mark.

“That’s fucking crazy,” you giggled, “can you imagine someone doing something like that in the Pitt? I think Robby’d actually have an aneurysm.” 

“Yeah, the old man’s lost a bit of his whimsy over the years,” he shook his head. 

“Old man, huh? Those are fighting words from a man merely 3 years younger than him,” you teased, “and much grayer,” you added with a wink.  

“Watch it, missy,” he warned, then, quieter, “not too old to teach you some manners.”

Feeling emboldened by the wine, you leaned a little closer, “don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Tracing the rim of your wine glass, you looked up at him. You swear his eyes drifted to your lips, but before you could do anything about it, he cleared his throat, steering the conversation back into safer waters.  

“So, why did you get into emergency medicine?” 

You thought about it for a moment, considering how honest you wanted to be. “I wanted to meet people where they were at, help them in a real, immediate way. The traumas are great and exciting, and there’s nothing like making a pickup that saves someone’s life. But I like the less exciting stuff, too. The mundane care that doesn’t save a life, but makes someone feel better. Helps them get over a cold, or helps soothe a burn; suturing up a lac, or removing foreign objects from patients and not making them feel worse about their predicament. That stuff is just as important as the traumas.

Especially with how fucked healthcare is in this country, people come to us when they’re at their most vulnerable, and usually don’t want to be there. I just hope that I can make things less scary for patients when they come in, make sure they feel like they’re cared about and not being judged for coming to us.” 

It’d been a long time since you’d answered that question honestly. Usually, you had your stock answer that you pulled out, which was a more eloquent version of “I want to save lives!” And that was still true, but there was so much more to working in the emergency department than just saving lives. It was paperwork and insurance and bed shortages and nursing shortages and all the other fucked up shit in the world that inevitably contributed to the cases you saw come through the doors at the Pitt. 

“What about you? Was emergency medicine always it for you, or did you ever consider going into something else?” you asked. 

He shook his head, “Not seriously, no. Considered switching to critical care after my leg. I wasn’t sure if I was cut out for the hustle and bustle of the emergency room after that. But it was the only place I wanted to be, so I figured it out, did what I needed to do to get back to where I was before the accident.” 

“Well, for what it's worth, I’m glad you stuck with EM. I couldn’t imagine working at the Pitt without you. I don’t think I’d be half the doctor I am without you,” you said, looking up at him. 

You hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten, his arm slung over the back of the booth and your thighs pressed against each other. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, you’d be amazing with or without me,” he said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “You know, I’ve taught a lot of residents in my years, and you… you’re really cut out for this. Not everyone is.” 

The praise made you preen, the proximity of his hand to your face doing nothing to calm your rapidly beating heart. For a brief moment, you think he might lean in, might press those pillowy pink lips to yours, kiss you until you can’t think stra–

“Hi, sorry to interrupt but we’ll be closing in 15 minutes. Here’s your check when you’re ready,” the waitress said, setting the check down and scurrying away. 

You checked the time on your phone: 11:15. Did you really spend almost 3 hours talking to Jack? It certainly didn’t feel like it. 

“I guess we should get out of here before they kick us out,” Jack said, sliding out of the booth and offering you his hand.

You’re giggling at another one of Jack’s jokes as you leave the restaurant, the bill graciously paid by him despite your best efforts to split it. Your limbs were loose from the wine, goosebumps springing up on your arms from the early summer air turned chilly. 

“Thank you for dinner. You salvaged an otherwise shitty night,” you laughed. 

“It was no problem, really. I had a nice time,” he said, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed.

You mirrored him, shoulder scraping against the gritty brick, and looked up at him. 

“Hold on, I think you have a little sauce on your face,” he said, and before you could grab a tissue from your purse, he reached out. His thumb gathered the sauce at the corner of your lips, going further to brush the pad of it across your bottom lip. The movement dragged your lower lip down slightly, your mouth parting involuntarily with it. You’re not sure why, but your tongue darted out, licked the pad of his thumb and the residual sauce.

Jack’s breath hitched, the sharp intake of air the only thing you could hear despite the sounds of car alarms and drunk party girls on a Friday night in downtown Pittsburgh. 

You looked up at him, tongue still pressed flat against his thumb, and searched his eyes for a sign that the heat building between you is mutual. 

Fuck it, you decided. 

Without thinking about it too much, you leaned up and pressed your lips against his. And god, did they feel nice. They were soft, but firm, and he tasted faintly of the wine you’d shared earlier mixed with the slight acidity of the tomato sauce from his dinner. Your hand tangled in the curls at the base of his neck, and they’re so soft, but also a little stiff. You wondered, briefly, if he uses mousse, or hairspray, or if he’s got a whole curly girl routine down before realizing that oh my god he wasn’t kissing you back. Oh no, oh fuck. 

How did you misread this situation so horrifically? You thought you were getting all the right signals, thought that he liked being with you, that he was flirting with you. But maybe it really was just a courtesy, a pity dinner. 

Your cheeks are hot when you pull away from him, shame sitting thick and heavy in your stomach, numbness prickling up your arms in staticky goosebumps. And Jack is just standing there, the dumbfounded look on his face doing nothing to assuage your embarrassment.  

You backed up, trying to create some distance, to lower the temperature between you that apparently only you felt. 

Looking down at your shoes, unable to make eye contact, you babbled out, “I-I’m so sorry, that was completely inappropriate and I don’t know why I-” your voice cracked and it felt like your lungs weren’t properly inflating with oxygen, “I don’t know how I misread things, but I guess I did so again, I’m so sorry. I’m gonna go home and pretend this never happened,” you said, turning around and starting down the street, despite the fact that you most certainly needed to Uber home, not walk. 

You’re trying not to cry for the umpteenth time that night when you hear him calling your name, “Wait!” 

He caught up with you, only a few strides away from where you were standing, and grasped your arm gently. “Wait, I’m sorry,” he said, a little breathless, “I just… you surprised me.”

“Surprised you?” you laughed, “I damn near sucked your thumb, Jack,” you said, genuinely confused how a man like Jack Abbot could be surprised that a woman would try to kiss him; that the next logical step from erotic thumbsucking would be a kiss. “And you flirted with me all night! You made a Lady and the Tramp joke! How else am I supposed to take that?”  

He rubbed at his jaw anxiously, a slight blush coating his cheeks, “I mean, yeah, I was surprised. I’ve liked you for a while now but then I heard you talking to Santos about how you didn’t want to go out with that cardiology attending and just assumed I didn’t have a shot,” he admitted sheepishly. “And maybe I got a little brazen with my flirting because I thought you didn’t see me like that anyway, figured it couldn’t hurt.” 

It’s your turn to be surprised now. You hadn’t realized he heard that conversation, or that he’d taken the wrong idea from it; the opposite idea, actually.   

You took a step closer to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers finding his curls again, “Well, if you recall, snoopy, I said that part of the problem was that I just didn’t want to fuck that cardiology attending,” you said, looking up at him and batting your eyelashes, “that isn’t the case with you.” 

He looked shocked, but recovered quickly, his confident air returning to him. “Oh, is that so?” he asked, lips quirking up into a smile as he backed you up against the rough brick wall. His hand rested on the wall next to your head, the other on your hip, stroking you through your dress. 

“In that case, please allow me to make up for my rude behavior,” he said, dipping down to kiss you properly this time. 

You’d pictured this moment countless times before, but nothing compared to the real thing. Jack Abbot is a no nonsense man–a wartorn vet who understands more than most the importance of not wasting time. You expected your first kiss with him to be hungry, maybe a little sloppy, but when his lips meet yours, he’s achingly tender. It wasn’t uncertain–there was no question underlying his kiss–it was deep and languorous, like he was content to take his time up against this brick wall and savor the slide of your lips against his because he knew he had you right where he wanted you, finally. 

He commanded you, his hand cupping your jaw to angle your head back, deepening the kiss. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you instinctively opened up for him. The slide of his tongue against yours was delicious, the slick muscle curling around yours before moving back to your lips, sucking at your bottom lip and biting down gently. Your mind felt fuzzy at the way he handled you, guiding and taking you how he saw fit.

Some of his restraint dissipated, your mouths moving feverishly against each other. You couldn’t get enough of him; you pulled him into you and hooked your leg around his waist to draw him as close to you as possible. Pathetic, embarrassing whines and whimpers escaped you involuntarily, your body unable to mask how this man was making a mess of you.

His hand fell to the thigh wrapped around him, calloused fingers sliding up under your dress and gripping the bare flesh. He pulled you close, his pelvis rolling against yours sinfully. You could feel the hard outline of his cock against your cunt, your hips thrusting forward to meet the friction. A frustrated moan fell from your lips at the clothes separating you, at the inability to feel his skin against yours. 

You pulled away only when air was necessary–and because you were very close to being cited for public indecency if things went any further. 

“Sorry, I probably taste like garlic,” you said dumbly, fingers tracing over your spit slick lips, numb and swollen from Jack’s attention. 

He laughed, forehead resting against yours, “you taste incredible,” he said, pressing a kiss to your nose, then your cheek, and then under your ear. “I hope I’m not being presumptuous, but my place is a couple blocks from here, if you’d like to come home with me.”  

You nodded, a giddy smile breaking out across your face, “I would very much like to go home with you,” you said, already grabbing his hand and dragging him down the street. 

The entryway is dark as you stumbled into Jack’s townhouse, the walk talking longer than it should have due to your need to drag him into searing kiss after searing kiss every dozen or so steps. 

Jack navigated the two of you through the dark, your bodies unceremoniously plopping down on his couch. You fell onto his lap, knees sinking into the leather cushions and thighs stretching over the wide berth of his hips. Your kisses had devolved from slow and deep to fast and hungry, teeth nipping and clashing against one another, your breathing ragged from the exertion.   

He was rock-hard and throbbing under you, the outline of his cock pressing deliciously against your pussy. The only articles of clothing separating you were the thin, lacy excuse for panties you were wearing and his jeans. Your eyes fluttered closed as you ground your hips down on him, the combination of rough denim and the drag of his cock on your aching cunt forcing loud moans and whimpers from your lips. 

Jack was just as loud, his hips canting up to meet your rolling hips. His hand travelled to the back of your dress, fingers playing with the zipper, “this okay, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. You nodded, too caught up in his lips to give a verbal answer. 

He chuckled as he pulled the zipper down, easing the sleeves down next and pulling away to get a look at you. He let out a sharp breath, the air stolen from his lungs as he took you in, hands gripping your waist tight and rolling his hips hard against you.  

Your pretty tits were held up in an unlined white bra, your hardened nipples peaking through the barely there lace. He threw his head back against the couch, pupils blown wide as they fixated on your chest. ““My pretty, pretty girl. Was this all for him?” he asked, thumbs running in circles around your areolas. You nodded shyly, a bit embarrassed that you’d put on your good lingerie for some random guy. But it wasn’t all for nought, if Jack’s reaction was any indication. 

“What a fuckin’ idiot,” he mumbled before enveloping your nipple between his lips, sucking the bud through the lace. He captured the other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging and pinching it, then soothing it over in soft circles. The sensation was dizzying. His mouth was hot and wet against your skin, and he knew exactly the right pressure to ride the line between pleasure and pain.

But the lace was getting in the way; you couldn’t feel the scratch of his stubble like you’d dreamed of for so long. You unclasped your bra, tugging on his curls and pulling his face back just enough to let the garment fall down between you. 

A guttural sound left him as he dove back in, lips suctioning onto your nipple and sucking hard, cheeks hollowed out and tongue swirling around the bud. Your hand tightened in his curls, arching your back and pushing your chest against his mouth. He alternated between the two, sucking, licking, and biting at one and kneading, flicking, and pinching the other. You could finally feel the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin, your eyes rolling back in your head as your hips doubled their effort, grinding hard against his cock. 

He released your nipple with a wet pop, “you know how hard it’s been keepin’ my hands to myself, pretty girl? and all this time you’ve been hidin’ this pretty set of tits under your scrubs,” he shook his head in disbelief, “don’t think I’ll be able to think about anything other than stuffin’ my face between these tits when I see you at work.”  

His lips returned to your chest while his unoccupied hand moved under your dress, his rough palm gripping the fat of your ass and guiding you over his length faster. Every grind of your hips had your clit bumping up against the head of his cock, the pressure exquisite. Your slick was dripping down your thighs and seeping into his jeans, the schlick schlick schlick steady background noise among your moans and groans.  

You didn’t realize how fast your orgasm was building until you were nearly on the precipice of it, letting out a strangled moan and, “I’m gonna–” before the wave crested. Your thighs trembled, a dull ache forming from keeping them stretched around Jack’s bulk, but it only added to the pleasure that zipped through you. That staticky feeling radiated through you, your pussy contracting and fluttering around nothing. 

You’re panting into the crook of his neck as you ride out the aftershocks, your hips still grinding against his clothed cock, your lips letting out tiny gasps and whines. 

“Did you… did you just cum, sweetheart?” Jack asked, a stunned look on his face. 

You could feel how hot your cheeks were, shame curling through you because yes, you did cum from a little nipple play and grinding on his cock. 

“I-i’m sorry, it’s just been a long time and no one’s touched me in so long and you feel so good, I didn’t think that would happen so quickly,” you said, panicked, “I’m sorry if I ruined things.” 

“Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he said, thumbs brushing away the embarrassed tears you weren’t even aware had fallen, “you didn’t ruin anything, okay? I was just surprised, is all. I’m sorry if anyone’s made you feel that way, but you don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me. Never,” The sincerity of his words triggered a new bout of tears. You buried your head in the crook of his neck again, his scent a calming balm to your nerves. 

“Plus, do you know how much of an ego boost it is to know I had such a pretty girl cummin’ on lap in under five minutes? That’s the stuff of dreams, baby,” he teased, pulling you out from your hiding spot and pressing kisses to your cheeks.

You laughed, still sniffling a bit, “gosh, I’m sorry I’ve been such a crybaby tonight.” 

“It’s okay, honey,” he said, then, teasing, “but I can think of much better reasons for you to be cryin’, and none of them have anything to do with you being sad or embarrassed,” he said, kissing you properly now, tongue licking deep into your mouth. 

You moaned into his mouth, then squealed as he hoisted you up, carrying you to his bedroom. He set you down at the edge of the bed, then properly removed your dress from where it was awkwardly gathered at your waist.

He didn’t waste any time, dropping to his knees and parting your legs, pushing them up toward your chest. “Hold 'em there for me, baby, wanna take a good look at you,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the damp fabric between your legs. You did as he told you, hooking your hands under your knees and spreading yourself open for him. You felt exposed, but the awestruck look in his eye as he examined your pussy sent shockwaves through your body. 

“This all because of me?” he asked, thumbing at your center over the fabric, pressing lightly against your clit with each stroke. Your panties were soaked through, the tiny scrap of fabric doing nothing to obscure your puffy folds that were sticky with a mix of your slick and cum. “What a mess you made, honey. Guess I’m gonna have to clean you up,” he said, pulling your panties to the side and licking a broad stripe from your hole to your clit.

You moaned, hips lifting off the bed and chasing his mouth. The contrast of his hot tongue on your cool flesh was blistering. His hands grabbed the back of your thighs, his fingers digging into the soft skin there and stopping any movement of your hips. You whined at the restriction, your hands fisting in the soft sheets instead.

“Waited so long for this honey, shit, fuckin’ dreamed about how you’d taste,” he moaned into your pussy, mouth lapping and sucking at your folds, gathering all the spend and slick and swallowing it down like nectar. His face was nestled deep into your cunt, tongue exploring every crease and crevice your cunt had to offer, licking, sucking, biting–and taking note of what made you scream. 

And once he discovered it, he didn’t just eat you, he devoured you. He was a man possessed, with no regard for his own need for air. His tongue assaulted your clit, alternating between rubbing tight circles around it, short kitten licks, and long, languorous licks that had him shaking his head between your thighs. Every now and again he wrapped his lips around your clit and suckled it, the light leaving your body every time. Your hips rocked against his mouth despite his hold on you, wrecked moans falling from your lips.  

“Fuck, jack, please–r-right there!” 

“That’s it, baby, let me hear you, tell me how good I’m makin’ you feel,” he said, pulling back just far enough to spit onto your cunt before running two fingers up your slit, pushing them in without preamble. The stretch was delicious, his thick fingers curling deep into your wet heat and finding that sweet spot in no time. He exploited it mercilessly, massaging it with the pads of his fingers. His lips returned to your clit, sucking harshly now, giving you no reprieve from his ministrations. 

“Feels so good Jack! Never felt this good before!” you cried. 

The slurping and squelching was lewd, your moans and breathless cries of his name intermingled to create an obscene symphony that you’re sure the entire population of Pittsburgh could hear. 

“You gonna cum on my face, honey? Gonna give me another one?” he asked, fingers massaging your g-spot. “Wanna–fuck–wanna feel this tight cunt squeeze my fingers when she cums.” 

“Y-yes, please Jack, ‘m gonna cum, feels sosososo good” you cried out, your second orgasm crashing over you. Stars burst behind your eyes, back arching uncomfortably off the bed and walls clenching so hard around his fingers you’re not sure how he hasn’t lost circulation. Your legs clamped around his head, trapping him there as you rode out your orgasm, hips rutting against his mouth and fingers. He didn’t mind, licking and sucking you through it, his fingers keeping pressure on your g-spot until you were pushing him away.

He peppered your body with kisses as you came down, starting at your thighs and making his way up over your tummy, ribs, and breasts. He came to rest above you, a dopey smile on your face as you pulled him in for a lazy kiss. His face was soaked with your spend and you could taste the tang on his tongue when he kissed you. 

“You’re stupidly good at that,” you whispered, body still boneless and floaty. 

“Yeah? Want me to show you want else I’m stupidly good at?” he asked while finally shucking his shirt off. 

“Yeah?” you said absentmindedly, eyes glazed over at the majesty that was Jack Abbot’s chest. You immediately began pressing kisses across the newly exposed skin–to his neck, collarbone, pecs, and tummy. You’re even able to scrape your teeth across a nipple before he holds you back at arms length, laughing.   

“Yeah, honey,” he laughed between your frantic kisses, “but you gotta let me breathe for a sec, gotta take care of my leg.” 

“Let me,” you said, slipping down to the floor and sitting back on your heels. You ran your palms up his thighs, hands coming to rest on his belt before going any further.

“You don’t have to do that, honey.” 

“I know,” you said softly, “but I want to. If you’re okay with that.” 

He cradled your face in his hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. You turned into it, kissing the palm of his hand to assure him that you wanted to do this. 

“I care about you Jack, and this is part of you. I just wanna help you, wanna make you feel good,” you said earnestly, giving him your puppy dog eyes.

“Yeah. Okay, honey, go ahead,” he nodded, sitting back on his elbows to watch you. You grasped his belt again, unfastening the buckle and pulling the belt through the loops, discarding it somewhere behind you. You moved to the button of his jeans, deftly popping it open and hooking your fingers into the waistband, tugging them down with Jack’s help. 

Your breath hitched at the sight of his dark gray boxers, a wet spot front and center that made your mouth water. You learned forward and kissed the damp fabric, moaning at the slight taste of precum that danced across your lips. 

“Careful, sweetheart…” he warned, but there wasn’t much heat behind his words. 

You just grinned up at him before getting back to the task at hand. Your fingers travelled down to the sleek metal attached to him, getting a feel for the mechanism before unlocking and twisting it off. The liner came next, tossed to the side before you pressed your fingertips into his skin, massaging the skin to get some blood flow back into the residual limb. You pressed sweet kisses to his flesh, from the front of his knee to the scarred flesh of his leg, tongue dipping out to trace the prominent scar just above his amputation site. 

Jack breathed heavily above you, tiny groans escaping him unbidden. A look flickered across his face, and you think, briefly, that this may be the first time you’ve seen him truly vulnerable. It wasn’t a secret that he’d lost the lower portion of his leg in the war, but he didn’t flaunt it either. You wondered if there was an insecurity that lay deep within him, despite his overt confidence; if other women had reacted differently, cruelly even to the sight of his prosthesis. It made your heart ache to think about it, to think of someone doing anything but worshipping his beautiful body the way he deserved.  

“So pretty, Jack,” you whispered, kisses inching higher up his thigh now, “wanna taste you now.” 

When you’re met with the sight of Jack’s cock, you’re well and truly speechless. You knew he was big from your time on the couch, but seeing it was different. He was thick and veiny, the tip flushed a deep red and leaking precum furiously. It rested against his belly, curving slightly to the left. And did you mention that he was thick? Mouth agape, you wondered how you were going to fit him in your mouth. Or pussy. 

You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting there, hands perched against his thighs, just staring at his cock, until Jack tilts your head back, fingers tightening in the strands of hair at the nape of your neck. 

“Thought you wanted a taste, honey. You just gonna sit there and stare at it all night?” he asked, a smug smile on his lips. 

“Maybe,” you mumbled, tongue darting out to wet your lips. 

Before you can do anything of your own accord, his hand is guiding your head forward, the head of his cock pushing gently against the seam of your lips. You take over from there, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his tip, the precum gathered there salty and sticky against your lips. Your tongue dipped out to caress the spot just below his head, running the flat of your tongue along it before moving back to his head, spitting a glob of spit onto him and wrapping a hand around his base. You started with long, slow strokes, squeezing and twisting on the upstroke, your hand meeting your lips where they suckled at his tip. 

You moaned at the steady stream of precum invading your mouth, “taste so good Jack,” you said before taking more of him into your mouth. You're only about halfway down and your lips are already stretched tight around him, spit leaking from the corners of your mouth in filthy waterfalls. You hollowed your cheeks out, bobbing your head up and down his shaft, your tongue massaging the underside of his cock. 

“Fuck, baby, who knew you had such a filthy fuckin’ mouth on you,” he groaned, hips rutting up slightly. 

His tip occasionally hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag and tears to prick behind your eyes, but you don’t care; the feeling of him weighing heavy on your tongue is reward enough. 

You feel a light pressure applied to the back of your head, “deeper, baby, know you can take it,” he groaned. You obliged, breathing deep through your nose and sinking down further onto his cock until you felt him hit the back of your throat and your nose was nestled in the trimmed grey curls at his base. Your hand grappled for his where it was perched on your head, using it to push harder against your head, trying to convey to him that you wanted him to take over; to fuck your face. 

He groaned, hips jerking involuntarily as he realized what you wanted. He gathered your hair in his hands, hips shallowly trusting into the wet heat of your mouth. His mouth was slack, grunts and groans loud as he fucked your face. His pace builds, his cock roughly pistoning in and out of your mouth. Tears are falling freely now, your mouth stretched to capacity and throat being used and abused by his fat cock. 

“See? These tears are much prettier, baby,” he huffed out, thumbs brushing the trails where they fell. “So fuckin’ pretty, crying with my cock in your mouth.” 

You moaned around him at that, the praise and shame swirling in your tummy. Your hand came up to cup his balls, massaging and squeezing them gently between your fingers. 

You’re suddenly pulled up off his cock and into his lap, spit stringing from your shiny, swollen lips. You whined at the loss of him, your mouth feeling uncomfortably empty now. 

“Fuck–you feel too good, honey,” he grunted, setting you back against his pillows, “can’t cum in that pretty little mouth tonight, need to be inside you.” 

He grabbed a condom out of his drawer before moving back to you, sitting back on his knees and rolling the condom on. You let out an annoyed whine. You’ve never hated the more rational side of your brain more than you do right now. You craved to feel him bare inside you–to feel him cum deep inside you, the hot white ropes painting your walls. And while you trusted him implicitly, you knew safety was of the utmost importance, so condom it was. 

“Don’t worry, baby, soon as we get tested, you won’t be able to stop me from fuckin’ this pussy raw,” he groaned, settling between your spread thighs. His body was a soothing weight above you, the warmth he emanated relieving any anxiety you had. 

He gripped the base of his cock and ran it through your sopping folds a few times, the tip catching slightly on your entrance on each pass. “Please, Jack, need to feel you,” you moaned, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him close. 

He cursed before giving in, notching the head of his cock against your entrance and entering you slowly, letting you feel and adjust to every inch on its own. Your head fell back into his plush pillows as he sank fully into you, your mouth open in a silent scream. Your walls were tight around him, clenching viciously at the intrusion–you’d never been stretched so wide, or filled so thoroughly. It felt like the air had been punched out of your lungs and replaced by his cock. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your short nails biting at his skin. 

You were still for a moment, both your chests heaving as you adjusted to the feeling of one another. Then, once Jack composed himself, he started to move–slow, shallow thrusts at first, your pussy still clenching tight around him, sucking him in greedily with each thrust. 

“Relax for me, honey, that’s it, doin’ so good for me,” he grunted, eyes closed, “pussy feels so good.” 

You willed your body to relax, for your muscles to go lax around him. You shifted your legs up higher, the heels of your feet digging into the soft flesh of his ass. 

“There you go, so good for me,” he moaned, “knew you’d be so good for me.” 

He pulled out again, easier this time, until only the tip remained inside you, then snapped his hips forward. His thrusts were slow but hard, his hips slamming against you each time he bottomed out. The drag of his cock against your walls felt so good, his thick, throbbing length rubbing up against every sensitive spot. You felt every thick vein and ridge, as if they were imprinting into your walls, making a home there. You moaned at the thought of eternity, of Jack making your pussy his again and again and again. 

He was watching you with a wondrous look on his face, his eyes flitting between your blissed out face and bouncing tits. “So fuckin’ sexy, baby, you don’t even understand how fuckin’ gorgeous you are,” he groaned, hips picking up speed, fucking you faster and harder. 

The adrenaline and emotions from the night came crashing down around you. The feeling of his cock dragging through your walls mixed with the sweet words he was whispering into your ear had you feeling exposed and vulnerable, made you feel seen. Your hands were frantic, running over every bit of skin you could get your hands on, needing to feel his skin against yours. You pulled him impossibly closer, his chest now flush against yours, the friction it provided to your nipples dizzying.  

You didn’t notice the tears until Jack was kissing away the salty tracks, his tongue sneaking out to lick up the length of your cheek. “You’re my little crybaby, aren’t you?” he asked, a sweet hint of condescension in his tone, “just can’t help babbling over my cock, huh, baby?” 

You could only whimper at that. The words should feel shameful, degrading, even, but the fondness on his face, the constant reassurance he’d been giving you all night only made you feel warm and fuzzy inside. Because you weren’t a crybaby, you were his crybaby. 

The coil in your stomach tightened, your orgasm fast approaching. He was fucking you hard and fast now, his balls slapping against your ass with a wet smack. “Jaack, I’m gonna–fffuck–I need–” you gasped at a particularly hard thrust, your eyes rolling into the back of your head. 

But Jack knew what you needed before you did, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles against it, and you were done for. Your toes curled, heels pressing harder into his ass as you came, white-hot sparks shooting through your body. Your walls spasmed wildly, your orgasm crashing through you in waves. You were absolutely drenched, your pussy gushing around his cock, leaking down your ass and onto the bed. 

Jack wasn’t far behind, his hips stuttering as your walls seized his cock in a vise grip. “F-fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, so fuckin’ good,” he grunted, his hips going into overdrive now, chasing his climax and fucking you hard and deep.

"Cum for me, Jack, wanna make you feel good," you cried.

He ground his hips into one last time, cumming with a loud moan, cock buried deep inside you and hips pressed flush against yours. 

He collapsed on top of you, head resting on your chest. He pressed lazy kisses to your sternum, collarbone, the soft flesh of your breasts–whatever he could get his lips on from this angle. Your fingers carded through his curls, the motion soothing as you tried to catch your breath. 

Eventually, though, you had to part. 

You whined as he pulled out, your cunt empty and cold now that he’d taken his warmth away. He grabbed his arm crutches, disposing of the condom and retreating to the bathroom. He returned with a warm washcloth and began cleaning you up, gently wiping at your swollen pussy and sticky thighs, making sure you were comfortable before tossing the rag in the hamper.  

He slid back into bed when he was finished, laying on his side and pulling you close against his chest. Your head was cushioned by this arm as you curled into him, your sweat slick bodies cool to the touch now that the heat had dissipated. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he said, fingers brushing up and down your ribs, the touch featherlight.  

“Mmm probably as long as I have,” you said, snuggling closer to him.

“Really? When did you realize you wanted to kiss me?”

You didn’t have to think about it at all. “My birthday, on the roof. I gave you a cupcake and you got frosting all over you,” you giggled at the memory, “and all I could think about was how bad I wanted to kiss it all off of your stupidly handsome face.” 

He laughed with you, the creases around his eyes deepening as he did. He was so pretty, you thought for the thousandth time that night. 

 “I remember that,” he smiled, “I remember being so proud that I made you laugh that night.” 

“What about you?” you asked. 

He thought about it for a minute. “I think the need to kiss you has been simmering in me since I met you, but the first time I had the conscious thought was when you patched me up after that patient clocked me in the head,” he said, his hand now on your cheek, stroking the bone there, “you were standin’ between my legs, stitchin’ up my forehead, and all I could think about was pulling you close and kissing you until I couldn’t breathe.” 

“Why didn’t you?”

He sighed, “I’m your superior and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable if you didn't feel the same way.” You knew he didn’t want to delve into the ‘superior’ thing right now, didn’t want to have the long, complicated conversation that was sure to come in the following days. 

“And I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself once I started,” he said, lightening the mood a bit. 

You giggled at that, rolling your eyes affectionately. But something nagged in your head about what he said. 

“Wait…” you said, piecing together a timeline, “that was nearly a year ago! You’re telling me we could have been doing this for a year!?” you exclaimed, slapping him on the chest lightly. 

He shook his head at you, a sheepish look on his face. You were both idiots. 

“Well, I guess we have a lot of lost time to make up for, then, don’t we?” he said cheekily, capturing your lips again and pushing you onto your back, determined to make you a very happy woman.

a/n: thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it <33

taglist: @ficcyyfics

[illinicoise]

“But if you forget to reblog Madame Zeroni, you and your family will be cursed for always and eternity.”

[spn-fandom-breathing-heavily]

not even risking that shit

[codyslipring-deactivated2015060]

scrolled past this, re-evaluated my life, then SCROOOLLLED back up and hit the damn reblog button. 

[tumblgang]

She ain’t no games in real life so I take her serious all the time

Anyone with a name that starts with a “Z”, ends with an “i”, and isn’t some kind of Italian pasta, IS SERIOUS

I’m not climbing no mountain with a pig on my back, 🙅🏽🙅🏾🙅🏿 Negative.

[skuubasally]

Nope. I know better, have your reblog Madame Zeroni.

[luckytaters]

who the fuck is Madame Zeroni

[saudadesinfinitas-deactivated20]

Look at these stupid children who don’t know who Madame Zeroni is

[drayaintshit-deactivated2019030]

☝🏾😂

[callmedeku24]

Man lissen if you don’t know you better ask somebody AFTER you hit the reblog button

[emeraldmercury]

Idk who she is but I have an exam today so I’ll reblog her

[haiku-robot]

idk who she is but i have an exam today so i’ll reblog her

^Haiku^bot^0.4. Sometimes I do stupid things (but I have improved with syllables!). Beep-boop!

[jacobmick]

Because wise, I am.

[seymonecristina]

Oh fucks no she’s back lmao must reblog. I’m sorry guys

[silverslipstream]

Reblogging Madame Zeroni because I would hate for my great-great grandson to get hit in the head by running shoes

[dirtygir1]

honestly, reader cheating on robby bc she work nights with him and robby is always shrugging of her attempts to FUCK and jacks just being a good friend by taking care of her every night >_<

this was supposed to be small. i had a lot of fun with this i got reeeally carried away. multiple positions, kinda referenced his quinn audio?? sue me. downtalking Robby, cheating obviously, Jack finished in you. fuck that Robby guy tho he can’t fuck you like Jack does

venting to him one day about it between patients on like your break, “he just..i dunno he won’t touch me anymore, i think it’s because of what’s happening up in that head but he won’t talk about it with me either..” you’re all pouty, Jack can’t help himself. “i’ll talk to him slugger, you wanna catch a bite with me after work?”

a bite turns hanging out at home after work, which isn’t anything crazy, because you’re all friends. known each other for years. and Jack isn’t a pushy guy, but you notice the way he rubs up your knee, or how he looks at you when you change into comfy clothes.

“is robby still..dodgy?” Jack asks, rubbing at your leg that’s slung over his thigh. your smile fades and you sigh. “yeah. i mean..i just don’t know how to talk to that guy anymore. he feels so far all the time.” “and you’ve been initiating, right? like we talked about?” “yes! i wear fucking sexy, expensive lingerie, i-i touch on him, rub him. nothing.”

you’re closer now, arm to arm with your body turned into his. his brows furrow, rubbing at the growing stubble on his cheek. Jack wraps his arm around you now, palming at your hip lovingly and allowing you to lie on his chest. “and toys don’t..i mean is that still on the table for you?” “i use them..but it just..gets boring after a while. tiring. i wanna have sex, not just..play with myself all the time.”

the image of you with your legs spread, using a dildo or wand on yourself is front and center of his mind. he sees you whining with frustration, bucking your hips needily. jesus. “i mean is it me? did i do something, am i just not sexy anymore? you’d tell me if he told you that, right, Jack?” you’re looking at him with big, tear brimming eyes while you paw at his chest. Jack is a weak man, sweetie.

“of course i’d tell you sweetheart, he’s..Robby’s somewhere else right now. don’t blame yourself you’re..you’re so sexy. sexiest girl i know, that’s for sure.” he gives you a gentle smile, but you’ve still got that pouty, needy look on your face. “really?” “yes really honey, robby’s bein’ real stupid…”

he’s gazing into your eyes, mind racing as he licks at his lips. “he’s being mean too.” “real mean. i’d..never be mean to you.” he can’t help himself when he closes the gap between you two, pushing his lips onto yours. you moan upon impact, fisting his shirt as he grabs at your body, rubbing down your hips before hoisting you fully onto his lap.

he feels how much you need this in the kiss, pushing your tongue in his mouth, your hands snaking up his neck and into his hair, yanking it slightly. the way your body arches into his, legs raising slightly to kiss him harder, pushing him deeper into the couch. you moan when you feel your clothed cunt drag along his bulge, brows furrowing hard before grinding down, getting a sound out of him.

“fuck.” he whispers, still messily kissing you, hands now grabbing at your warming love hands under your big shirt. your ring twists into his curls, making him wince, which makes you pull away. “are you ok??” you pull your hand away, letting him take it softly in his. “your-your ring, got my hair.” your ring. your wedding ring.

“oh my god. Jack i..” you put your hands on his chest, scooting down off his lap, though still straddling his thighs. “i can’t do this with you, oh my god..” you rub your hands down your face, the cold metal against your hot skin feels like a zap. “wha..why not?” he breaths, brows pinched with confusion as he pulls your hands away from your face.

“Robby, Jack. i..he’s my husband i can’t do that to him! i’m so terrible!” you scoff, eyes wide with fear. “you’re not terrible, what’re you scared of? betraying him?? what the fuck has he been doing to you, then?” he pulls you back closer, so close your hands roughly land on his chest.

you pull your head from his gaze, keeping your hands down for distance, but he doesn’t let you. “that’s different Jack, he’s..disembodied right now he’s just distant..” “that’s still neglecting his wife. shutting you out, which is the last person he should be doing that to. i never once shut out my wife. you said it yourself. he’s being mean.”

you pout, whining at the words that sting to your heart. Robby is being mean. he’s being mean to everyone, but you especially. “Jack i..” you scoff, you can’t even find the words, “it’s not right, i mean i love him too much.” “you can still love him, it’s not like im some guy. you know me, sweetheart..” you don’t fight when he kisses down the shell of your ear, trialing slowly down your neck in a way that makes you shiver.

your arms end up at his shoulders, eyes shutting in his touch. “i just wanna help you. been so long for you.” his stubble tickles your neck as he speaks low, almost a whisper. you’ve only heard this sugary tone once before. “been wanting this, right? to be touched like this? kissed like this?” he moves slowly down your comfy shorts, cupping your ass as the cotton slides off at the knuckles of his huge hands.

“yeah..” it comes out more pathetic than you could control, but your heart was pounding out your chest. “yeah..” he nods, kissing back up your jaw and taking your lips in his. “i know. let me do this for you.” you raise up to let him pull off your shorts, and the heat turns up in an instant. the kiss turning passionate, moans and groans trading under tongues as you lift his shirt over his shoulder, “can’t..” you pant, eyes hooded.

“cant happen again,” your hands move faster than you can think, untying and pulling down his scrub bottoms. “only one time. this time.” “this time.” he repeats, and you squeak when his big hand cups your pussy over your underwear, a throaty hum exiting him as he feels how fucking wet you were.

you can’t remember the last time you were so fired up to fuck. grabbing at whatever you could while he fingered you open, accidentally scratching at his biceps as your hips move greedily against him. “you’re so fuckin’ wet sweetheart, want this real bad.” he pants, eyes locked in you as you moan into the air. “please just…Jack please.. need it.” it almost comes as a sob, and he couldn’t ever refuse you. not like this, especially.

“lemme take it out. gonna get it sweetie, promise. gonna give it to you.” there’s that sugary tone again, and you find yourself moving at his command without a second thought, throwing your shirt off your sweaty body and reaching for his leg. you help him pull off his boxers and then his prosthetic, hearing a sigh of relief above him as you set it down.

he moves you back over him, and your eyes widen slightly at the sight of his hung, veiny dick. “jesus you’re..so big,” and he wants to say something cocky. he really does. but he just thumbs at your hip, nodding with a small smirk. “you can handle it.”

your eyes are big on his as you lift yourself over his cock, letting him guide you onto his tip, then his girth. he goes slow, gripping your hips as he rocks you lower and lower, drinking in the little gasps and squeals you let out. “Jack you’re-fuck you’re so big, you’re so fucking big,,” you whine, shaky breaths as you squeeze your eyes shut.

“you’re taking it.” his voice is rasped, quiet watching your pussy engulf him. “you’re taking it baby i promise, you’re fuckin’ takin’ it. so good too, holy shit.” he wants to let all his greedy, jealousy induced thoughts out. can’t believe robby’s missing out on this, fuck. should’ve bagged this pussy forever ago, clearly Robby wasn’t putting it to good use. but it doesn’t exit his mind, not wanting you to feel worse about it all.

“oh yes, oh my god yes,” you moan out, head thrown back as your hips take over, his hands guiding you ever so gently as you bounce on his cock. “fuck you’re..fuck Jack it’s so good,” he moans under you, your pleasure making the butterflies dancing in his stomach as you fuck yourself on him.

“that’s it sweetheart, there you fuckin’ go. y’like that? yeahhh baby, feels soo good.” his eyes roll back, hands grabbing at every curve he could before the moment was over. pawing at your tits, smacking at your ass, squeezing at your belly. you’re everything to him, sweetie.

he can’t help but let himself submit to you in this time of need, in this sweet notion of helping his friend. because that what it really was. just helping his friend blow some steam, she’s just pent up. losing the same amount of calories as if he took you boxing. nothing wrong with it. “yeah sweetie, let it all out. just like thaat, fucking god,” he feels dizzy watching you hump him. your body’s consumed with greed, with a mission in mind.

latching onto him, filling your house with high shaky moans. and he was doing so much for you, and more. grabbing you, holding you lovingly close to him as you ride him into the couch cushion he was leaning his back into you. letting out sweet words to you, praise, helping you through riding him. groaning loudly into the room, the sounds alone coming from him fueling you, swelling your head.

sounds Robby never made. never talked you through it unless it’d been a long time, or till he was close. barely made noise either, no matter how many times youve told him you liked it. you were jelly in Jacks touch. he was pushing you steadily over your edge, whether he touched you or not. he filled you completely, inside and out.

his left hand started shoving you down on his cock, your moans coming out in sharp, quick gasps of air, eyes wide watching yourself slam on his dick and feeling his tip kiss that sponges spot in you. his right hand sucks on his thumb, getting it nice and wet before bringing it to your puffy clit, flicking it in a way that makes you suck in a harsh breath, dragging your nails down his shoulder, a high moan exiting you as you throw your head back.

“fuck ohmygo-Jack!” your moans are bordering on pornographic. and you look fucking delicious. hips bucking up to his touch all jittery, sweat gleaming your tits as they bounce with every move. your nose is scrunched slightly as the side of your mouth sneers upturned, and your brows sitting hard and tightly pinched, so overturned with pleasure you can’t control how loud you are. and Jack is straight up drinking it in.

“you’re so good, you’re fucking me so good Jack, better than i’ve ever fuckin’ felt..!” your words come up high, it’s music to his ears. to get that out of you, to know you’ve been with Robby almost half a decade, and Jack barely moving his hips is the best you’ve felt in that long?

“you’re fucking me, sweetie, and you’re doin’ so good. look at you, takin’ it from me..” his eyes are hooded over your body, his soft puppy eyes working over you in your vulnerable state. “keep using me baby, just fuckin’ take it. haven’t gotten dick like this before, haven’t had this in so long, right? you deserve this. say it.”

it’s barely getting through your ears honestly. your stomach is heaving, your ears are almost ringing, eyes rolling back as you fuck yourself on his thick cock like a toy. “i deserve it..” you slur in heavy pants, eyes rolling back as you feel your heated orgasm approach. “yeah you do. yeah you fuckin’ do sweetheart,” he’s quick to hold you in his grasp when you collapse into him, mushing into his shoulder while you grind lazily.

his arm wraps around you, turning in his place to keep you close, keeping his pace on your throbbing clit as you shudder against him. “there we fuckin’ go, cmon you can do it. been talkin’ about gettin’ fucked for weeks i know you can do it. use me sweetie, use me like you fuckin’ mean it,” there’s a rough, almost degrading tone in his words, and your body submits to him at the impact.

he fucks into you from the side, your leg coming up immediately to let him in deeper, and as he groans in your ear, your dam breaks. “ohhh Jack, oh god, Jack!” it’s one big breath before you’re gasping out again, shrinking into him as your pussy flutters around his dick, stomach so tight as you practically burst under him.

“don’t stop, please don’t stop im..im—” you can’t even finish your words, and Jack doesn’t mind a bit. nodding to your words, his mouth echoing yours, agape with his own groans as his eyes roll back. “let it alll out baby, take it fr’me it’s all yours..” you feel you leg cramp up from how hard your orgasm had hit you, your body falling limp on Jack as he continues fucking into you, removing his hand from your shaking pussy to hold your leg up.

his lashes feel weighted, glittering as he takes in the sight of you, your fucked out face as your eyes rest, down your sweaty body, to where you two met, the creamy ring around his cock glistening and cresting rather nasty strings of cum as he thrusts into you. heat builds in his chest, his cock twitches inside of you and his hips stutter. that cold sweat rolls over him, and he looks to the ceiling with an oh god before back at you.

“that’s it baby, that’s it, that’s fucking it,” his praises to you turn into revelations of the immense pleasure weighing on him. hunching over you and pushing you on your back on the couch, finding the balance to slam into you. you moan in tandem at the new position, the way he lays all his unbalanced weight on your thighs he’s keeping up, slamming into you like it’s beyond his control.

with your back arched off the cushion and your hands fisting st it from the side, you watch his face as he loses his composure, bitting his lip before letting groans spill from him like a music box, eyes rolled to the ceiling as his brows flex to the hairline. “oh my god, can’t even..aghh can’t fucking believe you gave this pussy to Robby,” he rolls his eyes, “did so fucking good, scratching me up and shit you-you’re fuckin’ everything..”

his mouth moves faster than his mind. poor guys lost in the sauce, chest heavy as it turns that familiar red you’ve only seen a few times in the sun. “god you’re so good, gimme a kiss sweetie, so prouda’ you,” you practically yank him down onto you, kissing so sloppily you think drool is getting everywhere because of how over the moon you guys are.

you gasp sharply, feeling his tip kiss at your cervix. you dig your nails into his neck, a high, almost pained moan exiting you through his lips. “Jack you’re—Jack hold on,” you mewl, though feeling him shake his head frantically. “i know sweetie i-im sorry i just-fuck i can’t, icanticanticant,” he moans, and his following groans come up higher, weaker as if he’d been yelling all night (which..he probably has).

“can’t stop, fuck you’re so good, m’gonna cum, baby m’gonna cum,” he doesn’t even try to kiss you anymore, “you’re so good, doin’ so fucking good baby i..” you hear the slapping of skin from between you, feeling impossibly split open as he slams into you, groaning like he couldn’t breath.

with a final loud groan he grabs at the cushion next to your head, eyes tightly screwed as his hips come to a halt, and you feel his dick twitch into you as he finishes hard, the following groans coming out as weak whines. Jack lets his body collapse over you, reaching behind himself to caress at your shaking legs, still panting into each other’s mouths.

“did i..hurt you?” he whispers, you feel his lashes against your crows feet. “no, no. just..was a lot. is your leg ok..?” look at you. all the more worrying. all the more caring, loving. it makes Jack chuckled breathily, shaking his head as he kisses at your cheek. “i’m ok, sweetheart. been through worse.”

he pushes himself off you, giving you a once over for any damage before pulling out, sitting upright next your body. speeding your pussy with his thumb and pointer, in the blink of an eye he’s watching his cum seep out of you and onto your ass, and almost onto the couch cushion had he not cupped his hand under the leakage, stuffing it back in you. “fuck i..i didn’t mean to uh..just got carried away.” he gives you a remorseful look, that he also looks away from to gaze at your beat, puffy pussy.

“are you on birth control?” “no..i stopped a few months ago. we wanted to try for a baby.” your cheek quirked to the side before you pout a little, and Jack feels his heart break a little. “ok. i’ll get you plan b, then.” you nod and lift on, crawling into his lap once again, but this time, you give him a slow, gentle kiss.

“thank you..Jack..” you sigh, feeling him wrap his arms around you. “don’t gotta thank me. just wanted to help you, sweet thing. s’what friends are for.” he joked, making you scoff a chuckle. you nod, “yeah. what friends are for.” for fucking so hard you see stars. of course. “lemme get my foot awake, then we’ll clean up.”

if you’ve sent be a Pope Cody request, trust me i have it, i’m not neglecting! i pushed this forward bc i haven’t formally written for Jack in sooo long, and this was so fun. thank u for the ask!

[mparksy]

wrong number

jack abbot x f!reader - MDNI

summary: a night out with some coworkers after a medical conference leads to you accidentally texting your attending about how hot you think he is.

word count: 4.6k

contains: smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, reader is a doctor, no use of y/n.

a/n: i know nothing about being a doctor or going to medical conferences but i tried my best here. If something is disgustingly inaccurate plz let me know :)

If you were being honest, you hated these things. Conferences, galas, all of it. You loved being a doctor, it was your life’s passion after all, but it was the incessant obligations outside of the hospital— the networking, the dressing up, the horrid small talk with other doctors— piled on top of your already packed schedule that had you dreading this particular medical conference more than usual. 

There was one small silver lining, at least. This time, you had friends.

You’d only begun working at Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center a few months ago, looking for more of a challenge after spending the past few years of your career in dermatology. You didn’t hate it, per se, but you felt deep in your bones that you were meant for more high stakes work.

Not only did the job suit you better, but the people did too. Sure, you’d met some nice people in dermatology, even met your best friend there, but working in the ER surrounded you with people much like yourself. Adrenaline junkies.

Unfortunately, adrenaline junkies and medical conferences did not mix.

That’s how you found yourself at some dodgy dive bar down the street from your hotel the last night of your conference with two of your coworkers, Trinity and Victoria. The three of you had been bored out of your minds at the last lecture of the day, where some old pretentious man droned on and on and onnnnn about medical research that was about 25 years outdated. You really needed a drink.

“Okay, I know we agreed on vodka crans, but I got us green tea shots too. My treat, alright? I fucking need a shot after whatever that lecture was,” Trinity explains as she returns from the bar, setting three drinks and three shots down on the center of the table. You were able to snag some seats in the back corner of the bar, thankfully, because the last thing you want to deal with is any more people today.

“Oh god, it was horrible, wasn’t it? I was just about ready to rip my hair out. Didn’t think that guy would ever stop talking,” Victoria replies as she reaches for one of the shots. 

The three of you clink glasses, tapping them down onto the wooden surface of the table before knocking them back. 

“God, that’s fucking good,” you wince, the alcohol burning at the bottom of your throat.

The night continues in a cycle of work gossip and ordering vodka cranberries for the table. By the time you guys are leaving, you’re thoroughly buzzed.

You walk back to the hotel together, arm and arm, when you get back onto the topic of work. Feeling a little more truthful than usual due to the alcohol coursing through your system, you decide to tell your friends about an awkward moment you had during one of your shifts last week.

“Oh it was awful, you guys. I was assisting Dr. Abbot with a perforating GSW and he asked me to hand him hemostatic gauze, and I dropped the package all over the floor trying to open it. I’m talking gauze everywhere. I had to rush to get a new one, my hands were shaking like hell when I gave it to him,” you ramble. “And the worst part? He noticed. Pulled me into one of the on-call rooms afterward to ask what was up with me. I was horrified.”

Victoria furrows her brows, and Trinity slows her steps until the three of you are standing still in the middle of the dimly lit sidewalk.

“What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?” you ask, confused. 

“Sorry, you were nervous?” Victoria questions.

“I didn’t even know that was possible for you,” Trinity admits, shock displayed on her face.

“I mean, yeah. If you guys had been there, you’d understand. The whole room was tense, you could hear a pin drop,” you explain.

“Don’t think that’s how I’d describe the Pitt, but okay,” Victoria concedes, falling back into step toward the hotel as you and Trinity trail close behind.

“Y’know, I don’t think it was the GSW that had you all worked up. I’ve seen you in action. You’re not one to falter, especially not like that. I think maybe a certain night shift attending has you all hot and bothered,” Trinity prods, landing a playful punch against your shoulder.

Victoria whips her head around at that. “Oh my god. That’s totally it!” she squeals. “Are you guys hooking up? I’ll be soooo jealous, he’s a total silver fox.”

Heat blooms in your chest and creeps up to your cheeks. You’re suddenly very, very hot.

“Jesus, no. I’m not hooking up with him. I’m not even into him, not like that. I can promise you he’s not what made me nervous,” you ramble. “We work a high stress job, it’s normal to make mistakes. And that’s all it was, a mistake,” you babble on, hoping your friends won’t pick up on the fact that you’re lying straight through your teeth.

While the part about not hooking up with him is true, you can’t deny the fact that you definitely have feelings for Doctor Jack Abbot.

It’s all his fault, really. From the start, he was charming. Good at conversation. Never made you feel less than, despite being the newbie of the department. 

And it definitely didn’t help that he looked like that. Salt and pepper curls that framed his angular face which was dusted with freckles. Wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that made themselves known when he smiled. Biceps that bulged underneath his scrub top sleeve, which was far too tight considering the size of his muscles.

It got worse once you guys fell into a rhythm, able to work in tandem. Sometimes you didn’t even need words. It only took one look at each other for you to know exactly where he needed you, how to best assist him with a procedure. 

If it wasn’t a look, it was a touch. A gloved hand overtop yours, guiding you on where to make an incision. A warm, large hand braced against your back as you intubate. A pat on the shoulder after you successfully stabilize a patient. 

But undoubtedly, the worst part was the way he spoke to you. Whether it be a “Nice work, Kiddo,” after a particularly stressful chest tube placement, or a “What’s goin’ on up there?” with a featherlight touch to your temple when you were lost in thought. It was like he could sense what you were feeling before you’d even figured it out for yourself.

Clearly, whatever feelings you have for Dr. Abbot are written all over your face, because Trinity and Victoria seem wholly unconvinced.

“Okay, well if you’re not hooking up with him, then you should be. I’ve seen your dynamic, there’s some clear tension between you guys, babe,” Trinity argues as you finally approach the doors of your hotel.

“Yeah, that’s not happening. Even if I wanted it to, which I don’t, there’s no way he’d be into it,” you explain, the warmth in your cheeks only growing. 

Victoria lets out a dramatic sigh as you make your way through the hotel lobby toward the elevators. “And I thought I was clueless.”

“Sorry?” you ask, pressing the button for the elevator. It dings and the doors open, the three of you piling in. You quickly push the button for floor three. You want to escape this situation as fast as possible, if you’re being honest. Your emotions are too heightened from the drinks to be having this conversation right now.

“If you can’t see it, there’s nothing we can do to help you,” Trinity replies. “Anyway, it might not be the brightest idea to sleep with a coworker. We all know how that went for me…”

“Oh Trin it wasn’t that bad. At least she doesn’t work in the same department,” Victoria remarks, then gestures vaguely at you. “Imagine if this hypothetical hookup with Abbot really did happen. She’d have to work with him all the time and he’s her attending. Now that’s bad.”

You groan. “Gee, thanks guys. I feel really supported right now.”

“So you do want to sleep with him then?” Victoria quips. 

“No! My god, you guys. I’m done with the conversation,” you exclaim. The elevator finally reaches your floor and you waste no time stepping out into the warmly lit hallway.

“Well, I’ll see you both bright and early tomorrow. Still want to get coffee before the airport?” Trinity asks as she fumbles with her keycard outside of her room door. 

Victoria, one door down from Trinity, follows suit in swiping her card. “Sure, how’s 7:00 sound?”

“Works for me, see you guys tomorrow!” you reply with a smile and a wave, making your way down to the end of the hallway to your room. 

It hits you as you struggle to get your door unlocked that you’re a lot drunker than you thought. Not enough to warrant a hangover, but inebriated enough that you stumble toward your bed as you kick off your shoes. 

After taking a much needed shower, washing away the grime of a long day, and putting on a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top, you cuddle up into bed and check your texts.

There’s multiple from your best friend, Jackie. The one you met when you worked in dermatology. 

Jackie: girl i haven’t heard from you all day Jackie: is the conference terrible Jackie: so glad i don’t have to go to those lol Jackie: is dr hottie there at least

You chuckle at her messages. Of course she’d bring him up. She’s the only person you’ve confided in about your attraction to Dr. Abbot, and she’s become obsessed with him ever since. Even gave him that ridiculous nickname.

You swipe back to check your other notifications, reading a text from your mom and watching a Tik Tok that Trinity sent you from her room before you finally go back to reply to Jackie.

Unfortunately, in your inebriated state, your finger slides on your screen and deletes your text chain with her.

“Shit!” you exclaim. At least you remember what she said. You quickly click the “New Message” button and start typing out her name. 

j… a… c… 

You click on her contact and begin typing.

You: sry i’ve been busy but yes the conference was shit You: got drinks after im a ltitle drunk lol You: and yes dr hottie is here thank god You: i sat behind him during a talk this mornign and had to fight urges to run my hands through his sexy silver hair You: i didnrt do it tho. i am brave

Sighing, you shuffle in bed so you’re no longer sitting up against the headboard but laying on your side. You reach toward the nightstand and flick the lamp off, filling the room with darkness.

Well, the room is dark until your phone buzzes on the mattress next to you and the screen lights up, emitting a soft glow. 

Rather quickly, it buzzes again. You reach for it, expecting Jackie’s replies. While it’s not very late, she’s a night owl through and through, so of course she’d answer you immediately. 

Instead, you see two notifications from… Jack Abbot? The only times you’ve ever texted him were about coming in early or that one time you’d forgotten your sweater in the break room and asked if he could hide it in one of the cabinets until your shift the next morning. Why would he be texting you at 11:00pm on a night you were both off?

You unlock your phone and click into your text thread with him.

Jack: I think you meant to send those to someone else. Jack: I’ll try and sit farther away next time. Wouldn’t want my hair distracting you.

You shoot up in bed, breath catching in your throat. Immediately, your chest is on fire. There’s no fucking way you sent those messages to him.

You: oh my god You: im so fuckign sorry You: i was trying to text my friend

Jack: It’s OK.

You: its not You: its extremely unprofessional You: im so so sorry

Jack: Stop apologizing.

Your breathing still hasn’t calmed down. You’re mortified. How are you ever going to face him again?

For a minute, there’s no other reply. You debate texting him again, but what could you even say? “I’m sorry I think your hair is sexy”?

Instead, you try to focus on calming down. Everything will be fine. You can blame it on the drinks, even if you’re not really drunk. He won’t know that you’re lying.

Your eye catches on the three little dots at the corner of your text thread. He’s typing again. A lump forms in the base of your throat.

Jack: Where are you?

Confused, you type out a reply.

You: my room You: why

Jack: How much did you drink?

You: not much You: a few vodka crans with trinity and victoria You: im mostly sober now

It wasn’t necessarily a lie. This interaction definitely sobered you up.

Jack: So you’re OK?

You: yep You: safe and sound

Jack: Good. Jack: Dr. Hottie, huh?

You: oh god pls dont remind me You: im mortified

Jack: Don’t be. Jack: Are you in bed?

Your eyebrows furrow at that last message. At first it seemed like he was just checking in on you, making sure you weren’t stranded and drunk at some shady bar. But what kind of question is that?

You: yes

Jack: Send me a picture.

Eyebrows knitting together in confusion, you open your camera and take a photo of the foot of your bed. You can make out the shape of the chair in the corner of the room and the TV mounted to the wall. You go back to your texts and send him the photo.

You: [1 attachment] You: see You: exactly where i said i am

Jack: No, a picture of you.

Oh. 

With shaking hands, you swipe back to the camera app, this time flipping it so it’s front facing. You snap a photo of yourself, angling the phone so it captures your face and part of your torso. 

You examine the photograph, taking in the pouty expression on your face and noting the way your tank top rides up at your stomach, exposing your midriff. Considering you didn’t put on a bra, you can see the faint outline of your nipples through the thin material.

Without overthinking it, you send him the picture.

You: [1 attachment]

Jack: Jesus. Jack: You always sleep like that?

Feeling bold, the remnants of your night out still coursing through your veins, you type out a reply.

You: no You: i usually sleep naked You: but that feels a bit too exposing for a hotel 

Jack: Fuck, sweetheart. Jack: You have no idea what you’re doing to me.

You: send a pic You: i wanna see

Heat pools between your legs. There’s no way this is happening. You’ll wake up tomorrow and realize you dreamt up this entire conversation.

An image from Dr. Abbot comes through.

Jack: [1 attachment]

He’s laying in his hotel bed in nothing but his underwear. You can’t see his face, but his chest is on full display. God, his muscles were something else.

But the real star of the show is his bulge, straining hard against the fabric of his boxers. One of his veiny hands rests atop it, and you can’t help but notice the wet spot pooling where his erection sits.

Fuck.

You hold your phone in one hand and slide the other one underneath your shorts and panties, rubbing slow, methodic circles against your core. Your phone pings with another message.

Jack: What’re you doing now?

You: touching myself You: are u

Jack: Fuck, yes.

Growing warm, you kick the bedsheets aside. Your hand continues to circle, pressure building deep in your belly.

You: wish i could see u rn

Jack: [1 attachment - 0:21]

Oh, God. 

Suddenly, everything starts feeling a little too real. You should not be doing this. He’s your attending. You’re sacrificing your career, everything you’ve worked so hard for, for what? One meaningless night?

But the way your hand is creating friction against your clit combined with Jack’s messages have you too horny to care, if you’re being honest.

Nervously, you click play on the video.

You almost regret doing it.

But you can’t look away from the sight of him pumping his cock up and down in the dim lighting of his hotel room. 

It’s long, longer than you were expecting. And thick. 

You watch as he drags his hand from the base up to the head, uses his thumb to circle the precum that's built up at the slit, and then works it up and down his length.

If the sight of that wasn’t enough, the sounds he’s making have you groaning into your pillow. He’s practically growling, the noises coming ragged from the depths of his throat.

You can’t even think straight, you’re so desperate for more. For anything. Without even thinking about it, you open your phone camera again and start recording.

It’s nothing special, considering how worked up you are. You really can’t even see much since your shorts and panties are still on. 

You film as your hand moves underneath the fabric a few times, breathy moans escaping your lips. You pull it out slowly, showing off the sticky mess left on your fingers for the camera.

You: oh my god You: thats so fucking hot You: [1 attachment - 0:14] You: this is how badly i want u

There’s no response for a minute, and you worry that you went too far. Maybe he realized how fucking crazy this whole situation is. Because that’s exactly what it is. Crazy.

Before you can begin to spiral too hard, your phone buzzes in your hand.

He’s fucking calling you.

You let it ring a few times, working up the courage to answer.

With a shaking hand, you click accept.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can hear his heavy breathing and the sound of something wet in the background. 

“How are you doing it?” he mumbles into the phone, abruptly.

“What?”

“How are you touching yourself? Tell me.”

“Oh, I’m– I’m rubbing circles on my clit,” you can barely make out the words, feeling embarrassed. 

“Oh fuck,” he groans. “Slip a finger in.”

“Jack, I–”

“Fuck, I need you to,” he begs. “Please do it for me, Kiddo.”

“O-Okay,” you stutter, lining up your middle finger with your entrance and sinking it in. You release a moan at the sensation, pumping your finger in and out a few times before adding another.

“God, that sound. You sound so pretty when you touch yourself. Can you hear me? Hear me pumping my cock? It wants you so bad, Sweetheart. You have no idea.”

His words make you shudder, more needy sounds escaping from your throat. The sound of his hand working against his length combined with his breathy moans have you bucking your hips into your hand.

“I want you too,” you whimper. 

“What’s your room number?” Jack grunts.

“What?”

“I can’t do this. Knowing you’re right down the hall. What room are you in?”

You blink.

“302.”

The line clicks. 

He hung up.

You stare at the dark phone screen in front of you, fingers coming to a stop under your panties.

What the actual fuck just happened.

Is he coming here? Like right now?

Suddenly, there’s three sharp knocks at the door. You readjust your panties and shorts and nervously make your way to the door, fumbling to open it because of how hard you’re shaking. 

As you expected, Jack Abbot stands in front of you clad in a white t-shirt and a pair of sweats. He’s using his crutches, didn’t even waste time putting on his leg. His left foot dons one white sock. No shoe. 

Just looking at his face makes the ache between your legs grow. His skin’s coated in a thin sheen of sweat, curls sticking to his forehead. His breathing is uneven, chest heaving against the tight fabric of his shirt.

Without a word, you open the door wide enough to let him through and he wastes no time heading directly for the center of the room, placing his crutches against the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed. You click the door shut and lock it.

“C’mere,” he whispers.

You take one step toward him. Measured, careful. Then another.

“Jack, I don’t know if we should…”

“Fuck, don’t say that. Would you just come here?” he growls.

You move closer until you’re standing in front of him. He reaches for you, placing his broad hands on your hips and tugging you closer to him, between his thighs. His thumbs move back and forth against your hip bone.

“Do you want this?” He asks, quiet.

“Yes.”

“Then let me make you feel good. Please,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer so he can press open mouthed kisses to the base of your throat and down your chest. 

You moan into his touch, hands coming up to tug his hair.

“Is it as good as you imagined?” he teases.

“Sorry?”

“Running your hands through my ‘sexy silver hair’? Your words, not mine.” 

A laugh escapes from his lips and you groan, dropping your head on top of his so he can’t see how horrified you are. 

“Yeah, I’m going to regret that text for the rest of my life.”

Jack brings his hands up from your waist to the back of your head so he can pull you back to look at him.

“I’m not,” he says, maintaining such an intense eye contact that you begin to tremble underneath his gaze. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about it. Your hands in my hair. Your mouth on me. How you’d sound when I fuck you,” he whispers, leaning to continue sucking marks on your chest, just above the neckline of your tank top.

You moan at his words. If that’s the case, you should’ve been fucking him for months now.

Something snaps inside of you, and you give up on holding back. You want this. You can deal with the repercussions tomorrow.

You bring your hands down from his hair to his shoulders and push him back slightly on the bed so you have enough room to climb on top of him, straddling his thighs. He moves his hands back to your waist, keeping you stabilized against him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he responds, breathless.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Fuck, please.”

You dip your head down and hover your lips over his, inches apart. You can feel his warm breath fan over your mouth as he exhales. 

Fed up, Jack closes the distance, connecting his lips with yours. 

And fuck, he tastes good. 

You whimper into his mouth, quickening your pace, desperate for more.

The sound you make causes his grip to tighten around your waist, his kisses becoming sloppier. He darts his tongue out, seeking entry to your mouth.

You swirl your tongue against his and he releases a deep, guttural groan. Your bodies move together, hips grinding over the bulge in his sweatpants. 

Between frantic kisses, he manages to lift your tank top over your head, pulling back only to admire your bare chest.

“Been dreaming about these,” he admits, taking his right hand off your hip to palm at one of your breasts. “They’re even better than I imagined.”

You throw your head back as he rolls your nipple between his knuckles. He dips his head and uses his mouth to suck on the other one, and the sensation has you rocking your hips even harder against him.

“So fucking sexy,” he breathes as he swirls his tongue around your nipple. You dig your nails into his shoulder, overwhelmed by his hands and mouth.

He kisses his way back up your chest and neck until his lips connect with yours again, hand still squeezing at your breast.

“Can I taste you?” he groans into your mouth. 

You nod against him and he takes that as permission to lift you from his lap and toss you on the bed next to him, head hitting the pillow. You giggle at the sudden movement, Jack crawling above you to keep peppering your lips and jaw with kisses.

He pulls back so he’s sitting on his haunches and fiddles with the waistband of your shorts. Slowly, he peels the fabric down your legs and tosses them aside. He pushes your knees apart so you’re spread for him, ducking his head to kiss his way up your thighs.

“Jack, please,” you beg.

He places a few kisses over the lacy fabric of your panties before he pulls them to the side, face to face with your dripping center. 

He licks one slow, agonizing stripe up your core, causing you to buck your hips up in the air. 

“Fuck, you taste so good, Kiddo,” he mumbles into your cunt, lapping up the wetness that’s gathered there. He takes his time sucking and kissing at your clit, dipping his tongue into you, building you up to your first orgasm.

“Jack, I–I’m gonna come,” you whine, teetering over the edge.

“Let it happen, Sweetheart. Want you to come on my tongue.”

His words send you over the edge, riding out your orgasm against his mouth as he keeps swirling his tongue inside of you. He continues to leave soft kisses against your sensitive clit as you come down from your high.

Once you’ve settled, Jack kisses his way back up your stomach and chest until you’re face to face.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you admit, still in shock. 

“Me neither,” he whispers, brushing a stray hair from your face and tucking it behind your ear.

“I need you inside of me,” you breathe against him, desperate.

“Fuck, okay.”

Jack makes quick work of removing his shirt and sweatpants, then drags your panties down your legs, exposing you fully to the cool air of the room.

He strips himself of his boxers and pumps his length a few times with his hand, adjusting his position so he can line up with your entrance.

He pushes forward, seating himself inside you down to the hilt in one fell swoop. You moan loudly at the feeling of him, how he fills you entirely. 

“Oh God, Jack,” you mumble.

“You okay?” he asks, hesitating to move.

“Yes, God, yes. Please move.”

With a grunt he begins working himself in and out of you, setting the pace. The head of his cock keeps hitting that spongy spot deep inside you so hard that it’s making you see stars. 

“Fuck, Jack, just like that,” you babble, clawing at his back to stabilize yourself against his frantic thrusts.

“Jesus, Kid. You feel so good,” he mumbles into your neck. “I’m not going to last. Where do you want me?”

“Inside, do it inside,” you beg.

Those words alone are enough to make him falter, his pace becoming uneven and sloppy as he releases thick spurts of cum inside of you.

The warmth of his release combined with the feeling of his dick twitching inside of you has you hitting your peak, coming again with a garbled moan.

Exhausted, Jack collapses on top of you, head still nuzzled into your shoulder. The two of you are panting heavily, chests heaving against one another.

After catching his breath and leaving a trail of kisses beneath your ear, Jack lifts his head so he can look at you.

“Still embarrassed about those texts?”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

needed me

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you can't stand bucky barnes. despite all your attempts to get rid of him, he's always somewhere in your orbit. you say you hate it. hate him. but you're also a very good liar.✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, college!au, frat!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, rivals to lovers but the rivalry is one-sided, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, bucky being a yearner, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (teasing, stripping, nipple play, praise kink and degradation kink, soft dom!bucky, mean bucky but you're into it, possiveness, dacryphila, pussy spanking, brat!reader, fingering, manhandling, doggy style, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦

✦wc: 9.2k✦

✦Author's Note: one day I'll just write porn without plot. today is not that day. we earn the horny. Enjoy!✦

You’ve gotten used to him. He’s like a fly that lives in your kitchen, and after a while you stop trying to kill it and just give it a name. It buzzes past your head and you swat at it, but it also sits on the window and you pretend it isn’t there.

Bucky Barnes laughs loudly from the table over, and you turn up the music in your headphones.

Telling him to be quiet never works in your favor. He smirks and tries to flirt with you. All his friends oooooo, like you’re still in middle school, then cause even more noise after you reject Barnes and they jump him like a pack of animals.

If you were smarter, you’d sit all the way in the corners of the cafeteria. Where there wouldn’t be a table big enough to fit all of them.

Something tells you they’d find a way to invade your space anyway. It’s one of their traits.

Pissing you off.

You’ve studied them. The little pack—or maybe pride—of frat boys that  Barnes belongs to. It’s a good exercise. Field studying a microculture. You have a whole corner of your mind that’s devoted just to how they behave.

How Barnes behaves, with his pride. If his behavior changes. How it effects his values and actions.

You tell yourself that’s why you tolerate him. He interests you.

A very shiny fly.

You’d been in the same freshman orientation group. Barnes had been one of those boys that you’d long written off—since about middle school, when they’re started cropping up—with his styled hair, proud smile, and natural ease that flowed through the whole room. You don’t  remember much from the actual group—the leader had pissed you off by talking like you were a kindergartener, but most people pissed you off—but at the time, you thought you wouldn’t have to.

It hadn’t seemed unreasonable to think that you’d never see these people again. The girls who you were nice to, but didn’t have anything in common with. The lanky boy who’d tried hitting on all of you, and struck out every time. The… others.

And Barnes.

He’d been charm personified. A sweet cake made out of chivalry and smooth words. You’d walked into the room and thought he was pretty. You’d walked out and thought he was gorgeous.

But that had been fine. Because you’d thought you’d never see him again.

And he hasn’t stopped buzzing around you since.

You’re in separate majors, separate lives, but every single GenEd class you take, Barnes is there. Freshman semester it had been your philosophy class, and you’d had to give a presentation together. You’d done most of the work. Barnes had tried to help, but he was bad at it, so he’d mostly just sat there flirting with you and looking pretty.

“I think man is inherently evil.” He said, grinning at you from the library table.

You snorted. “Of course you do.”

“Yeah, that’s- Is that not what our presentation is about?”

Barnes leaned over you, peering at the computer. His body radiated warmth. You hadn’t touched anyone in a while. You’d almost leaned in him, and he never had to know that.

“Nature versus nurture.” He read from the screen. His tongue flicked over his lips. “Uh- I thought we were supposed to be talkin’ about good versus evil, doll.”

“This is good versus evil.” You muttered. “I’m arguing that all people are good until taught to be otherwise.”

“But- You don’t actually believe that-“

“Yes, I do.”

Barnes snorted. “Yeah. You think everyone is good.”

That made you look up. His attention—so close and heated—made you feel all strangely fuzzy.

You ignored it.

You were going to get very good at that.

“I do think everyone is good.” You snapped.

“You hate everyone-“

“I do not hate everyone. I-“ Your face burned, as he’d just kept staring at you “I don’t.”

Barnes smirked, looking you up and down like you were some kind of fuzzy bunny. “Alright.”

“You’re still looking at me-“

“I gotta look at you to talk to you-“

“Not like that-“

“Like what?”

“Like you- You don’t believe me.”

He shrugged, his smirk widening. You thought about punching him in his smug, beautiful face, but decided that wouldn’t help your case.

“Whatever.” You turned back to your computer with a scowl.

Barnes leaned forward, saying your name far too gently. “Hey, I was just joking-“

“Really? I hadn’t been able to tell.”

He sighed. “If this- If it’s important to you that I believe you-“

“It’s not.”

It had been. For some reason, Bucky thinking that you really hated everyone had itched. You slept poorly that night. Stared at the ceiling with thoughts that tumbled and ripped over each other like a river.

He got under your skin. He’s always gotten under your skin.

After philosophy was theology. He sat next to you in every class, bugging you and trying to invite you to study.

“We work well together-“

“No we don’t.”

“C’mon, doll, we got that A before-“

“I got that A.” You shot him glare. “You stood there like a pretty statue, and bumped us down to an A-.”

Barnes wasn’t been fazed. You remember thinking he’d gotten hotter over winter break. Something in his eyes had started to shine, and he might’ve gotten a new product for his hair. It had smelled like thick, spicy fruit. He still wore it today.

It made you want to throttle him more.

“You think I’m pretty?”

He leaned forward, and that smell had flooded your senses. It was like a second hand high.

Barnes licked his lips. He looked down to yours.

You had to rip your gaze away.

“Shut up.”

He laughed. It sounded more like a sigh.

When he turned back to his own notes, you took a deep breath through your nose. 

He always smelled so good.

And he was always so handsome. And charming. If you didn’t have your wits, you would’ve been dragged into his little den a long time ago. If you weren’t so careful with every place you stepped, you would’ve stumbled into his chest and let him sweep you off your feet like some damsel in distress.

He’s there for Spanish, both semesters of Sophomore year.

The first one, you saw a girl drop him off in class and watched them make out in the doorway. It was sloppy and loud. A few of Bucky’s little pride members had whooped when he walked inside, smirking and wiping his mouth.

You felt sick, and didn’t let yourself think about why.

The second one had been Spanish and arts. A painting class, where he’d made you a butterfly off of your spirit.  

“Look.” He showed it to you with a proud grin. “It’s got your eyes.”

You squinted at it. It did. In an almost shocking resemblance.

“I didn’t know you could paint.” You muttered.

Barnes shrugged. “My best friend is in art school. We’ve known each other forever, I picked up a few things. Nothing big.”

You nodded, looking down at your own—relatively shit—butterfly. It had been more of a bat. You’ll dump it in the trash and start over in hour later.

“Stevie,” you mumbled absentmindedly.

“I- Yeah. How’d you know that.”

“You told me.” You glared at him under your eyelashes. “I listen.”

Barnes stared at you as if you’d just told him he was destined to be a king. It made you a little dizzy.

“And it’s good.” You muttered, against your will.

When Bucky looked at you, a lot of  coherent thoughts tended to… Become lacking.

“Yeah.” He breathed, his ears turning red. “It- It is.”

You blinked. “Well, go turn it in, then.”

“What?”

“The butterfly.”

“The-“ He sat a little taller, his fingers curling on the paper. “Oh. Right.”

“Right.” You frowned. “What were you talking about-“

“Nothing. It’s- Nothing.” He stared at his butterfly with an odd expression, smoothing the edges with careful fingers.

Bucky always moved his fingers so carefully. Like everything he touched was glass. It makes you wonder how he’d touch a soft body below him, though he never gets to know that.

“You want this?”

“The-“

“I’m not turnin’ it in.” He held out the butterfly. “It’s for you.”

You stared at the butterfly. At Bucky.

An image of him wiping his mouth and laughing with his pride flashed through your head. It seared some kind of hole in your heart.

“I don’t think your girlfriend would like you giving drawings to other girls.” You muttered. The words had tasted bitter.

Barnes hadn’t seemed able to tell.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” He said, giving you another strange look. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

You scoffed. “Please-“

“I have fun.” Barnes cut you off, lips twitching. “You know, doll. Fun?”

“I know fun.”

“Uh huh-“

“Stop doing that, I do-“

“Never seen you have it.”

“That’s- I don’t have it with you.”

You spat the words, and Bucky flinched back like you’d flung acid. He blinked, and you swallowed. You hadn’t meant for it to be so loud. To sound so harsh.

“James-“

“It’s fine.” He muttered, looking back to his paper. “I just- If you ever-“

He cut himself off, glaring down at nothing. He shook his head, nostrils flaring slightly.

You’d never seen him look like that before. You hadn’t liked it.

“Whatever.” He sighed. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

And you nodded weakly. To this day you’re not sure what happened.

But you know Bucky had left the butterfly out on the table, after class.

You know it’s still in your bag, folded neatly and tucked safely. You pull it out sometimes to stare at it.

It’s better, really. Not to think about why.

Junior year was the community internship. Again, you and Bucky were in the same class. He bothered you, same as always, but always seemed to have some girl sticking to his side. They barely even seemed to see you.

All you could ever see was them. Running their hands over his broad chest and kissing the stubble he’d been growing. One bit his nose and your hands curled into fists.

You wondered if he made any of them butterflies.

You decide that he doesn’t. He’s only known them a handful of weeks, and he knew you for years.

“We gotta go down the library tomorrow,” he told you. You shrugged.

“I can go myself.”

Barnes frowned. “It’s not in a good part of town, you shouldn’t go alone.”

“I carry pepper spray-“

“That’s not enough.”

You sighed, giving him an exasperated look. “Fine. I’ll bring Brock.”

Barnes stiffened. You’d never seen him stand so tall. “Who’s Brock.”

“He’s in our class? He has been, all semester-“

“You talkin’ about Rumlow?”

You nodded. Barnes worked his jaw, looking off the side and huffing a low laugh.

“What-“

“You’re not goin’ with Rumlow.”

Your mouth fell open. “You don’t get to tell me that-“

“I know.” Barnes crossed his arms. “But I am.”

That had made you feel all gooey, in a very low part of you tummy. You’d gotten good at making sure Bucky didn’t see it.

“Fuck you, James-“

“He’s a dick.” Barnes didn’t waver. “He got kicked out of the frat, you know how big a piece of shit you gotta be for that to happen?”

You paused.

Fuck, that was a good point.

You hated it when he made good points.

“Fine.” You grumble, looking down to your phone. “You got with Natasha.”

Natasha. She’d managed to stick to Bucky longer than the others. She was gorgeous, and smart. You wished she was a bitch, too. It would make her a lot easier to hate.

You thought Bucky would jump at the chance to get one on one with her. They could fuck in the car after, and before, and you could drink yourself to sleep imagining it.

“No. I’m goin’ with you.”

You stick out your tongue. “Well, I’m not going with you.”

“Huh. Guess no one’s going then.”

You’d looked up with a glower. Barnes had raised his brows in challenge. He knew you’d cave. Knew you wouldn’t just let something slip through the cracks because of a petty fight.

He knew you.

You hated him.

“Fuck you.”

“You said that already.” He muttered. “And I’m not holding my breath.”

You blinked. “Wha-“

“I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”

He walked away. You didn’t remember how to move for five minutes.

He asked you about Brock the next day. Like he was checking on you. Like he cared.

You don’t let yourself think he does. You’ve reminded yourself of that over and over, since Freshman year.

Bucky doesn’t care about you, so you’re allowed not to care about him. It’s necessary. Important to survival.

Because you’ve studied his kind. You’ve studied him.

Frat boys. In their natural habitat—the college campus—they’re apex predators. They’re loud because they don’t have to worry about being quiet. Most of them are here on athletics scholarships, so they care about that more than their actual classes. The ones who aren’t are rich, and never learned to worry about anything.

They have a lot of sex. They get girlfriends, then cheat on them. Your roommate Wanda knows a lot of people—she’s in a lot of clubs—so you’ve heard all the stories. Seen a few firsthand, or overheard crying in bathrooms. Everyone keeps dating and fucking them because they’re hot and athletic and rich, and you’re all young and stupid.

“It’s fun to make bad choices.” Wanda’s told you. “While we’re still young enough that it doesn’t matter.”

But you don’t make bad choices.

Ever.

You don’t understand that philosophy at all. Why make a bad choice when you could make a good one. Why risk someone curb stomping your heart when you could just… not.

Second semester of junior year, you take a public speaking class with Bucky. He comes up to you in the cafeteria, his pride just as loud as always.

“Hey,” he says your name, standing at the other end of the table. You don’t look up from your computer.

“Hi.”

“You got the homework for public speaking?”

“Yes.”

Barnes clears his throat, drumming his fingers. “You gonna share it with me?”

“It’s online, James.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you look up.

He’s staring at you, the expression on his face unreadable. You almost ask if he’s okay.

“I know that.” He says, rubbing the back of his neck.

You cross your arms. “Did you.”

“Yeah.” He throws you that charming grin. You hate that it still makes you think he’s beautiful. “I was asking if you wanted help with it.”

“If I wanted… Help?”

Barnes didn’t read the quiet, bubbling fury in your tone. He never does.

“Yeah, I was thinking you could come over, practice on me, you know. I’m a very good audience.”

You narrowed your eyes. Barnes kept grinning, and you wonder if he actually thought this was going to work.

“I don’t need your help.”

He deflated slightly. But he didn’t give up.

You’ve never known him to before. You shouldn’t have expected that he would now.

“Maybe I need your help?”

“You always need my help.”

Bucky snorted. “Yeah, you got no idea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean-“

“You wanna come over Thursday?”

“No.”

“Alright, I’ll go to you-“

“I’m working Thursday.”

Bucky paused. “You got a job?”

You nodded. He frowned.

“Where?”

“Corner store.”

His frown deepened. “That’s not safe.”

You scoffed. “Okay, dad-“

“You’re working late, it’s not-“

“I’ve been fine.”

“But what about when you’re not-“

“But I am-“

“I know you are now, but-“ He ran a hand over his face, his voice dropping with frustration.

It always went right to your core, when that happened. You wished it didn’t.

“What about when you’re not?” He demanded. “We live in a city, what about when someone does a holdup and you’re the cashier-“

“Why do you care.”

Bucky went still. He opened his mouth closed it, and gave that tight shake of his head that you know means something, but can never figure out what.

“What corner store.” He grunts.

“Fifth and twenty, why-“

“We’re studying while you work.”

Your mouth fell open. “No-“

“Yeah. Or- I’m studying. There.”

“I can kick you out-“

“You won’t.”

He walked away. And you hate him. You hate that you know he’s sleeping with Natasha—and who knows who else—and that makes you want to sink your teeth into his neck like some kind of claim. You hate that you are going to let him. You hate that he knows you so well he starts fucking things in the homework up on purpose, just so you stop pretending not to pay attention and study with him.

You hate how warm he is sitting next to you.

You hate that you don’t shove him away, and you feel colder when he’s gone.

He came over to work every night for the rest of the semester. You’re sure he had better things to do, but he doesn’t do them.

Bucky sat its behind the counter with you, and does homework. He did funny voices while practicing his speeches, and brushed his hand over the back of your knee whenever he stood up.

You shivered every time. A smug look flashed over his face.

He made you giggle.

You hate him for that, too.

And Wanda’s told you to make the bad choice.

Everyone tells you to make the bad choice.

Wanda had became good friends with Natasha. You try not to feel any way about it—Natasha, who’s touched what you’ve never allowed yourself to reach for—but then Wanda asks if she can move in, and you get sick.

You say yes. You won’t be one of those girls who holds those kinds of grudges.

Natasha moves in when summer vacation starts. And she’s lovely. You hate that she’s lovely. She’s cool and interesting and has pretty hair.

You wonder if Bucky liked running his fingers through it. You lie on the floor of the bathroom and refuse to cry about it, just staring up at the ceiling.

For the first time, you don’t have a class with him. It’s making you choke on clean air, because there’s this spicy, intoxicating fruit smell that’s supposed to be there, and it’s not, and you’re detoxing on a drug you never even got to take.

“My boyfriends coming over tonight.” Natasha tells you and Wanda one night.

Black spots dance in front of your vision. Faraway, you hear yourself say that’s fine.

It is not fine.

Bucky’s going to be here, and he’s going to be kissing Natasha in front of you, and that shouldn’t matter but it does, it does, it does.

But when Natasha’s boyfriend comes over, it’s not Bucky.

It’s Sam.

You know Sam. He’s one of the nice members of Bucky’s pride. He and Bucky are close. He’s always lingering in the background, laughing while you verbally impale Bucky and clapping his friend on the back when he walks it off. He and Bucky shared a room sophomore year. They go to baseball games together and eat five hotdogs every time.

You can’t think of any facts about Sam that aren’t related to Bucky.

And Sam kissed Natasha. And you stood there stupidly, certain that you really must have missed something.

“Oh,” Sam said when he saw you. “You’re Bucky’s girl.”

You stammered. Said a lot of babbling words you don’t really remember, while Sam gave Natasha an amused look. Natasha shrugged, light dancing behind her eyes.

Neither of them feel like elaborating that. No one ever does. There are just passive comments that make you more confused, like Wanda casually mentioning how you really should try going after Barnes and Natasha telling you that Sam asked her out after she and Bucky fizzled.

“We never really got started, though.” She mused. “His heart wasn’t in it. He even told me that, but-“ She laughed breathily. “You know. You think you’re going to be the girl that makes them settle, then you wake up and realize that you’re better with someone who actually wants that. With you.”

You blinked at her. You did not know how it was. You’ve had… affections for one person your entire college career, and you’ve known that he’d never settle with you.

There’s no point in telling Natasha that. With the glint in her eyes, you’re sure she already knows.

“He talked about you all the time,” she told you casually on another day. “God, it was so annoying, but-“ She looked you up and down. It always made you flush. “I get it.”

And people had been doing that a lot, lately. Telling you how much Bucky talks about you. Making little comments you think you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.

Sam invites Bucky to go out with you guys, because Nat invited him. No one asked for your approval. They probably knew you would never have given it.

“You look nice.” Bucky muttered in the car.

Your thighs were pressed together, your shoulder bumped whenever the car rattled, and you had to keep yourself locked up to not melt into him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” He sighed. “It’s, uh- weird, right? Us not having a class together.”

You hummed. It was. It made the whole world tilt off it’s axis. Bucky didn’t get to know that.

“You know, I still got homework.”

You frowned up at him. “Okay.”

Bucky cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And, uh- I don’t have a study partner anymore.”

“You’ll find one.” You grumbled. There’s that acid again, stinging on your tongue.

He will. He’s Bucky. There will be a line of people clamoring to have his attention, because you’ve been stealing it for far too long and everyone wants a taste of that spicey, calming fruit-

“I’m still free most nights.” He said, looking straight ahead. “You still work at the corner store?”

You blinked.

Oh.

“Yeah. I do.”

Bucky nodded. His lips twitched. “Okay.”

And sure enough, he’s there on Monday. It’s strange talking about classes you’re not taking, but it makes you want to strangle him less.

Although you haven’t wanted to strangle him in a while. You’ve mostly wanted his hand around your throat, pinning you below him, touching you until everything is just floating light.

“You look tired.” He said. Something in his voice was too casual. Like he was weighing every word.

“I am tired.”

“You been eating enough?”

“I’m eating right now-“

“I brought you food.” He fixed you with a stern glare.

It made you feel all kinds of breathless and gooey.

That night you’ll lie in bed with your fingers between your legs. They’re not thick enough, slipping right in and out of your pussy with no relief. Bucky’s fingers would be bigger.

 “I would’ve eaten anyway.” You grumbled, watching some teenagers move around the drink aisle.

Bucky chuckled. “Sure, doll.”

Your cheeks heated. You went over when the teenagers started shouting about the store not having the right drinks, but you had to stand on wobbly knees.

Bucky hasn’t called you doll in years.

It felt different now. It felt like it matters. 

You’re not going to do the stupid thing. It didn’t matter how much Wanda pushed you into it, or how many comments Nat made about Bucky not sleeping around anymore. You’ve gotten this far. You graduate in the spring. And Bucky will just always be a warm memory you worship between your legs.

He left his folder at the store last night. You thought about giving it to him next time he dropped in, but then Natasha said she was going to his place for some party and you figured you could hitch a ride.

Not because you wanted to see him sooner. Nat made a comment about that, that teasing smirk over her lips.

You ignored her. You’re very good at it now.

The party is raging, when you arrive. It’s loud, so loud. You’ve stepped into the frat boy den, and it aligns with your every study. Hot, sweaty bodies grinding into each other, music you can feel in your ribs, drinks being poured and clicked open. So much noise. So many people.  

“Go find Bucky!” Nat whispers in your ear, and you swallow.

“Where do you think he is- Nat-“

She’s already gone. You have to go find Bucky alone.

You think it’s going to be an impossible quest. There are so many people you’re sure it’s a fire hazard, you don’t know anyone but Sam and Nat—who are sucking face in the corner and no fucking help at all—and if you ask someone random to help you find Bucky, you’re going to get mocked about it.

Weird girl was asking for you, Barnes. Knew you wouldn’t care.

You bite the inside of your cheek, spinning around for any possible direction that might take you to Bucky.

He finds you first.

“You’re here!” Bucky calls your name, and you almost jump out of your skin. “Thought you’d never be here!”

You stumble a little as he collapses over you. He’s heavy, his eyes glossy and unfocused, and you’ve never seen him smiling so wide. He stops you from falling with an arm around your waist, and your breath catches.

“I’m here.” You whisper. “I- I have your folder-“

“Shhh.” Bucky drops his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t talk ‘bout my school.”

“I-“

“You can talk about your school.” He presses further over you. Backing you against the counter, his fingers digging into your hips. “Love it when you talk about stuff. ‘S smart.”

“Thanks.” You look off to the side, trying to see if anyone is watching.

Bucky grabs your jaw and turns it back. You almost whimper at the intensity in his gaze. You’ve never seen it so great, and you’ve seen it a lot.

“You’re here.” He mumbles. “In m’ house.”

“I needed to drop something off.”

Your voice is soft, but Bucky’s whole face falls.

“You’re not stayin’?”

“I- I don’t-“ 

You stumble, and realize you’ve grabbed the collar of his shirt. You’re already trying to stop him from moving away, even thought you know you shouldn’t.

“There’s a lot people.” You breathe. “I don’t like crowds.”

Bucky blinks. You could swear his eyes clear slightly, even if his grip on you tightens.

“Alright.” He gives that strange little nod. “C’mon.”

“Come- James-“

You squeal as he picks you up. Scoops you into his arms like you weigh nothing. And you knew he was strong, but you’ve never felt it.

Feeling it is dangerous. It makes you want that strength everywhere. Pinning you down and slamming into you, making your head nice and empty as you feel him everywhere.

“You’re drunk, be careful-“

“’M not that drunk.”

“You’re slurring-“

“I’m buzzed.” He says the words more clearly. Like he wants you to hear that he can. “Not drunk. I won’t drop you.”

You grunt, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. He gives you a tiny smile.

“You’re here.”

He says it like he can’t believe it.  Like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. He’s beaming like he adores you.

You can’t help yourself from smiling in return.

“Yeah. I am.”

Bucky’s grin gets impossibly wider. He kisses your cheek, messy and quick.

It’s like being shocked by lightning. Your heart does a flip in your chest, and you hold onto him a little tighter.

“James-“

“Y’know, you’re the only person I let call me James.” He reaches the top of the stairs, the music dulled by the distance.

The only drum left in your chest is your heartbeat. You wish he’d stop looking at you like that. It’s dangerous.

“You- You never told me you didn’t want me to.”

He hums. “You ever hear anyone else call me that?”

“I- Um-“

“One time a girl tried.” He pulls open a door. “Made me more into it, she got real excited.”

There it is. That toxic curl of jealousy in your gut.

“James-“

“Then I called your name with my dick inside her. Think that ruined it.”

Bucky says it lazily. Like it doesn’t change your whole life.

“What?” You squeak.

He just grins, slowly lowering you down his body.

“I call your name when I have sex.”

“I- I- Why-“

“’Cause I love you.”

“James-“ Your voice cracks, and tears are burning at your eyes.

You’re confused. So confused. You came over with a folder and a mission to be in and out. Your walls had been just as spiked and guarded as always, and maybe Bucky’s been able to slip through a few times, but you’ve learned how to not let that matter. Because it didn’t matter to him.

But now he’s saying this.

And you’re in what has to be his room, sitting on his mattress. If you weren’t so drunk on whatever’s happening, you’d be scanning around. You’d be studying how Bucky keeps his own space, because it’s another thing you’d get to have about him.

Instead, all you can see it Bucky kneeling in front of you. The impossible softness on his face. The lips that he’s licking again. The thick arms, keeping you sitting on the edge of his bed.

You say the only thing you can think of. The only thing that gets you out of here with your heart intact.

“You don’t mean it.”

Bucky doesn’t even flinch.

“I do.”

“You’re drunk-“

“I’m uninhibited.” His eyes shine. “You taught me that word.”

“James-“

“Hmm.”

He leans forward, tilting his head slightly. Your breath catches. You can feel the heat of his breath over your face. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Freshman year.” He murmurs. He won’t stop staring at you, that soft smile on his lips. “You were so bossy and mean to me.”

You flush deeper. “You- You were annoying-“

“I liked workin’ you up.”

“That’s mean.”

“Got me your attention.” He mumbles. “Otherwise you woulda just ignored me.”

You swallow. “I still tried to ignore you.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “But you didn’t. You’re not as mean as you wanna be. ‘S why I love you.”

Tears burn behind your eyes. “Please stop saying that-“

“But I mean it.”

“You can’t mean it.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It- It’s not fair if you mean it now.”

He frowns again. It’s adorable. Like he’s really worried about you. “What’d you mean, now?”

“I- I mean you won’t mean it in the morning.” You whisper. “And that won’t be fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

It’s all you can say. You haven’t even been able to tell yourself the reason, you’re certainly not telling Bucky first.

“’Cause why?” Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward until your noses bump. “Why do you care?”

You blink. And you can see it in his eyes.

The challenge.

Why do you care.

Of course you fucking care. You always care. It’s Bucky, it doesn’t matter how hard you tried, you’ve never been able to not care, and now you’re in his room, on his bed, and he’s saying things and looking at you like- Looking at you like-

Your brain short circuits, and it sparks in your core.

Your body moves.

Bucky grunts when you grab his face and drag him into a kiss. It’s quick and rough. A sudden slam of mouths together with no plan or real fire. He doesn’t kiss you back.

When you pull back, you’re sure you’re going to cry. You’re panting, your lips wobbling, and Bucky’s just staring at you.

“I- I’m sorry.” You shrink back. He can’t see you cry. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have- I’ll go-“

Bucky almost lurches. He dives over you like an animal, and before you know what’s happening, you’re kissing again.

Really kissing.

The way you’d always pictured it, in the greatest privacy of your mind and room. Hidden under the covers so no one could see the shame of how deeply you imagined it.

Bucky’s lips moving against yours. That tongue flicking over your lips before he nips on your lower lip, and grins at your moan.

This is that, and better. Because he’s really here. He tastes a little like liquor, but mostly like mint and something that’s purely Bucky. You’re being pressed backwards into the mattress, Bucky moving up until he’s caging you to the mattress. His knees braced over your waist, his chest pushed against yours, his hands wandering and grabbing every bit of you that he can reach.

Rough fingers slip under your shirt, teasing your sides. You gasp into his mouth, and Bucky groans.

“Ja- James-“

“I know.” He mumbles. “Wanna take care of you, doll.”

“Mhmm.” You whine in a half protest. It’s hard to think with one massive hand mapping every curve of your body, and the other sliding up to grab your neck.

Bucky tips your head back, and hums in satisfaction, when you willingly open your mouth to deepen the kiss.

“Please lemme take care of you.” He rasps. He sounds like a man wrecked.

And who are you to tell him no?

“Oh- Okay- Oh!”

Bucky doesn’t waste time. He pulls back with something like clarity in his eyes, licks his lips, and runs a large hand fully up your side. You arch into the touch with a soft gasp, eyes fluttering shut. He wraps around your breast, groaning as his thumb flicks over your perked nipple.

“No bra, hm?”

“Didn’t- Didn’t think I’d be here for more than five minutes-“

“Or you were hopin’ you’d be here.” He teases, smirking down at you. “Right here.”

He pinches your nipple, rolling it between expert fingers. You toss your head back with a moan. Bucky chuckles.

“Yeah, that’s right. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it doll.”

“N- No-“

Your words fall off into a whine as Bucky yanks his hand away. You grab his wrist, trying to drag it back, but he’s too strong.

“Wha- What’re you doing-“

“If you’re gonna tell me you don’t want this.” He shrugs, soothing the edge of your shirt like it’s a blanket. “I’m not gonna do it.”

“But- But I do want it.” You squeeze his wrist, pouting as tears start to gather in your eyes.

Bucky clicks his tongue. He’s moved on to soothing out your hair.

“Bucky, please-“

“Please what?”

He grabs your cheek, forcing your gaze onto his. Heat floods your core at the possessive motion, and your legs fall open. Bucky’s attention flicks down, but he doesn’t waver.

“You gonna spend the whole time pretending you don’t want me?” He demands, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Or are you going to be a good girl and let me have you how I want?”

And you realize what that glint in his eyes means. He’s giving you a choice, for how you want this to go. Soft and sweet, or what he wants to do.

What you want him to do.

You might be drooling. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and you feel a little faint. Every fantasy you’ve ever had is above you. You just have to grab it.

“I didn’t come here tonight for this.” You breathe out, testing the waters.

Bucky’s nostrils flare. His plants a hand on your hip, pinning you down to the mattress.

“You didn’t, huh.”

You shake your head. Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.

“You need me to show you what you want?” He’s using a low tone that rushes right to your pussy.

You nod, slowly trying to press your thighs back together. There’s too much pressure, you need a way to relieve it.

Bucky grabs your knee and shoves it back open, and you squeak in elated surprise.

“I’ll be good to you, doll.” He mutters, rubbing the inside of your thigh. His knuckles brush near your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Show you exactly what you need.”

“You- You don’t know what I need-“

Bucky crashes back down, kissing you into the mattress with brutal, unrelenting force. Your arms fly around his neck and he groans, dropping his hips down over yours.

“Yeah, I do.” He says against your lips, rutting down. Forcing you to feel the push of his bulge against your clothed core. “And you fuckin’ know it.”

God, you do. You don’t have a single question of it.

Bucky pulls away, and you grumble in protest, trying to reach up and drag him back far another kiss. Just that is enough for you to feel like you’re in Heaven.

But Bucky swats your hands away, giving you a stern look.

“No touching.”

He starts to pull you shirt over your head, and you scowl.

“You’re touching-“

“I,” Bucky leans down to kiss over the valley of your breasts, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Can do whatever the hell I want to you. Isn’t that right, babydoll.”

He must be putting a spell over you. You nod dazedly, and Bucky laughs. His lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and flicking the little bud like it’s candy. The sensation makes you restlessly needy, the heat between your legs only building and building.

“Buh- Bucky- Oooh-“

There’s an extra, strong little flick that only makes you think of what his mouth is going to be able to down where you need him.

“Fuck- James-“

Bucky groans, biting down softly. Your hips buck with delight, and your whine when he shoves them back down.

“C’mon.” He mutters, slowly kissing back to the other breast. “Keep still.”

You make an incoherent noise, but you try. You really do try.

Bucky wiggles down your pants and underwear without taking his mouth from your breasts, and you force yourself to keep still. Cold air doesn’t even hit your cunt, because he’s so folded over you. Trapping all the frictionless heat between your bodies, letting his covered cock drag against your core whenever he moans and ruts, but never offering anything else.

“More.” You breathe, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. “James, I- I need more-“

You moan as Bucky bites your breast again. He kisses over the hurt, humming lazily.

“Thought you didn’t know what you need.”

You shake your head, legs falling further open. “I- I need you- Bucky I need you-“

“Where’d you need me.” He kisses just under your breast. “’Cause I’m here. Touchin’ you.”

He grabs your thigh, rubbing it slowly back and forth. You try to arch off the bed, but you can’t get an inch out from under him.

“Touch- Touch me more.” You gasp out. “I need you to touch me more, I- I don’t care how, just- Touch me-“

You cry out, as Bucky brushes his thumb over your clit. He repeats the featherlight motion once more, then twice. It’s too much and not nearly enough. Your pussy is weeping, but Bucky just grazes you clit like he’s wiping something off your cheek.

“What a needy girl.” He coos against your skin, kissing along the side of your breast. Up to your neck. “You’re even more reactive than I thought you’d be, sweetheart. And I thought,” he presses his thumb down hard, and you scream.“You’d be plenty reactive.”

Tears push at your eyes, from frustration and humiliation. You’re being pathetic, you’ve dogwalked him the whole time you’ve known him and suddenly you’re a flushed, begging disaster below him.

Bucky sucks a dark spot on your neck, and you moan. His thumb drags between the lips of your pussy and teases over your hole. It’s gone as soon as it gets there, and the sound you make is downright undignified.

“You want to swallow me, don’t you.” Bucky nips at your ear. “Dirty fuckin’ slut.”

Oh, no. That shouldn’t turn you on so much.

“I- I’m not-“

“Yes, you are.” Bucky kisses along your jaw. “Say it, doll.”

You shake your head. Bucky repeats the slow drag, this time swapping for his middle finger, and pushing slightly into your cunt.

“Bucky- Fuck-“

Your arms fly up to grab him. Bucky leans up and fixes you with a stern glare.

“No touching.”

You whimper, but pull back away. You fist the sheets, splaying your body out in the hope it’ll make him you faster.

And it almost works. Bucky’s brow works and he slowly traces up the curve of your waist. Your breathing shutters, as he traces the outline of a love bite on your breast. His finger twists, and the pad of it presses right into the entrance of your pussy.

Bucky meets your glossy eyes, and his jaw clenches. There are big, fat tears welling up.

His voice drops to something soft. “Are you still-“

“Yes.” You push your chest up, trying to give him a better view of your breasts. “Please.”

Bucky nods to himself. He leans fully over you, searching your gaze, and slowly starts to push his finger into your pussy.

Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky grabs your cheeks.

“Eyes stay on me.”

He’s not asking. You don’t want him to. You moan and nod weakly, watching him under tear stained lashes. He slowly pulls his finger out, then drives it back in a little faster. He’s a lot bigger than your own hand is. Everything about him is bigger. You’re worried you’re going to die on his cock.

“You like that,” Bucky coos, squeezing your cheeks slightly. “Look at you, gettin’ so worked up over just a finger.”

You give him a pleading look, and he chuckles, leaning down to kiss your puckered lips.

“You get two when you tell me you’re my dirty little slut.”

You clench down around him, and Bucky groans, pushing in a little deeper.

He finds the spongey spot that makes your vision go all blurry. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, and bucky raises his brows.

“There it is. That’s what a wanna see.”

He pushes harder against it. You squeeze around him again, breath coming in pants.

“Who’s owning this pussy, baby, huh?” Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, and the hot shame pricks more and more over your skin.

You think a waterfall might be coming out of your cunt. The wet sounds as Bucky finger fucks you certainly seem like proof.

You can’t form a full answer. You gape at him, rolling your hips in tiny movements to try and chase a little bit more.

Buckly yanks his finger out of your pussy, lands a harsh smack on your clit, then shoves them right back in. It’s an overwhelming, electric feeling. The tears burst from your eyes, and you almost reach for him.

“That’s a girl.” He kisses your cheek so sweetly, pumping his finger deep into your soaked cunt. “Keep cryin’ for me, babydoll. Let it out.”

You pull at the sheets, a low hum of pleasure building in your lower stomach. Your head tries to roll to the side, but Bucky keeps it up. His staring just makes everything worse and better.

The deep affection in his eyes as he watches you right on the edge. Trying to claw your way to an orgasm while he keeps you from letting go. There’s no attention being given to your clit, only his finger bumping your g-spot. It’s throbbing from his spanking. You want him to do it again.

“Buh- Bucky-“

“Ah.” He pauses, and you almost scream. “Try again.”

“James.” You whimper, giving him your most pleading eyes.

A smile curves on his lips. “Yeah, babydoll?”

“Do it again.”

It’s less than a whisper. Part of you doesn’t even want him to hear it.

But he does. Of course he does. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest second, and you think about running away. You shouldn’t have asked. He’s going to say no, it’s going to humiliate you more, and then that’s going to make you cum on his hand and he’ll never look at you again-

“What?” His voice dropped. You’re screwed. “This?”

Bucky pulls back and spanks your pussy again. You sob, nodding as the shock rushing through you again. Bucky licks his lips, leaning back to watch you. He does it again, and you seize up.

“Jesus, you’re spilling everywhere.” He traces two fingers through your pussy, and you clench around nothing. “Messy girl, bet you’re going to fucking squirt on my cock.”

You whimper, and Bucky chuckles.

“I know, sweetheart. But you’re gonna love it, aren’t you.”

He spanks your pussy again. Any thought to protest is drained from your head.

“Ye- Yes.” You cry out.

Bucky smirks, prowling back over your body.

“And?”

You blink at him through the tears. “And?”

“What are you?”

Your breath hitches. Bucky holds up his shiny hand, making a gun motion.

“Two fingers.” He reminds you.

And just like that, you cave.

“I- I’m your dirty-“ You hiccup a little, the tears starting to free flow again. “I’m-“

“Look at me.” He reminds sternly. “Come on, be good-“

“I’m your dirty slut.” You push out, grinding your hips up into Bucky’s knee. “James, I’m yours, I’m your cockslut, please-“

Bucky makes a feral sound from his chest, and you sob in relief when he shoves those two fingers into you cunt. You shudder, eyes rolling back and hips grinding down. Bucky doesn’t try to stop you this time, just groaning as he finger fucks you into oblivion.

“That’s it, that’s my fuckin’ girl.” He scissors his fingers, and you writhe in the sheets. “So pretty on my fingers, bet you’ll look even better when I’m fuckin’ you stupid on my cock.”

You moan. “Yes, oh-  Oh my god- “

Bucky twists his wrist and starts to pummel your g-spot, right as his thumb finds your clit. He rubs it tight circles in time with his thrusts, and presses his lips back over yours. You almost can’t breathe, between the pleasure he’s pulling from you and the demand of his mouth. Your body starts to twitch and go all tight.

“I- I’m gonna- James, I think-“

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. “Show me what you’ve got, baby, come on.”

Your orgasm rushes through you, staring in your tummy and leaking down Bucky’s fingers and through your whole system. He pulls out immediately, landing a few more spanks on your weeping cunt. In the post-orgasm sensitivity, it’s almost too much to take.

You spread your legs and beg for it anyway.

“Demanding, aren’t you.” Bucky mocks. “Want to feel me tomorrow, when you walk around all cool and collected, pretending you weren’t callin’ yourself my cockslut a few hours ago.”

You shake your head, shivering as Bucky rubs your pussy back and forth. “I- I won’t-“

“Won’t what? Keep it a dirty little secret. You want me to spell my fucking name on your face, so everyone knows who this tight little pussy belongs to?”

“Nuh- No-“

“You think you won’t feel me? Doll,” Bucky takes his hand away, and you almost start to cry again before he pushes two thick fingers between your lips.

“Mmmm-“

“That’s right.” He mutters to himself, and you can feel his attention as you clean your own release off his fingers. “Gonna ruin you for everyone else, doll, you won’t be able to fuck anyone without wishin’ it was me.”

You pull him away by his wrist, risking the punishment to give him your best, sexiest doe-eyes.

“Don’t want anyone else.” You say, and Bucky blinks. “Won’t pretend I wasn’t with you. Want everyone to know.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare. He stares, shoulders heaving, and you think he’s going to do the thing again. The one where he pounces over you and makes you beg.

Instead he grabs your hips like he’s steadying himself, and stares at you like you’re the moon.

“Flip over.” He grunts.

You frown. “Wha-“

“Over. Just-“

Bucky flips you onto your stomach like you weight nothing, then drags your ass high in the air. You squeal, grabbing at the sheets and trying to look at him over your shoulder.

A massive hand presses you back into the sheets by your shoulder blades. Probably for the best. Your knees were shaking too much to be steady.

“Stay there.” There’s a clink of metal behind you. He’s taking off his belt. “Need to be inside you. Now.”

“James-“

“Please.”

His voice cracks.

You’re far, far past trying to tell him no.

You flop obediently, and it earns you a soothing stoke over the curve of your ass.

“So pretty.” He says it so soft, you’re not actually sure you’re supposed to hear. “Wanted this for so fuckin’ long, ‘s even better than I imagined.”

Bucky rubs his cock between your pussy lips and you moan, melting into the sheets. Your knees almost drop down. Bucky wraps an arms around your waist and drags you back up.

“I’ve gotcha. There we go.”

He keeps rubbing it, gathering your arousal to make the entrance easier. There’s plenty of it. Even more when his fat head presses against your clit, and you wiggle.

“Done so good for me, babydoll.” His praise shoots straight to your already burning pussy. You try to push yourself higher with a whine. “Already nice and stupid for me, just gotta- Fuuuuck-“

Bucky pushes himself in slowly, and you cry out. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“

It’s good he didn’t let you see him before. He’s big. Stupidly big. You can feel every thick vein, every pulse as you squeeze around him, every inch of Bucky dragging through your tight channel. You sob into the sheets, pushing back to try and take more. You have to take more. You need to take all of him, so when he fucks you he can drive every single fucking thought from your head.

“That’s it.” Bucky groans, pressing his face into the curve of your neck as he bottoms out.

He’s folded over you, fully buried in your pussy, breath hot and heavy. You whimper, trying to adjust to the size of him. Bucky’s arm snakes around you, rubbing your clit lightly. Trying to help you relax.

“You’re so tight, baby.” He rasps, kissing behind your ear. “Best pussy I’ve ever fuckin’ felt.”

“Mmmm.” You tip your head, pressing your cheek into the mattress. “You’re so big.”

“I know. But you’re gonna take it, aren’t you?”

You whimper, and Bucky chuckles. The sound vibrates between your legs, not helping anyone at all.

“Yeah. You are.”

And if Bucky says you are, you are.

He starts by pulling almost fully out, then rolling slowly back in. It goes easier than the first time, but still knocks the air from your lungs. Your eyes roll back. A strangled sound leaves your throat, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you, silly girl. We’ve barely even started.”

“’S- ‘S a lot-“

“But it’s your my fuckin’ cockslut.” Bucky slams his hips forward, and you scream in pleasure. “You’re the one who said it, remember. My. Fucking. Cockslut.”

He emphasizes each word with another thrust, and soft, caring Bucky is gone. The hot, demanding version is back, and he brought your tears with him.

Bucky fucks into your like an animal, pushing you down into the mattress and forcing an impossibly deep angle. You’re sensitive. So sensitive it almost hurts in the best fucking way.

“Can see your pussy taking me, doll.” Bucky groans, his fingers digging into your hips. “Fucking gorgeous, greedy little thing swallowing this cock whole. Pussy made for me to fuck it.”

You keen, and Bucky laughs.

“Jesus, might tie you up and keep you just like this for me. Crying like a brat when you begged for it, can’t ever figure out what you want without my help, huh?”

You can’t form a strong enough thought to respond. Bucky’s drilling into you, and rubbing over your g-spot with every thrust and filling you up until there’s no space for things like words.

“No mouthy little comebacks?” He mocks. “My smart doll can’t even tell me to go fuck myself?”

“I- Jaaames-“

“Yeah, that’s right.” Bucky almost growls. “I own this pussy now, sweetheart. Gonna cum inside and make you walk around with it dripping out of your cunt, make you scream my name so loud everyone hears.”

You babble, clenching down on his cock. Bucky’s hips stutter slightly.

“Oh you love that. Love the idea of everyone knowing that I just made you my stupid little cockdrunk slut. Fuck-“

Bucky wraps an arm around your waist, hauling you back against his chest. You toss your head onto his shoulder, writhing in his arms as he keeps thrusting up into your pussy. God, you hope the music downstairs is loud enough that they can’t hear, but you also don’t know how they could hear anything else. The whole room is filled with Bucky’s groans and your open sobs.

“Still crying, babydoll?” He kisses over your neck, and you whimper, grabbing at his forearms.

“Can’t- Can’t take it-“

“Yeah, you can.”

You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. “Mh- I’m gonna cum-“

Bucky spanks your clit, and you shriek, arching into his hand.

“Fuckin’ cum, dirty girl, soak this dick like a good girl-“

You scream with this orgasm, thrashing in Bucky’s arms as it completely overtakes your senses. There’s a familiar wet feeling coming out of your pussy and slicking over your ass and thighs. Bucky groans, bending over to kiss you as he keeps your impaled on his cock. He thrusting sharply, chasing his own release. You try to grind down to help him, and he moans right into your ear.

“Wh- Where-“

“In.” You whimper. “In, James, wanna feel you, fuck-“

Bucky groans shamelessly as his cock starts to spurt hot cum over your gooey walls. The sound as he keeps fucking up into you is obscene, his lips over glued over yours as you both ride it out.

You’ve never been so ruined before. You think you might smell of cum and sweat for the rest of your life, and you can’t even bring yourself to mind.

And part of you worries that Bucky’s going to vanish. Kick you out of his room now that he got what he wanted, and break the heart you’d just offered him with shaking hands.

Instead, he kisses you before he pulls out, mumbling that he’ll be right back. He draws a bath and cleans you up, gets you water and wipes the dried tears on your cheeks.

“Too much?” He asks softly, and you can see the real worry in his eyes.

 You shake your head, and offer him a tiny smile.

“Perfect.”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

You giggle. “Yeah.”

Bucky kisses your nose, and you hum happily.

“You’re were perfect too.”

“Thanks.” You breathe.

He pulls back, running a hand through your hair. His eyes soften.

“You still want me to take it back?”

And you almost laugh. Why would you ever possibly want to go back.

“No, thank you.”

Bucky chuckles. “So polite. Think I fucked some manners into you-“

“I had manners-“

“Yeah, but you’re gonna be nice to me now-“

“Don’t hold your breath-“

He shuts you up with a deep kiss. You could get used to it.

“Let me take you out.” He breathes when he’s done, looking at you with unending hope in his eyes. “For real.”

And you wonder.

If it had really been there, the whole time.

“Okay.”

✦End note: i love being so self indulgent with my horniness.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[buttybarnes1917]

this was PHENOMENAL

[afterdarkbydel]

Where The Hell Is My Husband

Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

Summary: A night out with Robby, Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, and Mel takes a turn when you get drunk, refuse to leave the bar, and start loudly demanding to know where your husband is. Santos calls Jack. Jack arrives. Unfortunately for everyone in the bar, you are drunk and do not immediately recognize him as your husband.

Warnings: alcohol use, drunk reader, suggestive jokes, reader being extremely horny for her own husband, Jack being responsible and not engaging sexually while reader is drunk, soft caretaking, lots of teasing, lots of “hell yeah.”

Author's Note:

I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes a woman gets drunk, forgets she is married, and tries to hit on her own husband in public. Sometimes that husband happens to be Jack Abbot. Sometimes he has to provide ring verification every five minutes while trying to get her to drink water.

This is love.

Xoxo, Del

By the time Santos called Jack, you had been singing for twenty-three minutes.

Not continuously.

There had been pauses.

Important pauses.

One pause to tell Robby he was doing the background vocals wrong. Another to inform Whitaker that his attempt to close the tab was “emotionally hostile.” Another to point at a man near the jukebox and announce, with deep conviction, that he was not your husband because your husband had better shoulders.

Mel had tried water.

Javadi had tried fries.

Whitaker had tried logistics.

Robby had tried joining in, which had only made everything worse.

And Santos, because she had the glare of a woman who had spent years keeping doctors from making stupid choices, and no patience left, finally pulled out her phone.

You were standing beside the booth with one hand braced on the table, swaying to the beat of a song that was no longer playing.

“Baby! Woo-hoo, where the hell is my husband? Woo-hoo! What is takin' him so long to find me? Woo-hoo!”

Robby lifted both hands as if he were conducting you. “Great projection.”

Santos pointed at him. “Stop encouraging her.”

Robby shrugged, “She’s an artist.”

“She is refusing to leave a bar because she thinks her husband has been misplaced,” Santos replied. 

You turned sharply. Too sharply. Mel caught your elbow before gravity could make a compelling argument.

“He is not misplaced,” you said.

Santos lowered the phone slightly. “No?”

You frowned, “He is missing.”

Javadi nodded from the end of the booth, phone in hand, filming with the calm detachment of someone documenting history. “The distinction is important.”

Whitaker rubbed both hands over his face. “It is not.”

You slapped one palm gently against the table. “My husband is handsome and tall and sexy and has doctor hands.”

Robby leaned toward Mel. “Doctor's hands is specific.”

Mel nodded. “And accurate.”

“And,” you continued, because you were not finished and everyone needed to understand the scale of the emergency, “he has very serious pecs.”

Santos closed her eyes.

Robby whispered, “Here we go.”

You pointed at him. “Respect the pecs.”

“I do,” Robby said immediately.

Whitaker slid your glass of water toward you. “Can we respect the pecs from the parking lot?”

You shake your head quickly, “No.”

“Why?” He groans. 

You point towards the door, “Because my husband is not in the parking lot.”

Santos pressed Jack’s contact and lifted the phone to her ear.

You gasped. “Are you calling him?”

She nodded, “Yes.”

“No!” You exclaimed. 

Santos looked at you. “No?”

You shook your head, “I don’t want to call him.”

“You have been singing for him for twenty-three minutes,” Santos said.

You rolled your eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I want him to appear.” 

Robby slapped the table once. “That is marriage.”

Santos ignored him and turned slightly away as the call connected.

Jack answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”

His voice came through low and alert, and you froze.

Santos looked at you.

You stared at her phone like it had become sacred.

“Abbot,” Santos said.

There was a small pause on the other end. “Santos?”

“You busy?” She asks. 

“At home.” Jack’s voice sharpened. “Is she okay?”

You grabbed Mel’s wrist and whispered very loudly, “Is that my husband?”

Mel patted your hand. “Yes, honey.”

You looked down at your left hand.

Your wedding rings gleamed under the warm bar lights.

You gasped. “I have wife jewelry.”

Robby bent forward with a wheeze. “Wife jewelry.”

On the phone, Jack went quiet. “What was that?”

Santos looked at you as you lifted your hand in front of your face and admired your rings with genuine awe.

“She is okay,” Santos said carefully.

Jack exhaled. “Define okay.”

You turned toward the booth again, apparently remembering your mission. “Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?” You pick up your song.

Jack went silent.

Robby threw his head back and supplied a terrible echo. “Woo-hoo!”

Santos pinched the bridge of her nose.

Jack said, “Is that her?”

“No,” Santos said. “That is the jukebox haunting me.”

Jack sighed, “Santos.”

“Yes, that’s her.”

“Is she hurt?” He asked. 

“No.”

“Sick?” He continued. 

“No.”

Jack exhaled, “Crying?”

You pointed at a man near the pool table. “Not him. My husband has a better ass.”

Mel covered her mouth with a hand.

Santos stared at the ceiling. “No. Not crying.”

There was a pause.

Then Jack said, dry as hell, “Did she say something about my ass?”

Robby lunged across the table, trying to get closer to the phone. “Tell him she said better.”

Santos shoved his forehead back with two fingers. “She is refusing to leave until her husband comes to collect her.”

You leaned toward Santos’s phone. “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants.”

Santos pulled the phone away from you. “Absolutely not.”

Jack made a sound that might have been a cough. “I’m leaving now. Send me the address.” He was already moving.

“All right,” Santos said. “I’ll send it.”

In the background, Robby shouted, “Tell him she’s been reviewing his ass for twenty minutes!”

Jack went silent again.

Santos closed her eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”

You reached toward the phone. “Wait, I want to talk to him.”

“No,” Santos said, ending the call. 

Your lower lip trembled, “But he’s missing.”

“He’s on his way.” She told you. 

That stopped you. Your mouth fell open. “He’s coming?”

Santos slid her phone into her pocket. “Yes.”

You laid a hand on your chest, “To me?”

“Yes.” Trinity nodded. 

You pressed both hands to your cheeks. “Oh, fuck.”

Whitaker nodded toward the door. “Great. Now we can go.”

“No,” you said immediately.

His shoulders dropped. “Why not?”

You looked at him like he had just asked the stupidest question in recorded history. “I have to be here when my husband appears.”

Robby raised one hand. “I support her.”

Santos snapped, “No one asked you.”

You sat back down in the booth and folded your hands on the table like you were waiting for a job interview.

Mel slid the water toward you again. “Drink some water while you wait.”

You stared at the glass.

Then at Mel.

Then at Santos.

“What if he gets here and I’m drinking water?” You ask. 

Javadi tilted her head. “Would that be bad?”

You frowned, thinking hard. “No. Hydration is sexy.”

Whitaker looked at the ceiling. “Thank God.”

You picked up the glass, took one sip, and set it down with a proud nod.

Then you leaned toward Robby. “Do you think he knows he’s my husband?”

Robby’s face lit with dangerous joy.

Santos pointed at him. “Do not.”

Robby held up both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

Her eyes narrowed, “You were about to.”

Robby frowned deeply, “I have never done anything wrong in my life.”

Javadi looked up from her phone. “There are videos.”

You tapped your rings against the table, watching them sparkle. “I’m going to ask him.”

Mel smiled. “Ask him what?”

“If he’s my husband.” You answer. 

Whitaker muttered, “This will be efficient.”

“It will not,” Santos said.

And it wasn’t.

Because when Jack walked in seven minutes later, everything in you stopped working.

He came through the door in jeans, sneakers, and a dark hoodie under his jacket, like he had pulled on the first clothes he found and driven over without thinking about anything except getting to you. His hair was messy, his expression serious, and his eyes scanned the bar once before landing on your booth.

On you.

You stopped mid-hum.

Your hand tightened around Mel’s wrist. “Oh no.”

Mel followed your gaze. “What?”

You pointed. “That man has pecs like my husband’s.”

Robby twisted in his seat so fast he nearly knocked over Whitaker’s drink.

Santos sighed. “That man is your husband.”

You shook your head slowly, eyes fixed on Jack as he crossed the bar. “No.”

Javadi kept filming. “Denial phase.”

Jack reached the table and looked you over first, quick and clinical, because he was Jack. No visible injury. No tears. No panic. Just you, drunk and bright-eyed and staring at him like he had been sent from some divine catalog of bad ideas.

His shoulders eased. “Hey, baby.”

You blinked. Then slowly turned to Santos. “He called me baby.”

She nodded slowly, “Because he is your husband.”

You whipped back toward him. “You are?”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

He lifted his left hand without hesitation.

His wedding band caught the bar light.

You looked down at your own rings.

Then back at his.

Then at your rings again. “Oh, my god.”

Jack’s face softened. “Yeah?”

You beam. “We match.”

“We do.” He replied.

You looked him up and down, with a long pause at his chest. “Hell yeah.”

Robby slammed both hands on the table. “And we’re off.”

Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Don’t.”

You leaned toward Mel, still staring at Jack. “He has very serious pecs.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

Mel’s shoulders shook. “I know, honey.”

“Do you think he works out?” You whispered to Trinity. 

Santos answered before Jack could. “Occasionally.”

You nodded solemnly. “It’s working.”

Jack opened his eyes. “Okay. Time to go.”

You frowned. Then looked him up and down again. “Hey, soldier.”

The whole booth went quiet.

Jack stared at you.

Santos slowly turned her head. “Oh, my god.”

You gave Jack what you clearly thought was a seductive smile. “You come here often?”

Jack’s mouth twitched again, despite his best efforts. “To retrieve my drunk wife from a bar? No.”

Your eyes went wide. “Wife?”

He lifted his hand again.

You looked at his ring.

Then yours.

Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”

Javadi, still filming, said, “The verification system remains functional.”

Jack looked at her phone. “Are you recording?”

“Yes.” She answered instantly. 

Jack groans, “Why?”

“Documentation,” Victoria answered. 

“It’s behavioral science,” Robby added.

Jack ignored all of them and reached for the water glass instead of you. “Drink.”

You froze. Then you sat up straighter, eyes suddenly sharp with drunk discovery. “Huh.”

Jack paused. “Huh?”

You pointed at him. “Attending voice.”

Robby made a delighted noise. “Oh, she clocked it.”

Jack gave him a flat look. “Do not participate.”

You leaned toward Santos, whispering very loudly. “He said drink like he was about to order labs.”

Santos nodded. “He did.”

“I did not,” Jack said.

Mel patted your shoulder. “You kind of did.”

Jack pushed the glass closer. “Three sips.”

Your lips parted. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Please just drink the water.”

You picked up the glass with both hands, still staring at him. “You’re very bossy for a stranger.”

Jack opened his eyes. “I’m not a stranger.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Then you looked down at your rings again.

Jack lifted his hand.

You inspected his wedding band with deep seriousness.

“Right,” you said. “Husband.”

“Yes,” Jack confirmed. 

You took one sip.

Jack nodded once. “Good.”

You set the glass down too hard. “No.”

His brow furrowed. “No?”

“You can’t say ‘good’ with attending voice.” You frowned. 

Robby dropped his forehead onto the table. “She’s right.”

Jack pointed at him. “Not another word.”

You finished the water because Jack stood there with crossed arms and serious eyes, and the world had become a place where hydration was suddenly compelling.

When you set the glass down, Jack picked up your coat. “Arm.”

You inhaled sharply.

Santos pointed at him. “That one was attending voice.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “I need her arm in the sleeve.”

You looked at him, dazed. “You need my arm?”

Jack took a slow breath. “Baby.”

You melted back against the booth. “Oh, Jackie.”

That got him. Just a little. His expression shifted, the stern line of his mouth almost breaking.

Santos saw it immediately. “Don’t reward her.”

“I’m not rewarding her,” Jack said.

“You liked Jackie,” Santos replied. 

Jack held the coat open and looked at you. “Arm.”

You stared at him. Then slid one arm into the sleeve. “Bossy.”

He guided the coat around your shoulders. “Other arm.”

You looked at Mel. “He wants the other one too.”

Mel nodded, fighting for her life. “Coats usually do.”

You gave Jack your other arm. He pulled the coat into place and zipped it halfway with careful, practical hands. You looked down at the zipper. Then up at him. “That was hot.”

“It was a zipper.” Jack deadpanned. 

You sighed happily, “You did it like a procedure.”

Robby lifted his head. “Sterile field: wife edition.”

Jack did not turn around. “Robby.”

“Sorry.” Robby lowered his head once more. 

Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she proposes to him.”

You froze. Then your head turned slowly toward Jack. “I proposed?”

Jack’s expression softened at once. “No, baby.” He lifted his left hand before you could even ask, wedding band, catching the bar light. “I proposed.”

You looked down at your rings. Then at his. Then up at him, stunned and pleased and drunk-happy. “You wanted to marry me?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Still do.”

Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”

Robby dropped his forehead back to the table. “They’re disgusting.”

Jack crouched slightly in front of you and offered his hand. “Stand up.”

The booth went silent. You stared at him. Then you looked at Santos. “Attending voice.”

Santos nodded. “Full attending voice.”

Jack’s eyes flicked briefly to the ceiling. “I am trying to get you upright.”

You nodded, “You’re doing it with authority.”

“You are drunk in public,” Jack replied. 

You clicked your tongue, “You’re hot in public.”

Mel made a small sound into her hand.

Jack’s ears went faintly pink.

You saw it. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “Jackie’s blushing.”

Jack shook his head, “I am not.”

“You are.” You squeal with delight. 

Jack’s hand stayed steady in front of you. “Up.”

You pressed one hand dramatically to your chest. “Fuck.”

Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she discovers a military kink.”

Jack’s head snapped up. “Santos.”

She shrugged, “What? She’s halfway there.”

You tilted your head, considering. “A what?”

“Nope.” Jack took your hand and helped you stand. “We’re going home.”

For one glorious second, you were upright and triumphant.

Then the room tilted. Jack caught you by the waist.

Your entire body went still. “Oh, fuck.”

“Balance,” he said.

You stared up at him. “You said that like an order.”

“It was an explanation,” Jack replied. 

You smiled up at him, “Do it again.”

“No,” Jack answered immediately. 

Robby lifted his head. “She’s not wrong.”

Jack’s eyes cut to him.

Robby lowered his head again. “Withdrawn.”

You touched Jack’s chest lightly with one finger. “Responsible soldier husband.”

Jack looked down at your hand. Then at your face. “Doctor husband. Former soldier.”

You nodded solemnly. “Doctor husband with command voice.”

Mel laughed into her hand. 

Jack took a slow breath. “Arm over my shoulder.”

Your eyes went wide. “Jackie.”

“Arm,” he repeated, then pointed to his shoulder. “Here.”

You looked at Santos. “He pointed.”

“I saw.” She answered. 

You licked your lips. “He pointed and said here.”

Trinity nodded solemnly, “You’re going to survive.”

You shook your head furiously, “You don’t know that.”

Jack guided your arm over his shoulders.

You held on to him and immediately looked delighted. “I’m touching him.”

Santos nodded. “You are.”

“Legally?” You asked, looking to Jack, bright and hopeful. 

Jack lifted his left hand in front of your face.

You checked his ring. Then yours. “Hell yeah.”

Jack slid an arm around your waist and pulled you carefully against his side.

You went very still. Then you looked down at his arm. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jack sighed. “Please walk.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and delighted. “Can you say it again, but like bossier?”

“No,” Jack said. 

“Absolutely not,” Santos said at the same time.

Robby lifted his head just enough to gasp for air. “I can’t believe it. This is foreplay with witnesses.”

Jack pointed at him without loosening his hold on you. “Not foreplay.”

You leaned into his side and whispered loudly. “But later?”

Jack closed his eyes. “You’re drunk.”

You nodded, “But later, when I’m not drunk?”

“Later,” Santos said quickly, “is between you, Jack, and God.”

Javadi nodded. “And possibly the HOA, depending on volume.”

You looked at Jack. “Do we have an HOA?”

He shook his head, “No.”

You leaned closer to him, “Then later?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Walk.”

You inhaled sharply. “Oh, that was better.”

Santos threw both hands up. “Door. Now.”

Jack started moving.

You went with him, tucked carefully into his side, one arm over his shoulders, his arm secure around your waist, your coat half-zipped and your dignity somewhere under the booth.

You made it three steps before he said, “Watch your feet.”

You looked up at him. “Attending voice.”

“Safety voice.” He corrected. 

You shrugged, “They’re cousins.”

“Eyes forward,” Jack replied. 

You sighed dramatically, “Oh fuck me, that one too.”

Santos followed behind you, laughing now despite herself. “This is the worst evacuation I’ve ever seen.”

Jack kept you tucked firmly against his side. “It is not an evacuation.”

“You’re using evacuation posture,” you said.

He looked down at you.

You smiled up at him, drunk and delighted. “I like it.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

Halfway to the door, you twisted carefully to look back at the table.

“Everybody be cool,” you announced. “I’m leaving with my husband.”

Robby raised both hands. “Hell yeah, Mrs. Abbot.”

You stopped.

Jack stopped with you, patient but visibly suffering.

You looked down at your rings.

Then grabbed his left hand and checked his.

The band was still there.

You smiled, delighted all over again. “Hell yeah.”

Jack’s face softened.

Then you glanced behind him one more time. 

“And he has a great ass!” You cheer.

Jack immediately started walking again.

“Goodnight,” he called over his shoulder.

Santos waved. “Hydrate her.”

Mel added, “Text when you get home.”

Whitaker pointed at Jack. “Do not let her order fries.”

You gasped. “Traitor.”

Javadi lifted her glass. “The record will show we tried.”

Robby cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ask him to walk bossier!”

Jack pushed the door open with his shoulder and guided you into the cool night air.

The second the air hit your face, you sighed dramatically and leaned a little more heavily into his side.

Jack adjusted his hold. “You okay?”

You looked up at him.

The bar lights spilled behind him, catching the edge of his jaw, the tired concern in his face, the little pinch between his brows that meant he was trying to figure out if you needed water, food, sleep, or all three.

Your drunk brain, unhelpfully, sorted those options into one category.

Husband.

“Jack?” You asked quietly. 

Jack looked down at you, “Yeah, baby?”

“You’re really my husband?” You whispered the question. 

He lifted his left hand between you before you even asked.

You looked at his ring.

Then down at yours.

Then up at him.

Your smile went soft and bright and drunk-happy. “Hell yeah.”

Jack shook his head, but he was smiling now. “Yeah,” he said, guiding you toward the car. “Hell yeah.”

You made it halfway across the parking lot before you stopped again.

Jack looked down. “What?”

You stared at him very seriously. “You came when I sang.”

His mouth twitched. “Santos called.”

“But I sang.” You persisted. 

Jack nodded, “You did.”

“And you appeared.” You added with delight. 

“I did,” Jack replied. 

You nodded, deeply moved. “Powerful.”

Jack opened the passenger door and kept one hand at your back. “In.”

You looked at the seat. Then at him. “I like it when you give directions.”

Jack almost smiled, “I have noticed.”

“Can you say ‘in’ again?” You asked, looking up at him. 

His answer comes quickly, “No.”

“Meaner?” You tried.

This answer was faster: “Absolutely not.”

You sighed and got into the car anyway, mostly because Jack’s hand was warm at your back and he looked like that, and you were only human.

He leaned across you to buckle your seatbelt.

You went very still.

Jack paused immediately. “Okay?”

You nodded, eyes wide. “You smell good.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and clicked the seatbelt into place. “You’re drunk.”

“You smell good when I’m drunk.” You amended. 

Jack shook his head, “That’s not how that works.”

“It is for me.” You replied with a happy shrug. 

Jack braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at you.

His expression was amused. Tired. Fond in a way he would absolutely deny if Robby had been there to witness it. “You need water when we get home.”

You pointed at him. “Bossy.”

“You need sleep.” He added. 

You smiled. “Oh, fuck.”

“And no flirting with me until you can walk in a straight line.” Jack continued. 

Your mouth fell open. “You’re denying your wife?”

Jack held up his left hand.

You looked at his ring automatically.

Then at yours.

The distress vanished.

You nodded, “Hell yeah.”

He smiled despite himself. “And yes. I’m denying my drunk wife.”

You considered that, then nodded slowly. “Responsible husband.”

He smiled softly, “Trying to be.”

You looked him up and down from your seat. “Hot.”

Jack shut the door before you could say anything else. You watched him walk around the front of the car. The parking lot lights were doing very good things to him. His shoulders. His hoodie. His jeans. When he opened the driver’s side door, you were still staring.

He slid in and caught your expression immediately. “No.”

You frowned deeply, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to,” Jack commented. 

You looked out the windshield, dignified. “I was admiring privately.”

You looked at his hands on the steering wheel. “Oh, fuck.”

He closed his eyes. “Baby.”

You looked down at your rings.

Then, at his hand on the wheel, wedding band visible under the passing sweep of the parking lot light.

“You called me baby.” You sighed happily. 

He pulled out of the parking space. “I’m your husband.”

You smiled at his ring. “Hell yeah.” 

The drive home was mostly quiet. Mostly. 

You hummed under your breath until Jack, without looking away from the road, said, “No more husband song.”

You turned your head toward him. “I like it when you’re bossy.”

“I know.” He replied. 

You sat up straighter, “Say something else.”

“No.”

“That was something.” You mumbled. 

He sighed.

You smiled out the window like you had won.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, your energy had softened around the edges. The feral husband appreciation was still there, obviously, because Jack existed and you had eyes, but it had gone warm and sleepy.

Less bar announcement.

More gravity.

Jack came around to your side and opened the door.

You looked up at him.

He looked down at you. “Out.”

Your mouth parted.

Jack pointed at you. “Do not.”

You pressed your lips together, nodding seriously. Then whispered, “Attending voice.”

He helped you out anyway.

You wobbled once on the driveway, and his hand found your waist immediately.

You leaned into him. “Good catch.”

He gave you a little grin, “Good wobble.”

You gasped. “You praised me.”

“I should not have,” Jack replied, regretting his choice immediately. 

You smiled up at him, “I liked it.”

Jack looked down at you, “I know.” 

Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Jack locked the door behind you, then turned back to find you standing in the entryway, looking down at your left hand again.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Checking?”

You lifted your rings toward the hall light. “Still married.”

Jack held up his left hand. His wedding band gleamed.

Your smile went loose and delighted. “Hell yeah.”

He took your coat off first.

Not because you helped.

You did not help.

You got distracted halfway through by the flex of his forearm when he pulled the sleeve down your arm. “Oh, fuck.”

Jack paused. “What?”

You didn’t look up, “Your arm.”

“My arm is removing your coat,” Jack said. 

“Yeah.” You stared at it. “That’s the problem.”

Jack exhaled through his nose and hung your coat on the hook. “Kitchen.”

You looked at him sharply. “Attending voice.”

Jack sighed, “I’m getting you water.”

“You said kitchen like an order.” You argued. 

Jack inhaled, “It was a destination.”

“A hot destination.” You corrected him. 

He pointed down the hall. “Move.”

You inhaled. “Jackie.”

“No.” He said instantly. 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” You said with a whine. 

Jack gave you a look, “I do.”

You followed him anyway, because his hand settled at the small of your back and your drunk brain apparently classified that as a life-altering event.

At the kitchen counter, he gave you more water and two crackers.

You stared at the crackers. Then up at him. “Are you feeding me?”

“I am preventing tomorrow from being worse,” Jack replied. 

Your eyes went wide and affectionate, “You provide.”

“I provide saltines.” Jack amended. 

You picked one up and took a dramatic bite. “Sexy.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Chew.”

You froze. Then pointed at him with the cracker. “Attending voice.”

Jack tilted his head, “Chewing is not optional.”

“Oh, my god.” You fan yourself with the cracker. 

He dragged a hand down his face. “Please eat the cracker.”

You did, mostly because he watched you with that serious, focused Jack expression, and you had already learned at the bar that being perceived by your husband while he gave basic instructions was dangerous.

After water and crackers, he got you upstairs.

Barely.

There was a brief negotiation on the landing because you stopped to admire his butt from a lower step and whispered, “Perspective,” like you had made a scientific discovery.

Jack looked over his shoulder. “Keep walking.”

You gripped the railing. “Attending voice.”

“Stairs voice.” He corrected you.

You shrugged, “Same family.”

When you finally reached the bathroom, Jack set your makeup remover, toothbrush, and face wash on the counter as if he were preparing for a procedure.

You leaned against the doorframe and watched him. “You’re setting up supplies.”

Jack nodded, “I am.”

“Like an attending.” You add. 

“Like a husband who knows you’ll sleep in mascara if I don’t help,” Jack replied. 

You gasped and looked down at your rings.

Jack lifted his left hand immediately.

You checked. Satisfied, you nodded. “Verified.”

He handed you a makeup wipe. “Face.”

You took it, then blinked. “Huh.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”

“You said face.” You answered. 

Jack nodded, “I did.”

“Very direct.” You replied with a crooked smile. 

Jack looks over your face, “You have makeup on it.”

You touched the wipe to your cheek, still watching him. “Bossy skincare husband.”

Jack leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. That was a mistake.

You stared at his chest. 

He noticed. “Face,” he repeated.

You closed your eyes. “That was worse.”

“Makeup off.” He tried again. 

You threw your head back in defeat, “Oh, fuck.”

He held out his hand. “Give me the wipe.”

You handed it over without thinking. Jack stepped closer and gently tipped your chin up with two fingers. The bathroom went very quiet. He wiped beneath one eye with slow, careful strokes, his other hand steady at your jaw. His face was close enough that you could see the tired fondness in his eyes.

You swallowed. “Jackie.”

His thumb stilled for half a second. “Yeah?”

“You’re really good at this.” You whispered. 

He smiled softly, “At taking off mascara?”

“At being mine.” You said, almost breathless. 

His expression softened.

Then, because you were drunk and incapable of letting tenderness survive unbothered, you added, “Also, your pecs are close.”

Jack closed his eyes. “There she is.”

You smiled.

He finished with your makeup, then handed you your toothbrush.

“Toothpaste,” he said.

You looked at the toothbrush. Then at him in the mirror. “Attending voice.”

“Toothpaste voice.”

You brushed your teeth while glaring at him with exaggerated suspicion.

Jack watched you in the mirror, arms crossed, trying and failing not to smile.

When you finished, he pointed to the sink. “Spit.”

You blinked around the toothbrush. Then slowly looked at him. “Jack.”

“What?” He asked. 

Your eyes widened, “You can’t just say spit like that.”

His jaw tightened. Not anger. A smile he was trying to kill. “I am asking you to brush your teeth.”

“You are issuing commands in a bathroom.” You say, mouth foamy. 

Jack looked down at your mouth, “You have toothpaste in your mouth.”

You pointed the toothbrush at him. “Dangerous.”

“Sink.” He commanded. 

“Oh, fuck.” You spat, rinsed, and accepted the towel he handed you.

“Good,” he said.

You pressed the towel to your mouth and froze.

He sighed immediately. “I forgot.”

“You said good.” You grinned. 

He sighed again, “I did.”

“With the voice.” You say, eyebrows raised. 

Jack shrugged, “It slipped.”

You lowered the towel and pointed at him. “Dangerous.”

“Bed,” he said.

You stared. “Jack.”

He pointed toward the bedroom. “Now.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and guided you into the bedroom.

He found one of his old T-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts from your drawer. Then he turned back to you, clothes in hand. “Can I help?”

You looked at the shirt. Then at him. Then down at your rings.

Jack lifted his hand before you could ask. You checked his wedding band.

“Okay,” you said. “Husband verified.”

He nodded once, “Good.”

You pointed at him immediately. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did not.” He replies innocently. 

You pouted, “You weaponized good.”

“I am trying to get you into pajamas,” Jack replied. 

Your frown deepened, “Domestic warfare.”

He helped you sit on the edge of the bed. Then he crouched in front of you and touched the hem of your top. “Arms up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is this a trick?”

He smiled, “No.”

Your brow furrows, “Because I’m drunk.”

“Exactly.” Jack agreed. 

You look at him suspiciously, “You’re not going to be weird.”

“I’m not going to be weird,” Jack promised. 

You leaned closer, whispering with great seriousness. “I might be weird.”

His mouth twitched. “I know.”

You lifted your arms. 

Jack changed you with the careful efficiency of a man determined not to let his drunk wife turn pajamas into a legal incident. Shirt off, sleep shirt on. No lingering. No teasing. No letting his eyes go where drunk you absolutely wanted them to go.

Which, naturally, offended you. “You’re very respectful.”

“I try,” Jack replied. 

You groan, “It’s annoying.”

“I know.” He said. 

You sighed, “It’s hot.”

“I know that too.” He said with a smile. 

He helped you step into the shorts while you held both hands on his shoulders for balance.

The second your palms settled there, you sighed. “Shoulders.”

“Balance,” Jack corrected.

“Shoulders.” You repeated dreamily. 

He pulled the shorts up to your hips and patted your side once. “Done.”

You looked down at yourself. Then at him. “You dressed me.”

Jack shrugged, “I helped.”

“You’re like a sexy pit crew.” You say with a wink. 

Jack stared at you.

You nodded, pleased with yourself. “Fast. Focused. Good with hands.”

He stood and pointed at the bed. “Lie down.”

Your eyes went wide. “Attending voice.”

He continued to point, “Bed.” 

You looked at him desperately, “Oh, Jackie.”

“Do not make bed weird.” He groaned. 

You pouted, “You made it weird when you pointed.”

He pulled the blanket back. “In.”

You climbed under the covers, mostly because the single syllable nearly took you out.

Jack tucked the blanket around your waist, then set the water on the nightstand.

“You need sleep,” he said.

You looked up at him, suddenly softer. “You’re staying?”

His expression shifted. “Yeah, baby. I’m staying.”

You looked down at your rings one more time. Then reached for his hand.

Jack gave it to you.

You checked his wedding band, slower now, your thumb brushing over the metal.

“You proposed?”

He sat on the edge of the bed beside you. “I proposed.”

“And I said yes?” You asked happily. 

His mouth softened. “You said yes.”

You smiled, sleepy and bright. “Hell yeah.”

Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead.

“No sex,” You murmured. “I’m drunk.”

Jack huffed a laugh against your temple, “I know, baby.” 

Your eyes closed.  “It sucks, though, because you have amazing pecs. And a great ass.”

He laughed quietly and brushed your hair away from your face. “Go to sleep.”

You sighed into the pillow. “Attending voice.”

“Husband voice,” he corrected, softer.

Your smile was almost gone with sleep. “Jackie.”

“Yeah?” He answers quietly. 

“Still hot.” You murmur into your pillow. 

He stayed there until your breathing evened out, his thumb moving once over your rings before he let go. Then he slipped into the bathroom, changed, came back, and climbed into bed beside you. You rolled toward him automatically, even in sleep, one hand landing against his chest like you were verifying he was still there. Jack covered your hand with his. Your rings pressed lightly against his skin.

The Next Day...

In the morning, you woke up to pain, sunlight, and consequences.

Mostly consequences.

Your head hurts. Your mouth was dry. Your body felt like it had been assembled incorrectly. For one blessed second, you remembered nothing after the second round of drinks.

Then your phone buzzed.

You opened one eye.

On the nightstand, your screen lit up with a message from Robby.

MRS. ABBOT LIVE AT THE BAR: WHERE IS MY HUSBAND TOUR

You closed your eye again. “No.”

Beside you, Jack was already awake.

You could feel it.

You turned your head very slowly.

He was lying on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, watching you with the calm, devastating expression of a man who knew everything.

You swallowed. “How bad?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Define bad.”

You groaned and pulled the blanket over your face.

He reached over and tugged it down just enough to see you. “You reviewed my body in public.”

Your eyes closed. “Oh, my god.”

“Pecs got mentioned several times.” He added. 

“Jack.” You whined. 

He grinned, “Butt got a standing ovation.”

You covered your face with both hands. “I need to leave the country.”

“You also called your rings' wife jewelry.”

A pause.

You peeked through your fingers. “That’s kind of cute.”

Jack nodded, “It was very cute.”

Your stomach softened despite the hangover.

Then he added, “You made me show you my ring every time someone told you we were married.”

You lowered your hands. “I did?”

He lifted his left hand. His wedding band gleamed in the morning light. Your eyes flicked down to your own rings automatically. 

Jack noticed.

A smile started at the corner of his mouth.

You pointed at him. “Do not.”

He raised both his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked smug.” You replied, eyes narrowed. 

Jack tilted his head, “I’m allowed.”

“You are not.” You argued. 

Jack smiled, “You kept checking.”

“I was drunk.” You defend. 

Jack looked down at his ring. “You were thorough.”

You groaned again and rolled onto your back. “I hate myself.”

“No, you don’t,” Jack said.

You stared at the ceiling. “I hate Robby.”

“That’s fair.” Jack agreed. 

Your phone buzzed again.

This time, Jack picked it up before you could stop him.

“Jack.” You warned. 

He looked at the screen. Then his mouth twitched.

“No.” You groaned. 

He turned the phone toward you.

The video thumbnail showed you in the booth, hand dramatically raised, mouth open mid-song. At the same time, Robby performed backup vocals, and Santos looked as if she were reconsidering friendship as a concept.

You stared.

Then slowly turned to Jack. “Delete it.”

“It’s not on my phone.” He replied. 

You groaned, “Tell Robby to delete it.”

“I will,” Jack answered. 

You narrowed your eyes.

Jack’s expression stayed too innocent. “After I watch it once.”

You huffed, “Jack.”

He pressed play. Your own drunk voice filled the room with devastating commitment. On-screen, Robby echoed you terribly.

Then the video shifted as Santos muttered, “I’m calling Abbot.”

Your face lit up. You grabbed Mel’s wrist and shouted, “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants!”

Jack paused the video. Silence. You stared at the ceiling. Jack stared at the phone.

Then he looked at you. “The gray sweatpants?”

You pulled the blanket over your face again. “I was unwell.”

“You were specific.” Jack corrected you. 

“I had a medical condition.” You attempted to explain. 

“Being horny for your husband is not a medical condition,” Jack replied. 

You slowly lowered the blanket.

Jack’s eyebrow lifted.

You pointed at him. “You’re a doctor. Diagnose it.”

He laughed then. Really laughed. Warm and low and unfairly pleased.

You groaned, but you were smiling too. He set the phone aside and leaned over you, bracing one hand near your shoulder. Your eyes flicked to his arm before you could stop yourself.

Jack noticed that too. “Still?”

“Shut up.”

His smile widened.

You looked down at your rings, partly because you were embarrassed and partly because the habit had apparently survived the alcohol. Then, quietly, Jack lifted his left hand beside yours.

The rings caught the same strip of morning light.

Your chest softened. “We match,” you said, voice rough from sleep and singing and terrible decisions.

Jack’s expression went gentle. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “We match.”

You stared at the rings for a second.

Then at him.

Even hungover, even humiliated, even with video evidence waiting in the group chat, you could not help it.

“Hell yeah.”

Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead.

“Hell yeah,” he said.

@nosebeers, @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130

[annsfics]

♡ you come first ♡

♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader

♡ synopsis: when a patient attacks you & embeds a scalpel in your abdomen, you go to jack for help. overwhelmed & irritable, he snaps at you to go find someone else for whatever it is which you're running to him for. once robby has tended to your injury, he informs jack of how he royally screwed up & your husband comes home after his shift to make amends.

♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, robby pining, battery, banter, reader gets stitches

♡ a/n: requested by @styx03, ty! i hope i did ok ;_;

Blood drips in fresh, crimson splatters onto polished white tiles from the wound your hand hovers near.

Protruding from your right lower quadrant is a scalpel which a patient has just impaled you with. You don't even respond—there is no screaming, wailing in panic, or hyperventilating to bear witness to which interrupts the beeping, shifting monotony of the ED—before you turn and head out the door of his exam room without another word.

With your shirt awkwardly clutched in your hand, you walk with measured steps to an empty room—cringing all the while from the rhythmic movement.

Once you've closed yourself behind a locked door, you pull the silver instrument from your now inflamed abdomen with a quiet cry of distress, and drop it into the stainless steel sink you stand at. Clattering against the metal basin, you pluck half a dozen tissues from a plastic box mounted to the wall and press them firmly to your weeping laceration.

Not but perhaps two hours ago did you stand at a patient's bedside and hold his hand as a heart attack claimed his life and ripped him from his family's embrace. His wife threw herself over his corpse after—screaming all the while for him to wake up, wake up, wake up; she can't do it without him, how will they survive?

Her children, meanwhile, trembled in a corner while holding fast to one another—their tiny faces flushed and red from tears, unable to understand why daddy wouldn't open his eyes like mommy wanted.

You excused yourself to the restroom to vomit thereafter.

Fighting down a familiar feeling of nausea, you flex stiff limbs while continually pressing numb fingertips against your palm—continually counting them as a grounding technique.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

You believe that you may be going into shock.

You'd like a heated blanket to keep you warm, or your husband's arms to make you safe. Most of all, you wish to leave this place.

You go in search of Jack.

"Hey, Jack?" you ask quietly from the entryway of Trauma 3, watching as he smoothly inserts an IV in the arm of an unconscious patient.

You slide your shaking hand behind you so no one can see.

At least you're still upright, you think. Small blessings.

Even behind the blue and white mask he dons, you can hear him huff in irritation. "Honey, I'm a bit busy right now. If it's a consult, or you're needing help, you need to go find somebody else."

You take a small step forward, ignoring the way your fresh wound smarts when you do so. "I was just—"

He swiftly tugs down his mask and grips the handrail of the patient's bed he stands guard beside. "Go find Robby or Langdon. Anybody else. Can you do that?" he barks. "I don't always have to be the one you come to. They're just as capable."

Your eyes flit to Parker, who turns to Jack with an open mouth—you know she intends to defend you; chew him out for the way he's just spoken to you—until you take a step back in acquiescence to prevent an argument.

Sniffling quietly, you nod, now feeling like a burden. Does he often feel like that? Like you're breaking his concentration, or are too attached? Perhaps it's unprofessional behavior on your part. Work and home are two different things which you've ignorantly merged into one.

"Yeah, I'll go find Robby. I'm sorry for interrupting."

The door swings shut behind you.

You stare at Robby a handful of feet from where he stands, and watch as he heads into an empty exam room before following close behind.

"Are you busy?" you inquire softly while fingering the edge of the striped polyester curtain you waver beside.

He glances to you with kind brown eyes before tearing wrinkled paper from the exam table he stands at. Robby shakes his head while balling it up and tossing it into the trash. "Never too busy for you. What's up?"

You pull back the curtain to give yourself a bit of privacy.

You nervously tug at the hem of your shirt while your other hand continues holding your throbbing side, which Robby's eyes flit to before meeting your own once again.

"I need you to promise me," you say while shuffling forward. "That you're not going to make a federal case out of this. I...I think he's going to end up under psyche's care. I left him—" You shake your head. "I shouldn't have."

You half turn around then. What if he leaves his room and harms someone else? Why did you just walk out and not call security like protocol demands?

Stupid, stupid, stupid. No wonder Jack was so short with you.

You go to head back the way you came until Robby starts toward you and grabs your forearm. "Sweetheart," he says while resting his opposite hand on the crown of your shoulder. "You're my concern now. Tell me what's going on." He nods toward your stomach. "It have anything to do with the way you're holding yourself?"

You shift on your feet uncertainly and wince quietly from the movement. "Promise me. He's unwell. I don't want him arrested, or—"

Robby finally throws up his hands. "Fine, fine, if it'll get you to tell me what's wrong, I will give this man the royal treatment. Now, tell me."

You chew the inside of your lip, then gingerly lift the bottom of your shirt before carefully peeling away the wad of tissues that've dried to your unwanted incision.

"Jesus Christ," Robby curses while stepping forward and gripping your hip to begin examining the damage inflicted. "When did this happen?"

"A few minutes ago," you sputter in explanation. "I didn't tell anyone. I just turned and walked away. I don't know why. I went to Jack, but he...he was busy—"

"Too busy for this?" he asks incredulously. "A patient sliced your fucking stomach open."

You hang your head. "It's not that extreme, Robby."

Maybe if you deny that you were assaulted, things won't turn out to be as bad as you're afraid they are when he finally takes a look.

Robby gently prods at it and your hand flies—sinking your nails into his shoulder. "Ow!"

He raises a brow. "Isn't it?" Robby shakes his head. "Jack should've dropped everything to tend to you."

He waves you toward the exam table, and you climb awkwardly atop it while favoring your side. "I didn't exactly tell him," you murmur while lying back.

Pulling on a pair of gloves, Robby purses his lips in disapproval.

"He told me to come find you. Or just...someone. He was busy—overwhelmed—so he didn't mean to snap at me."

Robby shakes his head. "No excuse. When you come to me, I drop everything without complaint."

You grin, ignoring the way your body is trembling because it's so painfully cold. "It's because you just adore me, right?" you say playfully between chattering teeth while tucking your shaking hands beneath your thighs.

Seeing how you're shivering, Robby frowns, then shrugs off his hoody before draping it over you. "You know I do," he rumbles before grabbing a pack of wipes. "Was the instrument—"

"Sterile," you supply. "I just need stitches." Your eyes flit to the machine next to him, and your stomach sinks to your knees. "Robby..."

"What is it, sweetheart?"

Your chin wobbles. "Ultrasound." Your hand flutters toward your stomach. "My...my ovary."

He stills for a moment and studies you—the way your tearful eyes plead with him to tell you anything but that which you're now terrified of hearing.

He wheels the machine around and switches it on.

You stare up at him through glassy eyes. "Is...is it—"

He shakes his head. "It didn't go deep enough to hit anything. Barely went any deeper than the subcutaneous level."

You squeeze your eyes shut and begin to sob.

Pushing the cart away, Robby slides a palm over your forehead while shooshing you. "It's alright. I'm going to clean the area, give you a few stitches, and then," he says while folding your shirt until it's positioned just beneath your breasts, "I'm taking you home."

You shake your head. "No. Robby, I can—"

He drags an antiseptic wipe over the affected area. "This isn't some option I'm laying before you. I'm an attending, you're my resident—"

"I'm Jack's resident," you state.

Robby looks at you. "I'm making you my resident right now. And as your attending, I'm telling you that you're going home. I'm not asking," he states with finality.

Throwing your head back against the hard vinyl beneath you, you huff in irritation. "Fine."

Robby alerts security to the altercation which occurred where you clearly neglected to, followed by a page to psyche for a consult. After you've completed a workplace incident form and he's compiled a bag of supplies for you to take home so you can tend to your wound in private—as well as some pain meds—he presses the keys to his truck into your palm and tells you to go wait for him.

You think to ask as to why he can't come with you, but refrain.

You'd really like to sit down, and the sooner you make it to his vehicle, the sooner that can happen.

Jack's just exiting the room he found himself unwittingly stationed in for the last hour to the sight of Robby coming straight toward him with a displeased look on his face. He's left to assume that you went to him in the end like he commanded you to, then, and now he's about to be ripped a new one for daring to withhold attention for a damn minute.

"Take it she came to you?" Jack asks while ripping off a surgical gown.

Robby crosses his arms. "She's out in my truck. I'm taking her home."

"I'm sorry, what?" he asks with a raised brow while swinging around toward him.

"I'm guessing you don't have any idea why she came to you earlier?"

Jack plants his hands on his hips. "I assumed because she had a question, or needed help with a patient."

"She was the patient," Robby spits.

Jack falters momentarily.

"He's been taken up to psyche, but she was trying to treat a man having an episode of psychosis. He shoved a scalpel in her belly for it."

Jack curses then runs the heel of his palm along his eye and past his temple. "She didn't say—"

"Maybe if you'd bothered listening for a moment—allowed her to get out what she was trying to fucking tell you—then you might've known."

Jack hardly wastes a moment before shoving past Robby and hobbling toward the doors of the ED. His leg is giving him fucking fits tonight, and instead of dealing with it like a man, he chose to take it out on you instead. You, who was already terrified after someone committed battery against you.

You had looked a bit wan, but he merely shook it off as hazards of the job. Hardly anybody around here is in tip-top shape at all times.

Robby jogs to catch up with him, then presses a hand to his shoulder to halt him in his tracks. A gesture which he bats away. "I'm going to see my wife."

"Jack—"

"Dr. Abbot," calls Henderson from two doors down. "He's crashing, we need you!"

Jack grits his teeth and growls in frustration before turning back around yet again. "Just get her home. I'll be there as soon as I can once my shift is over," he calls reluctantly over his shoulder.

"You sure you don't want me to come in with you? Stay for awhile?" Robby asks while settling his forearm atop the center console and turning in his seat to face you.

You shake your head and force a smile. "No, thank you. I'll be okay. I'm just going to go in, try and bathe," you say with a breathy laugh. "Maybe order something, or just warm up leftovers. Afterward, I'll probably lay down for awhile and watch TV."

Robby seems to debate something for a moment, but ultimately relents. "Alright. Just call me if you need anything," he says while giving your hand a reassuring squeeze.

You nod. "I will. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

When Jack enters your shared domicile, it's to strict quietude. He presumes that you long ago fell off to sleep in wait of him, so he heads in the direction of the bedroom to get his damn leg off and switch to the relief crutches provide.

And then he finds the bed devoid of your previously expected presence.

Tugging off the apparatus, he practically tosses it onto the floor at his side of the bed, slides himself onto his preferred means of physical support—when he's home, anyway—and goes in search of you. An exploration which doesn't take long when he sees light peeking out of the crack found at the base of the bathroom door.

He knocks quietly. "Honey, can I come in?"

He hears something roll across the floor, followed by a quiet "damn it."

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry for what happened at work. I just had a lot going on. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. Just open the door for me, angel. Please."

There's the sound of something crinkling.

With a huff, he goes to turn the handle, only to find it locked.

He's really in the doghouse this time, isn't he?

"Either you can let me in, or I'm going to find a key," Jack states.

"I'm busy," you snip.

He sighs, rolls his eyes, then turns and heads for the multiple keychains that hang near the front door.

The doorknob jingles, then turns with a quiet squeak. "Now, do you wanna tell me why—" He promptly shuts his mouth.

It's worse than he thought. Robby did a clean job of repairing what that man damaged, but he's horrified by the sight of you sitting atop a towel in the middle of the bathroom floor in no more than your underwear while you try and clean your dozen stitches.

Leaning his crutches against the sink, Jack hops forward, presses a palm against the wall, then slides downward to join you on the floor.

"C'mere," he murmurs. "Let me take care of it."

"No, I can do it," you mumble while half turning away.

Jack plants his legs on either side of you and shoves your hands from the injury before you manage to reopen it.

Picking up the bottle of rubbing alcohol, he eyes it with a raised brow before glancing to you. "You know better."

You shrink into yourself out of embarrassment. "I was only gonna use a little..."

With a shake of his head, he reaches across the way, grabs the top, and screws it back on.

Swiping an ace bandage from beside you, he peels it open and tosses the wrapper in the trash before making to apply the dressing. "I'm sorry," he begins while smoothing the edges with his thumbs. "I didn't know. Not until Robby told me. For what it's worth, I was a worried wreck for the remainder of my shift. I couldn't get back here fast enough. I went flying by a state trooper on the interstate, but got lucky when he didn't come after me."

In every spare moment Jack had tonight, he found himself subconsciously fiddling with his wedding ring—not wanting to acknowledge the ugly truth of what kind of hell losing you would bring upon him.

He feels doubtful he could survive it; unsure that he would want to.

But you don't need to ever hear something so ugly.

Once you've been properly tended to, Jack grips your hips and pulls you toward him. "My leg has been aching all fucking night, I ended up having to do a cric on the patient you saw me with—" he shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."

Cupping the back of your head, he tries pulling your lips toward his. "I'm sorry, baby."

You slide a hand up his chest. "I forgive you," you whisper.

An apology which is soon followed up with a mischievous smirk. "Robby's really good with his hands, by the way. You ever had 'em on you?"

Jack glares at you. "You do not want to test my patience right now."

"I'm the one who got stabbed," you retort. Leaning in close, you giggle. "Even let him come inside and tuck me in..."

Jack deadpans. "I need to check the security cameras?"

You shrug. "Only proof of what we did in bed is stored on my phone in a locked folder. It's filthy."

He fights against a smirk. "You're such a pain in my leg."

You raise a brow. "And you're a pain in my belly."

He snorts while bringing you flush against his chest. "If something like that ever happens again, you scream at the top of your fucking lungs. Alright? Made me sick thinking about you trapped in there alone... He could've done far, far worse."

You nod while nuzzling against his neck. "I just froze. My body locked up, and my voice with it. All I wanted was you I was so scared."

He could put his head through a fucking wall hearing that. Jack wraps his arms securely around you. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. What happened tonight will never happen again. You come first. Always."

Sliding a hand up your back, he presses a kiss to your temple. "It's my job to protect you. And tonight I failed to—"

You shake your head. "Jack, I didn't even tell you." Leaning back, you caress his cheek. "It happens. As terrible as it is, it does in our line of work. It's just a cut that, at most, may leave a small scar. Better it be me with a sterile instrument than someone he attacks on the street with a dirty knife. He wasn't himself. I'm okay."

He presses a long kiss to your forehead. "You're way more empathetic than I would've been. Good thing you didn't tell me. Because if you had..." He doesn't want to think on how he may've very well put the assailant in the morgue.

"I'm just glad he's safe and getting the help he needs. Everything is alright now," you insist.

He brushes a kiss over your lips.

"C'mon," you say while pushing back. "Come lay in bed for awhile and I'll massage your leg." You grin. "Robby gave me the good painkillers, y'know?"

He rolls his eyes. "He does tend to baby you," he says with a grunt while pushing himself upward.

You paw at his middle once he's standing. "Guess that makes two of you."

You pad out of the bathroom and he pinches your rear on the way out, causing you to yelp in surprise.

"Let's go see if we can't overwrite your and Robby's video," he croons while sliding onto his crutches.

"'Overwrite'? Think you're cruising in the wrong century, old man."

He switches off the bathroom light and nearly barks a laugh at the reply that comes to him. "Yeah, well, I'm about to fuck you into the next one, little girl. So you better hope those stitches were sewn tight enough."

[houseofhyde]

tldr;; your favourite doctor is a porn va.

warnings. 18+ only. smut. jack abbot becomes an audio porn king. fem!reader. medical student!reader. but also patient!reader. inappropriate thoughts about a patient. age gap. power imbalance. hyde's input. shawn hatosy, consider me mad and mystified. god bless the women at quinn. follow @houseofjekyll + turn on post notifications to get notified when i post a new fic!

jack abbot who swears he was just trying to find a new hobby. after having the world’s most unstable man — more commonly referred to as doctor robby — call him out on his not-so peaceful hobby of getting shot at, he decides to go back to the drawing board. calls his therapist, asks for an honest opinion, and is met with the worst possible answer a man like him could receive: maybe something less physically demanding and endangering would do you good. have you tried golf?

jack abbot who has tried golf, actually... he almost sent a young caddie to the pitt, golf club swinging out his grip and crashing against the golf cart. second time is never the charm, so he skips golf and goes straight to padel. old man tennis, as doctor ellis so kindly puts it. after launching the ball out of the court one too many times, he gives up, declares the game is not fast-paced enough* for him (*read as: jack is too heavy handed).

jack abbot who goes through a whole list of hobbies. he’s too skilled for paint-ball. he’s too stiff for dancing. he’s too impatient for cooking. sports are not his forte, and he’s already dedicated way too many years of his life to education to fully toy with the thought of getting another degree — even if holding another masters over robby’s head does sound like fun. but he finds something easier, something quicker. his hand, his voice, and a microphone… that’s all he really needs to become an audio pornstar.

jack abbot who swears it was an accident. all he had done was google hobbies for a middle-aged man that won’t bore me to death but won’t tweak my back… and somehow, someway, he had landed on a reddit thread. men his own age, shouting out their hobbies in the hopes of helping a fellow bored soul like his own find a new calling outside of the gruelling hours he spends covered in guts and gore. some men recommended forming bike groups. others spoke of table-top games. but only one of them really caught his eye. a single comment, no thread beneath it, with a total of eight upvotes: i record erotic audios. it’s fun, easy, and the feedback has done wonders to my self-esteem. the best part is i don’t even have to show my face, all my audience wants is to hear me.

jack abbot who soon finds out it’s lot harder than he expected. and, no, he’s not talking about his dick. recording is his first challenge. the first few attempts are a technical nightmare. this attempt too muffled, that attempt too awkward, more than a few where he loses focus and drops his phone (aka his acting microphone) as he sinks into the sweet relief of his hand working over his aching cock, completely missing out on recording the part where breathy groans divulge into full-blown, pathetic whimpers, and soon one of pittsburgh’s most respected emergency medicine doctors is painting his knuckles and lower abdomen in the sticky residue of his pleasure.

jack abbot who’s second hurdle is making an account and, worse, figuring out how to use it. asking for help is out of the question because, while jack abbot is far from shy, he doesn’t want to invite that level of gossip into his workplace. shen would give him shitty nicknames like doctor jacking-off abbot, dana wouldn’t say anything but the side-eye would be loud enough to speak for her. robby would no doubt find a way to criticise even this hobby. and god forbid the pittlings hear about it… any ounce of respect they have for him would fly right out the window. worst of all, jack thinks, ahmad would start a betting pool… how long until doctor abbot leaks his identity?

jack abbot who nearly doxxes himself immediately, accidentally attaching a picture — one of those low-angled selfies javadi is forever teasing him about — alongside the audio file. a file that captures him in a moment of pure vulnerability, head thrown back against the couch, knees bent, feet on the ground; all the while last night’s scrubs stick to his sweaty thighs, shoved far enough down for him to free his cock. he doesn’t listen to the audio fully, afraid that if he listens too long, he’ll back out and delete it once again. with barely any recollection of the things he said nor the sounds he made, he takes a deep breath and finally hits post.

jack abbot who is officially, by technicality, an audio pornstar. the attention isn’t instant. for the first few days, he tells himself to not bother checking, to not interest himself in how many silly upvotes a collective of strangers might have deemed his moans worthy of. that doesn’t stop him from pulling out his phone during bathroom breaks, swiping through the apps list until he finds a familiar orange, and checking the engagement. five upvotes. no comments. oh well, he thinks (with a little more disappointment than he’s willing to admit). maybe this hobby is just not for him, either. back to the drawing board he’ll go, right?

jack abbot who learns the hard way just how far a little praise can go. it’s another mindless check, shift over and finally standing under the rejuvenating burn of a warm shower. two days off ahead of him, a whole load of sleep to catch up on. a song comes on that he’s sick of hearing, so, despite the soap suds in his hands, he grabs for his phone and changes the track. muscle memory forces his thumb to swipe, fingerprint searching for the familiar glow of that orange app. he barely recognises what he’s done, until the post — his post — is staring at him in the face. seventeen upvotes. one comment. u/dilfhunter pretty sure this violates some sacred feminist rule with how wet it made me. dear god sir, what a voice.

jack abbot who records his second official audio right then and there, the sound of a running shower caught faintly in the background of his grunts and groans. they echo off the bathroom tiles, accompanied by the wet shlick of his hand stroking over his length. he’s still a little unsteady, a little unsure of what to do while one hand is busy touching himself and the other is gripping his phone, making sure the microphone is still recording his every move. to make matters, and his dick, harder this time, he’s caught in a trance, pupils blown wide and jaw hanging loose while he reads the comment over and over. it’s instinct, really, that has him muttering under his breath, brain too far gone to even fully register what he’s saying. d’you like my voice, yeah? is it getting you wet, baby? my dirty girl, touching herself to the sound of me. you gonna cum, hmm? think you should. go on. or d’you need me to show you how?

jack abbot who is starting to gain a following, a community of faceless individuals who are never short on praise and are quick to make him feel desired. every comment is an ego-boost, a reason to record another audio. after a month, he invests in a proper microphone, one that frees up both his hands. another month and he’s ordering toys from some lewd website. it’s for realism, he tells himself, something to make it sound a little more immersive, a little more real for his followers. the fact that the fleshlight grips around his cock in a way that has him curling his toes is just a welcomed bonus, really.

jack abbot who keeps his recordings fairly simple. straightforward, nothing more than the ramblings of a man in dire need of release. groans, moans, whimpers. there’s times where he slips a little deeper than usual into the fantasy, picturing someone sweet and vulnerable, writhing beneath him and echoing out all the wilder comments he receives. dilfhunter becomes a name he searches for, a user who’s feedback he awaits with bated breath. if he uploads and there’s no comment within the first 24 hours, his shoulders sag, his energy is off, and even the other busy-bodies in the pitt notice something off about him. then, ding! dilfhunter has commented on your post! and suddenly everything is back to sunshine and rainbows and boners for mister abbot, who more or less races home on those mornings, ready to capture another intimate moment he’ll share with an audience of thousands.

jack abbot who keeps it simple, until he doesn’t. a comment, not from dilfhunter, is all it takes. u/armpitts god what i wouldn’t pay to have you act out one of my scripts. it captures his attention. and while jack is not the best at replying to his comments — he’s sometimes afraid the things he wants to say may come off too strong… or that he’ll accidentally reveal personal details — he finds himself answering this time. no payment necessary, i’m open to anything :) he feels like an idiot sending a smiley face. fuck. he should have made it a wink. oh well, too late, his notifications are blowing up and there’s an inbox waiting for him. that very same commenter, kind and appreciative, drops the link to one of her scripts and thanks him. he feels silly the first time he reads through it, cheeks warm as he tries out the words on his lips. one would think he hasn’t spent the past few months whoring himself out vocally for a little gratification. but, can you really blame him for being so shy? there he is, a fully qualified doctor, reciting some fantasy where he’s examining a patient. one thing leads to another, an imaginary hand drifts up the expanse of a hypothetical thigh, and he’s acting out something that would get his medical license revoked… that doesn’t stop him from cumming louder than ever before, and swallowing down the name of his favourite patient: you.

jack abbot who swears you’re the sweetest sight for sore eyes. frequent fliers are rarely a celebrated thing in the pitt. unhoused, endangered, unwell; they are usually the kind who find themselves in his care on a regular basis. and then there is you. beautiful, smart, and polite. you never complain about the wait times, you never berate any of the staff for having other patients to attend to, you never show up without a smile. a med student, well into your final year and looking to secure a residency at presby. the catch? you’re a hypochondriac — more recently known as someone who suffers from illness anxiety disorder — diagnosed and all. those who study medicine are already predisposed to convince themselves they have every new illness they learn off. but throw in a disorder that’s merciless in making your brain spiral and, well, you become weekly visitor of the pitt, always showing up with enough self-awareness to recognise you’re probably fine, but still in dire need of a professional who can confirm it for you.

jack abbot who is happy to be said professional. it’s basically an unspoken rule amongst the nightcrawlers: your name is on the board, jack will be attending to you. no matter how big or small your most recent health worry might be, he’s happy to sit by your bedside and go through your vitals, listen to your heartbeat, check your breathing. as many times as you need him to. he knows how hard it can be to sleep, which is why he never berates you for wasting away your hours in the bright lights of the pitt. why would he berate you, when it means he gets to spend a few hours keeping his eye on you?

jack abbot who knows his fascination borders on unprofessional. while you may not be his student, you are still a student somewhere. your career relies on the guidance of those who have graduated before you, those who have already made a career out of caring for patients. he tries his best to make your frequent visits useful to you, talking you through what the signs would truly be for whatever your newest possible diagnosis might be and what the treatment plan would look like. it’s the only thing he can do to distract himself from the thoughts of talking you through something far more selfish.

jack abbot who swears he’s not thinking of you each time he hits record. when a script comes through, casting him the role of an older man who helps his new neighbour fix a leak under her sink, just to bend her over the counter and let his cum leak into her, there’s absolutely no way that jack is picturing you, doe-eyed and looking up at him with eyes that are practically begging him to fix you. and when he plays out the fantasy of a man coming home to find his wife naked in bed, riding out a heat wave, and spreading her thighs as she welcomes his tongue between them even in her sleep, he definitely does not nearly whine your name. and when the comments role in, begging him to add a new audio to his most popular series — the doctor will feel you now — he is doing anything but imagining you in the patient’s place, throwing your head back while you let you doctor cure you with his hands, his mouth, his cock. hey! all those times he’s had to cut the audio, edit out a little stutter of your name? those were nothing but accidents. pure and utter coincidences.

jack abbot who begins to miss you after not seeing you for more than a week. what could have happened? have you started visiting the day shift instead, relying on doctor robby to comfort your worries instead of him? it shouldn’t affect him. he shouldn’t care. he has enough on his plate to worry about, between the ER and the next audio he needs to post. he doesn’t have time to find himself lingering by the boards, willing your name to suddenly appear. what kind of doctor wants to see someone show up in the emergency ward? him, apparently, because there is no denying the way he feels his heart swell as he catches a glimpse of you from across the nurses’ station, being guided into a room by lena and told to sit while you wait for doctor abbot to see you. and see you he does, practically racing through the instructions on how to intubate a patient who’s throat is full of blood, just so he can rip of his gloves, sanitise his hands, and pull back the curtain that reveals you.

jack abbot who finds every way to make you stay a little longer, using every reason to talk to you. he asks about your exams. he asks about your future goals. he asks if you’re 100% sure that presby is the hospital for you. y’know we’re always looking for a new night shift resident in the pitt. just saying. the way you giggle at his wink is enough to sink the pathetic feeling that comes with almost begging you to join the ptmc. don’t think a trauma centre is the best place for me, doctor abbot. it’s actually cruel how effortless that sounds on your tongue. doctor abbot… would you still call him that if he had you arching your back, hips rolling to meet the thrust of his gloved fingers?

jack abbot who can barely hide the shake in his hand when you ask him to examine you. it’s just this mark i’ve got… on my upper thigh. i know it’s probably just a mosquito bite or something but- you’re worried. you don’t have to explain it to jack, he can practically feel the fear rolling off of you in waves. it shouldn’t send a shiver down his spine to know those waves meet an unmovable force when it comes to him, crashing and sinking away with every reassuring word he finds to help ease your worries. you listen to him so well, not needing to be told twice when he instructs you to bend your legs at the knee and plant your feet on the bed. just gonna give you an exam, okay? i’ll start just above the knee, then work my way up the length of your thigh, get a good feel of anything that’s going on there. that sound good to you?

jack abbot who feels himself harden at how eagerly you nod. then his hands are on you and there’s nowhere his thoughts can wander but to those damn audios. your thigh is soft, warm, full beneath his fingertips. what a shame there’s a layer of latex in the way. he tries not to linger on the way your legs fall open a little wider the further he slides his palm up your thigh. he tries not to notice the way the muscle clenches beneath his touch. he tries not to think about how you haven’t breathed properly since he started examining you. if this were one of his filthy audios, now would be the time when the doctor gives into his desires and let’s his fingers brush over the seam of his patient’s clothed cunt. he’d pretend it was an accident, an unintentional bump of his fingertips. he’d hum with a twinge of approval when he realises how wet the fabric is. he’d let his eyes meet hers as he peels her underwear to the side and watches her choke on a gasp, forefinger teasing up the length of the slit, pressing over her throbbing clit. he’d ruin her with nothing but his fingers, his spare hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her delectable moans so no ears but his own can hear them. and if she was good for him, really good, he’d reward her with the stretch of his cock plugging her full, making her stain her cheeks with tears as she bites down on his palm and let’s him whisper in her ear. ‘s this what you really needed, baby? someone to fix you? come on, there we go, breathe nice and deep for me. i know, i know, he’s so big. it’s so much but you’re taking him so well, sweetheart. my perfect little patient, letting me make us both feel better.

jack abbot who is painfully aware of the fact this is not one of his audios and that he needs to pull his hand out from between your thighs. he does so with a cough, swallowing back a mouthful of saliva only to find himself near-drooling again. god, what a relief that the scrubs he’s wearing today sit loose on him, otherwise he’d surely have an hr case on his hands. that doesn’t make the throb of his hardened dick any easier to stomach. especially not when he notices you’re in an almost equally frazzled state, chest heaving as you stare ahead in a trance, legs slowly sinking back down onto the gurney. he starts his medical spiel, but he’s not sure you’re really listening. all feels good, he says, knowing damn well you feel better than good.

jack abbot who doesn’t mean to invade your privacy. when a phone buzzes from somewhere behind him, he swears it’s his own and, with a quick check to see if it’s alright with you, he turns around to grab it. he’s just going to put it on silent, that’s all, to ensure it doesn’t interrupt him during any other patient examination. but then the screensaver is different. a pretty face, pressed right up to a dog. bright, girly, youthful. there’s notifications for apps he barely recognises, names he’s never heard. and then, the most recent one. a notification from 1 minute ago. an email. reddit.

jack abbot who feels himself freeze, right then and there, speechless for the first time in his life.

congratulations u/dilfhunter, you just hit 1,000 upvotes!

+ extra hyde!

· i'm working on a full jack abbot fic. this is a threat. consider yourself warned. · anyway don't forget to smash that like button and tell me if this made you horny. full disclosure i am more than willing to write more of these two. · i was waiting to finish a full, proper fic to post again but i've been frothing at the mouth at this thought all day and i had to get it out.

( 🍃 ) hyde's taglist! @54nboo @andromedastark @avengemepercy @average-vibe @barnesonly @basicallynotbreathing @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @blowingbarnes @crispycarrierbagz @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @epiphanyrogers @faelvz @featurinbarnes @firingstars @fleurenoir @flockoff-featherface @frombkjar @fluorjscent @gilwm @heldbybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @iamthatonefangirl @intothesoul @its-in-the-woods @kinderwh0r3 @linggong7 @liati2000 @lilyyyy2005 @miraclediviner @morphoportis @overwintering-soldier @person-005 @saaaaaaaaaaam @satinbucky @seraphicd0ll @slutdier @sonatabae @ssareidsstories @starstruck-cowgirl @stellacherryfairy @sunnyteume @superbassbuck @thearchressstuff @unificsation @wifeofbarnes @winterdecember18

[danysdaughter]

me coming to the end of the fic and realising i’ve been edged

“i know, i know, he’s so big. it’s so much but you’re taking him so well, sweetheart”

in conclusion what the fuck

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Goddamn, Manchild

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦

✦summary: you and Bucky have been at odds since you first met. he can't stand you. you pretend you can't stand him. and if Bucky ever knew how you really felt, you think you might die. not when there's no chance he'd ever feel the same way. right?✦

✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, drinking, no use of y/n, mutual pining, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, drunken and sober love confessions, little plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, sex toys, overstimulation, squriting, bucky's packing, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink), soft!bucky outside of smut✦

✦wc: 13.5k✦

✦Author's Note: i think i got possessed with this one. was barking to myself writing. Enjoy!✦

He’s the kind of beautiful that makes you want to strangle him.

Bucky walks around your apartment like he owns it, laughing all loud and musical, smiling like he fell out of a movie, running a hand through his hair and forcing you to see his sculpted torso and tanned skin. He barely fits in his shirt as it is, there’s no need for him to show off about it.

You’ve pressed yourself right to the corner of you couch, watching him silently. Watching all of them, but mostly Bucky. And his shining eyes and full lips and thick arms. Those things should be classified as weapons, or at least hazards. It’s too easy to imagine him wrapping them around you, pining you to the couch, handling you like a doll but still so gently-

“You’re staring at me again.” He drawls, and you start.

You give him an unimpressed glare, hoping your flush stays hidden in the low light of the room. “Shut up.”

“So nice to me, sweetheart.” He mocks, leaning a little further down. “Bet you dream about me, don’t you. Up all night with that rabbit Nat got you-“

You shove your foot up, slamming it square on his chest. He’d been getting too close. You’d been able to smell his cologne, and it made your head spin like opium. Bucky laughs again, walking away like you’re not even worth the argument. Your heart stings, but you ignore it. It’s an old bruise. You’re usually good at not pressing it, at pretending it doesn’t exist.

But Bucky exists only to torture you. So it never fully heals.

He’d been teasing about the rabbit thing. It had been a gag gift for secret Santa, and after Nat had even gotten you a very nice pair of shoes when you were in private. But Bucky’s clung onto it, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever thought of. You, with a vibrator. You possibly being able to get off, when you’re the uptight little prude. The one who never brings back hookups, never dates, just sits in corners like an ivy, clinging to the shadows and watching everything else live around her.

You’ve never been fun. Never been someone Bucky would’ve chosen to know. He didn’t choose to know you. You knew a girl who worked with another girl, and that girl had a boyfriend who knew a girl who needed a roommate. You needed a roommate. You had good credit—because you’re boring—and the girl interviewing you had taken a liking to you.

Natasha rode a motorcycle. She worked in a job she was allowed to tell you about—something in black ops, that explained all the wigs in her closet—and spoke five languages. She baked calm down, and went to shooting ranges to calm down, and insisted on getting you a gun license so she’d feel more comfortable with all the hidden guns in the house.

“Hidden guns?” You’d asked, feeling your face blanch. She’d just smiled.

“You’ll never find them all. Let’s go, it’ll be easy.”

It had not been easy. But you understood how—to someone like Nat—it might be. She’d never lost patience with you, but she’d still made it look easy. When you’d gotten home and mumbled that you needed to go shower for an hour, she’d just patted your head like you were a bunny and smiled.

She might’ve been your first real friend in a while. Because it’s not that you’re not… personable. You’re just a little mean tongued. And nervous. And boring, and blunt, and you don’t like leaving the house unless someone grabs the scruff of your neck and drags you. You go to work, and you go home, and that’s mostly it. Your closest friends before Natasha had been co-workers. And you’d been really, truly happy with that.

But interesting people have interesting friends.

Natasha had a lot of friends. And they moved in and out of your apartment like they lived there. 

Tony was a tech titan who you used to watch on the news, and now he left crumbs all over your couch. Wanda was a refugee and artist, and Clint worked in that same black ops thing Nat did. Steve had worked in it, but left to start his own non-profit with Sam. They all went far back, to elementary schools and playgrounds and clubs. They had history, but they were kind to you. Treated you like your little bachelor’s degree and normal person job fit in with their grand showmanship and large personalities that had been sucked right off the movie screen.

Most of them treated you like that.

Bucky didn’t.

Before you’d been introduced to him, Nat had described his as basically Steve’s brother, and it had been a striking endorsement. Steve had been kind to you. He brought you to a movie you’d really wanted to see, and never made fun of your stuffed animal collection. No brother of his could be all that bad, certainly not one even Nat described as charming and kind and not bad on the eyes.

Only one of those things was true.

Bucky Barnes is not bad on the eyes. You’d classify as maybe a medicine for the eyes, a miracle for the eyes, a blessing on a weary and tired viewer. He works in security or something, and it shows in his body. Sometimes he lets his hair grow out, and it’s frames his strong jaw and nose perfectly, all while making you want to run your fingers through each lock. You’re sure it would be like petting a very well-kept dog. He cares for it better than you care for yourself.

He’s got those eyes that knocked all the thoughts out of you, the moment you saw him. They’d sparkled and shone with his polite, white smile, and you’d just been swaying there like a lost scarecrow in a tornado. Your brain had been reduced to a fuzzy TV static and loud blaring noise, like you’d lost your own connection. Bucky had flexed his hand, a silent reminder you were supposed to shake it, and you hadn’t been able to get enough control over your body to even smile back.

His hand had been big. Calloused, with thick fingers and a lot of tiny scars. You’d shivered just at the idea of his touch. It might’ve been warm.

Might’ve been.

If Bucky had ever bothered to touch you at all.

By the time you’d dragged control back into your body, Bucky had given up and moved on. His ears had been a little red, in the moments after. You’d opened your mouth to apologize, make any excuse that would get him to offer a hand again.

He’d turned and walked away. Hadn’t looked at you for the rest of the night.

And when he looks at you now, it’s with something sharp behind his gaze. He never looks at anyone else like that. Never teases or mocks them, either. Acting like their mere presence in the room is a plague on his refined, perfect existence. He certainly never suggests they won’t be able to make it up five flights of stairs or asks if they’re sure they want to go out for the night.

You hate stairs. And you don’t want to go out for the night.

There’s only one thing more powerful than your picky little aversions, though.

The petty, blistering feeling at the top of your chest, that refuses to let Bucky win.

“You’re really coming with us?” Bucky calls your name from the kitchen, and you lift your chin, trying to look down your nose at the massive man.

“I was invited.”

“You’re always invited, you never actually get off the damn couch-“

“Barnes.” Nat walks past him, whacking his arm. “Don’t question miracles.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a miracle-“

“Yes it is.” She grabs your arm, hauling you off the couch like you weigh nothing. “I’ve been asking you to do this for years, I’m not letting Bucky frighten you off with his Buckying.”

That makes you giggle, and Bucky frowns. You catch him shooting Steve a look you can’t really read, and Steve just shrugs in return.

“I’m not trying to ruin it.” Bucky says, lofty and bored. “I’m just sayin’ she never comes out with us, and it might be a lot for the little doe to be shoved into the jungle or whatever-“

“You’re a poet.” Natasha says, giving him a flat glare. “Go wait in the car.”

Bucky scowls. “The car-“

“If you act like a dog, you wait in the car.”

“I am not acting like a dog-“

Sam raises his hand. “I caught him humping the furniture this mornin’ when he heard about it-“

“Sam.” Bucky hisses. “Shut the hell up before I knock your teeth out-“

“Steven.” Nat gives him a firm nod, and he sighs.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Bucky and Sam aren’t small men, but Steve grabs them by the collar and drags them out of the room without breaking a sweat. Leaving you and Nat in a suddenly very quiet apartment, a lingering smell of spice and pine still clouding the air.

Another reason you hate Bucky coming over. He’s mean to you, and he’s nice to everyone else, and he questions you then leaves the whole room stained in his presence.

“Ignore Barnes.” Natasha says it like an order, and it probably is.

You smile at her. “I always do.”

You think it comes off airy and convincing. Nat looks at you like she’s trying not to either scoff, or laugh. Before you can insist on anything, she’s grabbing your hand and dragging you into the bathroom. You did promise you’d let her get you ready. When you’d told her you could do makeup and prep yourself, she’d snorted and said maybe, but I’ll do it better.

One of the first lessons you learned was not to argue with Natasha when she’s sure of something. You let her sit you on the counter and sort through your makeup bag, finding everything she deems worthy of being on your face tonight. Your outfit hangs on the door, and you did choose that, but after Nat vetoed three others.

It’s nothing special. A short dress and heels that will blend right in a club. It hadn’t been that different from your other suggestions. But it had gotten a curt nod of approval and smirk from Nat, so it had something. You’re smarter than to question what.

“You should talk to Bucky tonight.” Nat says suddenly, and you blink at her in surprise.

“I- What?”

“Make him apologize. For being an ass to you.”

“That’s- It’s fine-“

“No, it’s not.” Nat gives you a firm look, and you sigh.

“I know, but- I don’t really care, okay? That’s just- It’s Bucky, right?”

You give her a weak smile, and this one doesn’t even convince you.

It is just Bucky. He’s charming and sweet and handsome, and he hates just you. So you hate him in return, just for being so perfect and deciding you’re the only person in the world not worthy of his attention. It would be easier if he really was a bad man. If you didn’t know he volunteered with kids and Steve’s foundation, if he didn’t advocate for his fellow veterans, if he hadn’t made his ma’s chicken soup when you and Nat had both caught something last winter, and taken the time to drop it off in person.

For Nat.

Because you’re just… Not worth it for him. Not worth his time, not worth his smiling, barely worth anything more than glowering stares and taunting words. And you’re not weak. You fight back every day, and keep all of your desires and affection buried deep in the pit of your stomach and swollen like an infection around your heart.

He never has to know that you think about him all the time. That you feel yourself bloom whenever your eyes meet, then wither when his gaze snaps away. Whenever he presses his body over yours just to tease you, the heat of his body makes your breath hitch. You spend long days daydreaming about how good a boyfriend he’d be, if he didn’t hate you. Attentive and caring and giving.

Every night you think about how giving he’d be. Flowers and coffee like he brings Wanda for galleries, or for Nat or Clint when they’ve been working late night shifts. He likes watching TV, you know, because he spends a lot of time sitting next to you on the couch and loudly making comments until you threaten to force-feed him bleach. But if that wasn’t the blunt and unforgiving knife of reality, you could just lay in his arms forever.

He could pick you up and carry you to bed. The same bed that you put that accursed vibrated between your legs, close your eyes, and dream of him railing you into the mattress. Fucking you until you can’t stand, until you can’t speak or thing, until your eyes are rolling back and your mouth can’t even figure out how to close, so he kisses you possessively or gives you some of those thick fingers to suck on-

“You should still talk to him.” Natasha’s words are blunt. If she’s noticed how you’ve been working yourself up, she doesn’t say a single word. “Before he does something stupid.”

You snort. “Bucky always does something dumb-“

“No. He does a lot of dumb things. Close your eyes.” Nat picks up an eyeliner, and you obey. “But there’s a difference between dumb and stupid. Stupid is harder to take back.”

You grunt, and you don’t think anything stupid Bucky does is going to have anything to do with you. But something scratches at your brain, and it’s green and bitter. Your fingers fidget in your lap, and you shouldn’t ask, but-

“Is he bringing someone?” You blurt, and just the idea makes you sick. Bucky with some model-type, holding her hips while she grinds onto him, all the honey he’d pour into her ears and down her throat while you just hugged yourself in the corner of the room. Her sitting on his lap in your apartment, you trying to hide the ugliness of jealousy but never being able to spare her more than a crude sneer. It’s the only reason Nat would possibly want you to talk to him. You and Bucky’s childish game of pulling each other’s hair and biting without teeth and seeing who breaks first, it ruins his picture of the perfect suitor. If you keep it up, you’ll ruin this for him, and he deserves to be happy but the thought of him being happy while you just sink into yourself like quicksand makes you want to die-

“Jesus, no.” Nat laughs. “That’s- Never mind.” She shakes her head, still chuckling about some secret you apparently don’t get to be a part of.

“What?” You try to push. “I’ve heard about his- You know. Promiscuity.”

Nat snorts. “From who?”

“Sam.”

“Sam’s an idiot.” She dismisses plainly, and you frown.

“Tony’s mentioned it too-“

“They’re both idiots.”

“Bucky’s told me, he said he leaves all his girls satisfied-“

“Bucky is the biggest idiot of all of them. Open.”

You listen again, and find Nat smiling at you with a strangely soft affection. Like you’re some wet kitten she rescued off the street.

“Put on your dress.” She says, wiping the corners of your slightly pouting lips. “Talk to Barnes.”

At the very least, you manage to follow one of those orders.

The dress is a little shorter than you thought it would be. It rides up your thighs, forcing you to pull it down with every step. In the car you cross your legs and stare at the floor, grounding yourself in the bass of Nat’s loud music as your heartbeat starts to pick up. You’re going out. You’re going out. Spiting Bucky was not a good enough reason to do this, it’s going to be loud and you can dance but not in front of strangers, and you’re going to be even more boring than usual and you feel like a fraud.

“Nice dress.”

Bucky’s voice is a low behind you, his breath fanning on your neck. You almost scream.

“Christ, calm down.” He’s grinning when you whip around, leaning forward in his seat to whisper. Sam and Steve are next to him, one very pointedly staring out the window, the other looking at something on his phone and humming like he’s already trying to drown out you and Bucky’s fighting.

“You scared me-“

“You saw me get in the car, sweetheart. Not my fault you’re jumpy-“

“I am not jumpy-“

“You are. Like a bunny.” His grin widens, and you scowl.

The shifting streetlamps make him look like an angel. Golden halo rays behind his head, long shadows that make him look even more rugged than usual. His lips look fuller, softer, eyes glimmering like a floodlight through the dark, and-

“Shut up.” You snap, turning back around. You can’t keep looking at him. It’s dangerous.

“I was just saying your dress was nice.” Bucky’s breath tickles your neck. You wrap your arms tight around your stomach.

“You also called me a rabbit.”

“Called you a bunny-“

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s-“ He sighs, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

You flip him off over your shoulder, glaring firmly out the windshield. You can feel him retreat, but the closeness had lit up your nerves, and now they’re buzzing with hope that he’ll return.

Stupid fucking body. Stupid fucking Bucky.

You refuse to look at him when you arrive. You stumble a little bit in your heels—Natsha insisted on six inch, which is far too tall for anyone—and Bucky catches your arm, holding you upright. You brush his hand off like a fly and march on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of some other comment about how you’re like a baby deer.

When you get inside, you can smell it. The stench of sweat and alcohol and something fruity they probably use to cover the first smells. You cling to Natasha, letting her guide you through the crowd to the bar. She orders you two shots because you need them, and you don’t argue. Between Bucky and the club, you do. 

You down them both without flinching, and Sam whistles from behind you.

“Damn, you took those like a champ.”

You shrug, and Sam elbows Bucky.

“You see that, Buck-“

“Yeah. I saw it.”

Bucky’s voice is lower than usual. Almost sullen. You’d examine him, try to figure out what’s wrong with him, but you’re not supposed to be letting yourself care. He’s not your problem tonight. You’re here to indulge in fun.

You’re already not very good at that as is. Bucky’s consuming presence isn’t going to help.

Another drink might.

You’re three shots in when Nat brings you out to the dance floor. The liquor is pulling you lose, the frayed knot that’s always in your chest going slack enough to allow you to dance. You’re smiling and laughing like a normal person, almost completely able to forget to check where Bucky is in the room.

Near the edge of the crowd, drinking and talking to Steve.

A fourth shot might be needed.

You’re smiling like a fool now. The room is tilted a little, all the colors neon, but they blind out your usual worried and the tilt helps your worries slide off your body. You’re able to forget about Bucky until you notice a girl talking to him, and you take a fifth shot. A sixth, when he vanishes for nine and a half minutes, and your brain starts to map everything he might be doing to that girl.

Seven, when the first stranger asks you to dance and you’re not drunk enough to forget about Bucky and say yes.

Eight, when he tries to kiss you and you shove him away, because his lips aren’t pink enough and he’s not broad enough for you to every pretend.

Nat tries to cut you off there. You slip past her, and take a ninth. The room is just a blur now. You can’t fully remember who Nat is, and why you’re trying to avoid her. There’s a man with his hands on your hips, and he’s got dark hair that looks too greasy for you to touch. Another man calls you sweetheart, but he says it a little wrong and it makes you want to cry. None of them have the right eyes, and the ones that are closer don’t have the right smile.

You feel like you’re going to cry, by the time you’ve rejected the eleventh man. Or only fourth. Numbers don’t feel real right now. Most everything doesn’t feel real.

Everything except Bucky.

Because your own name is just a sound in your head that sounds foreign, but Bucky says it and you know to turn around.

It’s less because it’s your name. More because Bucky called you.

You smile, swaying on your feet, and you’re not even sure where you are anymore. It’s somewhere with a lot of people. Loud music. It’s dark, but bright at the same time, and Bucky looks like a walking dream as he moves towards you. Your vision swims, but he’s made of clear lines and a stern expression.

He’s mad at you. Your face falls, lip wobbling, and you take a step back. You don’t want him to be mad at you. Your heart is already beating in your ears, Bucky’s anger or distain might make it burst.

“Where the hell did you go?” He snaps, and you bow your head.

“I- I dunno-“ You hiccup, hugging yourself tight.

“Nat’s been looking for you, Steve barely stopped her from trying to make the building go into lockdown, and I-“ He cuts himself off, running a hand over his face, and you blink the tears away.

You’re looking up at him under your lashes, and he’s still angry. Some distant voice in your head tells you it’s your fault entirely. That he must’ve been about to go home with someone when they lost you, and now he’s pissed he had to pause his night to find you. You sniff, wiping your nose with your arm.

Bucky’s frown deepens. He takes a step forward, and you try to step back but balance feels like an Olympic feat right now.

His arm loops around your waist, pulling you right against his chest. You stare up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks from feelings you can’t even name anymore. They’re hollow and big and full and made of a million little cuts. They burn in your heart and through your blood, but also freeze in your throat and muscles. You can’t move. You don’t want to move.

Bucky’s big hand is splayed on your back, and you don’t want to go anywhere you can’t feel him.

That voice from before reminds you that’s not allowed, so you wiggle a little.

Bucky holds you tighter, and you surrender in a split second. His frown deepens, and you think you’re still crying. Your cheeks are certainly burning, and your throat feels oddly tight.

Gentle fingers brush under your eyes, and you hum softly. Bucky’s nostrils flare, those fingers brushing hair from your face before cupping the back of your head, forcing your gaze onto his.

“Jesus, woman.” He mutters, those beautiful eyes scanning over your slack face. “How much did you have to drink.”

“I dunno.” You breathe. His brow furrows.

“Best guess.”

You shrug, shaking your head, and Bucky sighs. You want to shrink and hide from him, from his obvious annoyance and disappointment. It’s nothing new, but it’s raw like this. You can’t figure out anything, let alone how to pretend like his hatred doesn’t bother you. You try to turn and hide your face, but Bucky just pulls it right back.

“Over five?” He prompts, and his voice is so soft. Like he’s trying to coax the answer out of you.

“I- I don’t know.” You whine slightly, and he sighs.

“Yeah. Alright.” Bucky’s throat bobs, and he looks up. Glances around you, his hands never leaving your body.

You stare up at him in the dark. You’re not supposed to be looking at him, but it’s impossible. He’s magnetic, and beautiful, and you’ve never been this close to him without one of you trying to claw at the other.

But your fingers cling to the fabric of his shirt, and it’s not to draw blood. You just don’t think that if he walks away you’re going to be able to stand up.

Bucky looks back down at you, and his tongue flicks over his lips. His thumb drags slowly over your cheekbone, leaving a little trail of fire in its wake. Your breathing gets shallow, your eyes fluttering. Everything feels like a lot. Like you’re so high in the atmosphere the air is starting to get thin. Bucky’s brow furrows, and he works his jaw like he does when he’s thinking.

You’ve always wanted to reach up and touch the lines that form on his face, when he worries. They’re deep, and still handsome, but they only ever mark that he’s stressed. He shouldn’t be. It’s only you, and you’re nothing to him.

He lets out a heavy breath through his nose, his hand dragging down to cup the back of your neck. You tip your head back, waiting for him to do something. Kiss you. Bite you. Slam you back against the wall and relieve the ache, building up between your thighs. Maybe just smell you and let his lips brush over a sensitive spot on your neck, teasing you like always until you’re crying and begging for him. 

Instead, Bucky just sighs. He pulls you forward, twisting you until you’re in front of him. His arms cage you to his chest, and he’s almost herding you down the hall.

“Where’re we going?” You tip your head back, and find him glowering at everyone around you.

They’re all moving so fast, stumbling in your path then scrambling away under Bucky’s glower. His eyes flick down to yours for a second, and maybe it’s the delusions of grandeur and liquor, but you could swear they soften slightly.

“We’re gettin’ you home.” He mutters, shouldering the door open. “You need to sleep this off.”

You wrinkle your nose as the chill of night air hits you. “But it’s cold-“

“Car will be warm.”

“But we don’t have a car-“

“We’re taking Nat’s.”

You scoff. “Nat would never give you her car-“

“Well, she did.” He grunts, voice dropping under his breath. “You’d never give me your car.”

“I don’t have a car.” You snap, and Bucky chuckles dryly.

“Yeah, I know.” He opens the door, giving you an amused look. “Up and in, baby.”

Your whole world stops for a second. You feel like you’re floating, a ditzy smile crossing your face, and you start to giggle because he called you baby. Bucky called you baby, like you matter to him, and he’s touching you.

Bucky sighs when you don’t move, and bends down. He scoops you up and drops you in the car like you weigh nothing. You’re still giggling when he closes the door and walks around the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. For a second you stop, looking out the club with a frown. The world is still hazy, but you can see the neon sign, and it feels like you’re forgetting things that are very important-

“They’re all goin’ back to our place.” Bucky grunts, and you look over to find him staring at you with one of those stone-faced, unreadable expressions that he only uses around you. “It’s closer, cab will be cheaper.”

You frown. “Why aren’t they riding with us?”

“’Cause we’re going back to yours.”

“Why?”

“’Cause.” Is all Bucky offers. He starts the car before you can ask another question, and puts his arm around your seat to back out of the spot.

Nat has a back cam. He just always does it like this, and you’ve always chalked it up to his big, responsible man thing. Usually when the arm is around you, you glare out the window and pretend you can’t feel how close he is. How his fingers brush your upper arm, or how his smell gets stronger.

Tonight you can’t really remember why you do that. And Bucky does really smell good.

You turn your cheek, pressing it into his bicep. Bucky freezes, the car jerking to a stop, and you can feel his attention. It sparks a tiny fire in your core, and seeps down between your thighs. Your lips graze his skin, and he coughs.

His fingers dip down, brushing near your collarbone. You hum happily, and the car starts moving again.

When you’re out of the parking lot, Bucky doesn’t remove his arm like usual. You’re grateful. If he did, you might have chased it right into his lap.

“You have fun?” Bucky breaks the silence, voice gruff.

You nod, turning to watch him drive. He always does it in a way that’s almost unfairly attractive. He holds the wheel lazily, like he knows it’s under his control. You want him to hold you like that.

Bucky clears his throat. “You, uh- You did good.”

“Good?” You murmur, not fully understanding the praise.

You know it makes you throb, and press your thighs together. Bucky’s eyes flick to the motion, and his throat bobs.

“Yeah.” His grip on the wheel is white knuckled. “Good.”

Silence settles again, and you let yourself stare at him. He’s beautiful. So beautiful it makes you unsure that he’s real. You’d like to trace the line of his jaw, hear his smooth, deep voice again. Hear it say your name, because it’s the only thing that reminds you that you’re real. You can’t remember why you ever deprived yourself of this. Of him, and all his quiet glory. He’s a loud man, but never boastful.

He’s only really boastful to you. When he fixes the shower for Nat or someone brings up his army service, he waves them off and laughs, and you’ve always loved that about him. You love most things about him, even when he’s being insufferable. You sort of love that he’s insufferable, too. You’re not that easy either. And if you wrapped around him, you’re hoping he’d be too chivalrous to cut you off. He could mock you all he wants, you’d just hide your face in his neck and breathe him in. Grounding. Handsome. Impossible to resist.

Your fingers are itching, to touch that sad little furrow. There’s nothing for him to worry about. The world revolves around him.

“Saw you got some numbers.” He grunts suddenly, and you pause.

“Numbers?”

“Phone numbers.”

“Oh.” You reach for you bag, checking that the hard line of your phone is still there. It is. You don’t know what he’s talking about.

“You gonna call any of them?”

“Any of who?”

Bucky gives you an exasperated look, then double takes slightly. His worry lines deepen. It makes you pout, grabbing at your own hands to stop them from reaching for him.

“The guys.” He says slowly, frowning at the road. “That you were talkin’ to.”

Oh. Phone numbers. “No.”

His brows raise. “No?”

You shake your head, and Bucky prompts you with an oddly tight voice.

“Why?”

They’re not you. Even your drunk brain seems to know it’s bad idea to say that. “I didn’t want them.”

“Hm.” Bucky taps his hand on the wheel, shooting you a strange look. “Why?”

You can’t tell him that, but you also can’t think of a good excuse this time. You make a lame, half-hearted sigh, and turn your face back into his arm.

He doesn’t push it. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the drive. His thumb drags little circles on your upper arm, lulling you into a half-sleep only interrupted by the bump of the road. You’re not sure how much longer you’re in the car, and when it stops you can’t really remember what you’re supposed to do now.

Bucky helps. He slides away from you, squeezing your thigh in a silent reassurance before he steps out of the car. Your hand traces over where he’d touched you. Bare skin on skin, hands still light and gentle. He seems to have burned his handprint into you, and it spreads until you’re tingly and weak-kneed.

The door on your side opens, and his voice is low in your ears.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” A strong arm loops around your stomach, pulling you back. “Let’s get you in bed.”

You hum, and let Bucky guide you. You trust him completely, with all your heart and not a single question.

He handles you carefully. Guides you inside, holds you steady in the elevator, takes your keys  from your shaking fingers and opens the door. You’re sent to take a shower, but start to trip over nothing the moment Bucky lets go of you, so he sighs and draws you a bath.

“How am I gonna stand?” You mumble, sitting on the toilet while he runs the water. “Or rinse.”

Bucky grunts. “I’ll help.”

You hum in approval, and start to pull off your dress. Bucky makes a strangled sound, eyes flying up to the ceiling, and you’ve never seen his face so red.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting ready for a bath?” You frown at him, and he groans.

“You- Fuck.” He takes a heavy breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “Just- Keep your underwear on, alright?”

You nod, trying to ignore the heavy sting that he doesn’t want to see you naked. Bucky won’t even fully look at you as he helps you into the tub. He leaves the room while you sit helplessly in the water, barely moving until he returns. You wrap your arms over your chest, suddenly consciously that maybe you’re not pretty enough for him to look at you. You pull your knees to your chest and sniffle, just waiting for him. You don’t even know why he left in the first place. You wanted him here.

Bucky sighs, when he opens the door to find you crying.  

“Christ, I leave you alone for five seconds- Hey, woah-“ He kneels on the bathmat, hand flexing before he reaches out and wipes away your tears. “It’s alright, you’re alright. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re okay-“

You bite down a sob and turn your face, pressing it right into his shoulder. Again, Bucky stiffens. His arms hover for a second, breathing shallow, and you think he’s going to shove you away.

But he doesn’t. After that single, million year heartbeat of a moment, he grabs you. Holds you tight into his body, cradling your head and rocking you back and forth. The water flows under you, pushing up on the lip of the tub. A little bit flows over, splashing his pants.

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“C’mon, baby.” He murmurs, slowly starting to rise. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You nod, wrapping your arms tight around his neck. When he gets you on your feet, he stops for a second. His lips brush near your ear, and an electric rush dart through you. Then, fast but certain, he kisses the side of your head.

It’s so quick you’d think you imagined it, if you couldn’t feel the burn of his lips long after he pulls away. You reach up to brush it, when Bucky deposits you on your bed. You watch him move around the room like he belongs there.

He does.

He’d belong with you, if he wasn’t such a massive butt about your existence.

“It’s your fault, you know.”

Bucky glances up from your dresser, fisting a shirt in his hands. “What?”

“You.” You say, because it’s that simple.

He’s the reason you’re drunk. That you didn’t score tonight, that you’d been crying, that you have to be coddled like a baby.

Not that you mind that last one. It’s wonderful, having him touch and speak to you like he cares.

It’s still all his fault.

“What’s me?” He says, and you roll your eyes at the ceiling.

“All of it.”

Bucky says your name, and you wave him off with a dramatic sigh. You can hear him pad slowly across the room, and when he pulls you up gently you flop over his body. A useless ragdoll he’s trying to get a shirt onto.

But the harder you make it, the longer he’ll stay. The longer he’ll be nice, and touch you, and-

“I love you.”

Bucky stills. Your words hang in the air, but you don’t understand why. You’ve said far worse things to him, and he must have known. You know. You’re pretty sure Nat does too, with all the looks she’s always giving you after Bucky teases you and you flush, or you bicker and he marches away with a scowl.

It’s not some grand confession. You love him like the seasons turn and the sun always rises. It’s a deep, mechanical part of you that can’t be rewired, and you know because you’ve tried. But Bucky’s leans back and stares at you like the sky is falling.

“What?”

His voice is a croak, and you frown at him.

“I love you.” You say it slower this time. Maybe you’d slurred the words, and he hadn’t understood. “It’s your fault, because I love you and you’re just… There.”

He blinks at you slowly, obviously still not understanding. You roll your eyes, and flop back down.

Bucky coughs, grabbing your knee as if to steady himself. He’s sitting down, and it’s not like he’s in love. The world is perfectly under his feet. You’re the one suffering.

“I’m here?”

“All the time.” You whine, and his grip on your knee tightens.

“But you love me.”

“Mhm.”

“So why’s it problem that I’m here-“

“Because you never do anything.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “I do things. I do lots of things-“

“You never touch me.” You prop yourself on your elbows, glaring down at him. “You just- You’re there, and you don’t like me and it- It makes me-“

“Makes you what.” Bucky’s voice is deep, his eyes dark on yours, and you stick your tongue out at him.

“You don’t get to know.”

“I don’t get to know?” He snorts. “No, you can’t just- You can’t say that kinda stuff then-“

“I wish you’d touch me.” You tell the ceiling.

Bucky grunts. “Yeah, I’ve heard. But-“

“Think I could cum just from listening to you talk.” You hum, your voice sounding like a faraway dream.

Your eyes are getting heavy, and Bucky’s gone completely silent. The words start to float out of you, like steam escaping through windows, into the warm, open sky.

“I’d like to touch you, too. Put you in my mouth, or just- ride you.” You sigh. “I want everything. I’d do- Do anything you told me too if you asked. Anything.” You look back up at him, your lip wobbling again. “But you never ask me. Why don’t you ever ask me?”

Bucky’s gaping at you, and he shakes his head, his voice a low croak. “I, uh- You’ve never-“

He swallows, glancing down, and you follow his gaze.

He’s straining through his jeans, shifting uncomfortably. You giggle, flopping back down. Your eyes start to droop, the room fading in and out. Bucky rises over you with a sigh, pulling the blankets up.

“’S nice.” You murmur. “You. Bein’ here.”

You yawn, and Bucky’s laughs. Under his breath, like an inside joke he won’t bring you into.

“Yeah. I know.” His hand grazes over your cheek, and you hum sleepily, eyes closing.

His lips press to your forehead, and it’s like a spell. The world, slowly and easily, starts to slip away.

“Sleep well, baby.” He mutters, and under that command, you do.

He’s not there when you wake up, and you have to be okay with that.

You don’t know how you’re ever going to face him again anyway. There’s a fog hanging over your brain, but it’s not thick enough that you can’t remember last night.

Bucky saw you naked. He was in your room, and put you to bed, and you-

You told him you loved him.

That you wanted him. That you could cum just from him talking to you.

You have to move. You have to change your name and move as far away as possible. Maybe Siberia, or Russia, or Romania, or somewhere he’ll never find you again. Because you told him you loved him, and now he’s gone.

He left a water on your bedside table. Mocking you with the fact that last night was real.

You force yourself to sit up, rubbing your temples, and take the glass. If you’re never going to see Bucky again, and you don’t plan to, there’s no need to spite him with ignoring it.

When you stand up, it takes a few deep breaths to start moving. Nat isn’t home yet, and she probably won’t be for a while. That gives you plenty of time to wallow before you vanish forever. You can spend the morning moping and cursing yourself, then worry about consequences.

You make cereal and put on coffee. Stare at the little bits floating through the milk, and try not to think about Bucky. If he’s thinking about you.

If he is, you don’t want to imagine what. That you’re a whore for throwing yourself at him, a fool for think he’d be open to such a confession—from you of all people—or maybe just the same as he always did. Maybe he’d known the whole time, and he just thinks you were gutsy to say it aloud when he so clearly wants nothing to do with you.

Nothing at all, but taking care of you while you’re drunk. Giving you a bath and putting you to bed, handling you like something precious and kissing the side of your head.

That could have been just more mocking. The same game he’s always played, accusing you of wanting him then laughing. Like he’d already known.  

But playing that game while you’re out of it isn’t Bucky’s style. He likes you biting back, sometimes he dangles comments over your head and grins when you snap at them. So there’d be no reason for him to play when you weren’t even able to a join him. But then there’s no reason for  him to act like that at all.

It’s too early to be thinking this much. You put all your hopeful bets on Bucky having somehow forgotten everything, so you don’t have to move.

The door opens down the hallway, and you glance up. It’s early for Nat to be back.

But it’s not Nat that calls your name through the house.

“Where’d you- Hi.”

Bucky walks into the kitchen, and you stare at each other. He’s wearing his clothing from last night, his hair mussed, two paper coffee cups in his hands. You swallow, and he coughs, glancing around the kitchen.

“I got you coffee.” He mutters a little bitterly, and you follow his gaze to the rumbling coffee machine.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to- It’s here.” He puts it on the counter, and you nod, focusing back on your cereal.

You’re both silent for another long moment. There air is thick, like a swamp at the height of summer. You’re not sure how you remember to speak.

“How’d you know I was up?”

“Your door was open.” He mutters. “Made sure it was closed before I went out.”

“Did you-“

“On the couch. Just, uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, eyes locked onto yours. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone, and- I think we, uh- You said some things. That we should talk about.”

You rip your gaze away as you flush, but if you’d had any hope of pretending you’d been too drunk to retain the night and just hoping he’d leave you be, that ruins it.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. He walks forward, until he’s right at your side. You can feel his presence buzzing through you, and swallow.

“You remember.” His voice is low, and he leans further down before you can protest. “Don’t lie to me. We’ve both been lyin’ way too much.”

You don’t dignify him with an answer. With even a glance.

Bucky leans closer.

“You said you wanted to touch me.” He’s almost growling in your ear. “You said you wanted me in your mouth, that you wanted me to ride you, that you’d do anything I told you-“

“James.” You hiss, twisting to glower at him.

Mistake.

He looks hungry. His eyes are blown out, only inches from yours, his tongue darts over his lips when you look down at them. He’s watching you like a dog that’s finally been told it can have its bone. Your grip on the counter tightens. It’s hard to stay upright.

“Full name.” He hums, the corners of his lips tugging up. “I’m in trouble.”

“You’re being a dick-“

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“I- You-“

“You love it.”

You freeze at that word. The air feels thin now. Your face is burning, and Bucky’s as collected as ever. Like this is all still just a game to him.

“Fuck you.” You spit. It takes everything you have.

Bucky doesn’t even flinches. “Yeah, you want to.”

Your mouth falls open, and he leans in closer.

“You meant it, right? Everything you said?”

Denying seems pointless. You try to anyway, but your lips barely prepare for the word no before Bucky’s giving you a stern look—don’t lie to me—and your voice dies.

He says your name, and it’s the same voice he used last night. Lighter, gentler, man trying to tend instead of force. You weren’t any match for it last night, but that doesn’t seem to be the drink’s fault. You give in just as easily right now.

“Yes.” You breathe.

Bucky’s eyes flash. “All of it?”

“Bucky…”

“Do you want me.” His voice is demanding now, and you try to look away.

He catches your chin, pulling you back. Forcing your gaze onto his, onto those beautiful, enchanting eyes.

You nod, and he hums in approval. The sound settles, molten and warm in your tummy.

“Do you love me?”

His words sound so sincere and taunting at the same time. You can’t look away, so you glare, and he chuckles.

“Come on, baby.” He brushes his lips over yours, his voice becoming something low. Something dangerous.

You don’t even bother to move away this time. You’re breathing in your chest, your stomach filled with too much desire to do much else. The brush of his lips let you taste coffee and mint, and his grip on your chin is commanding. You’re only putty in his hands. A lost cause that doesn’t really want to be found.

“Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”

Bucky’s eyes gleam, and he’s playing again. He knows he has you, that you want to be had.

His hand drags slowly, gently, on your waist. His fingers dip under your shirt, the soft touch making you gasp. You lean forward, and Bucky leans back. He tilts his head slightly, something stern still in his gaze. You blink hopelessly, trying to figure out what, and he squeezes your hips. It’s grounding and electric, and he presses back forward as you go still below him.

“Do you want me to fuck it out of you.” He growls, and your mouth falls open with a whimper.

Permission. He was holding himself on a leash for your permission.

Doubt drains from your head, far down south where a warm, summer storm is brewing between your thighs.

You spread your legs slowly, and grab his hand on your hips. Push it slightly down, until his attention follows.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, and his hand on your chin drops. You watch as he moves so tantalizingly slow, brushing the band of your panties before dragging down the seam at the apex of your thighs. He rubs you over the fabric, and your hips buck into the touch.

“Fuck.” Bucky hooks two of his fingers, tearing your underwear in one rip. “You’re so wet. Soaked through the panties, soaking my fucking fingers.”

You moan, pressing your face into his shoulder. Bucky dips his fingers into your heat, smearing the arousal all over your pussy, and you shake.

“Bucky-“

“You got this,” he spanks your pussy, then drags the mess down your inner thighs. “’Cause I’m here? Or just from thinking about me?”

“B- Both.” You mumble, trying to keep still as the broad pads of his fingers find your clit, rubbing in slow, tantalizing circles.

He hums. “You think about me a lot?”

Pressing hard on the sensitive button. Your knees give out, and you’re only caught by his arm around you’re lower back.

“Careful, baby-“

“All the time.” You whimper the confession, looking up at him with big, teary eyes. “Think about you all the time, Bucky, you’re- You’re so- Oh my god-“

Bucky yanks his hand from your pussy, grabbing your jaw and angling it back for a kiss.

It’s slower than you thought it would be, with how he crashed over you. You’d been expecting rough and harsh, all spit and ownership. Instead there’s a certainly behind it—a rough passion that’s demanding and hot—but it’s slow. Bucky doesn’t use his tongue until you open your mouth, and he hums in satisfaction when you grab at his hair, tugging slightly.

He grabs your ass, hauling you up on the kitchen counter. His hands wander your body lazily, tracing the softness of your hips and curve of your spine. He chuckles when you arch into the touch, deepening the kiss. Stars swim behind your eyes, and you realize you’re still grinding up into his torso.

“Bucky.” You plead, and he presses another tiny kiss to your lips, taking his sweet damn time.

“Off.” He tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms to help him.

He leans back when you’re uncovered, and this time he isn’t trying to cover anything else. He palms one of your breasts, licking his lips before he takes the nipple between his fingers and rolls it. You squeak and his eyes dart up, almost studying how you shiver and blink at him.

“So reactive.” He switches to the other breast, and your fingers dig into the nape of his neck. “Almost came before I even really touched you, sweetheart. If you can’t hold it, you’re gonna be a fuckin’ wreck before I’m even done with you.”

You shake your head, face heating further. “It- It’s been a long time-“

“Yeah, but that’s not it.” He drags his hand down, over your abdomen. Back between your thighs. “You got that little toy keepin’ you satisfied-“

“Not satisfied.” You breathe, head lolling to the side as Bucky resumes his tight circles on your clit. “Not you, Bucky, fuck-“

He groans, dragging you back into a deep kiss. You give him everything you have in return, nipping at his lips and yanking his hair. Bucky groans and picks you fully off the counter, walking you both to your room and kicking the door shut.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy.” He grunts between kisses, his own steps getting a little uneven. “The stuff I wanna do to you, no way we’re covering it in one night. Years to make up for, gotta ration it.”

“Years?” You pull back, and Bucky grins.

“Oh yeah. You’re not the only one who’s not satisfied, babydoll.”

“But-“

“Ah.” He kisses you, lowering you onto the bed. “Nope. Not now.”

You frown up at him. “Bucky, you said we needed to talk-“

“And now I’m sayin’ not now. And if my memory’s right,” he grins down at you. “You’re the one who said she’d do whatever I want.”

You flush, crossing your arms over your chest, and Bucky laughs. He pulls his shirt off, and you almost fall backwards on the sheets like it’s an atomic blow.

There have been glimpses. Moments. You’ve been to the pool with him before, and he’d been shirtless there too.

But he hadn’t been standing over you, massive and radiating power. You hadn’t been close enough to trace your fingers over the scars littering his muscle, remnants from his time in the army. You reach up in a trace, tracing one closer to his pant line, and he flexes under your touch. A low sound rumbles through him, and he catches your wrist with a warning look.

You giggle. “You’re not the only one who’s sensitive.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, his voice dropping impossibly low. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak.”

Your shift in the sheets, more desire building in your already aching pussy. Bucky’s attention darts to the movement, and his throat bobs. Every muscle in his body strains, and you give him a sweet smile.

“Prove it.”

Bucky makes that deep, growling sound again and grabs your face between his hands. He presses over you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and this is the kiss you’d been expecting from before. Rough and starved, almost marking you as much as kissing you. He bullies you down into the mattress with his weight, and you spread your legs wide to accommodate him.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, kneading your thighs as his mouth starts to trail hot kisses down your neck. “Thought about touchin’ you like this forever, about how beautiful you’d be under me. And let me tell you, baby,” he nips under your jaw. “Better than I managed to dream.”

You grind up below him, trying to chase a little more friction. You keep meeting the rough fabric of his jeans, and the drag is beautiful, but it’s still not enough.

“Needy girl.” Bucky drags your legs apart, pressing his hips firmly over your core. The sudden pressure does the trick, and you moan, tipping your head back in brief relief. “Yeah, you like that. Feels so good and I’m not even doin’ anything.”

“Bucky, don’t- Don’t tease-“

“But it’s so fun.” He coos, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You get all nervous, makes me want to stuff you up with cock and see how you squirm-“

You make a loud, wanting sound, trying to fuck your hips up into the air. But Bucky’s heavy. You can only claw at his shoulders, and it just makes him tease more.

His rolls his hips, dragging the bulge in his jeans over your burning core. Your mouth falls open, and he kisses you, sneaking and arm tight around your back.

The forced arch of your back makes your legs open widen, giving him further access. He starts to rut against your bare pussy, and it’s perfect torture. Your arms are tight enough around him to choke, but it doesn’t slow him down. Bucky dry fucks you, your pussy throbbing desperately for release, arousal trickling down your ass and every thrust filling you with a burning pleasure.

You hadn’t been lying. It’s been a long time. But that’s not the only reason why you’re already so close to the edge again. Bucky’s body is everywhere around you, his thick arms holding you tight, his lips wandering over your neck and cheeks, leaving sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. The friction is everything, he’s everything, and you don’t have enough restraint to fight it.

The orgasm is sudden and harsh, shaking your whole body. You claw at his back, twitching and whining in his ear. You didn’t know you could cum that hard, hard enough to make eyes close from the overwhelming sensation, and it’s just from dry humping.

Bucky groans in your ear and pulls back suddenly. His eyes are lidded, expression lustful, and his palm flexes near his bulge like he’s forcing himself not to rub it. Your breathing is uneven, your pussy still aching, and you reach down to try and rub your clit until he collects himself.

He catches your wrist and pins it to the mattress, shaking his head. “You just fuckin’ came, baby.”

“I- I know- I just-“ You try to turn, and Bucky slaps your cheek lightly. Forces your attention back to him.

“You’re a big girl. Use words.”

You want to glare at him, but something about the slightly mocking order makes your pussy throb. Bucky raises his brows, and you barely manage not to drool.

“Want more.” You mumble, and he grins.

“And?”

“And?”

“You what?”

You stare for a second, then roll your eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

Bucky smirks, squeezing his hold on your wrist. “’S alright. We’ll get there.”

You stick out your tongue, and he hums.

“That’s not very nice, baby. Think we need to work on your manners.”

“My manners are fine-“

“You’re a brat.” He teases, and you flush.

“I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. You’re a wet, needy little fuckin’ brat.” Bucky starts to move your hand between your legs, and you pretend to try and pull away.

He sees the challenge, and yanks it down. Presses it against your core, making you shake. Your eyes flutter, and Bucky laughs.

“Look at you.

“You really still got that vibrator?”

You nod, and he pulls your hand up. kisses your knuckles, eyes sparkling. 

“Grab it.”

You scramble up the moment he lets go of you, yanking open your bedside drawer and pulling out the pink rabbit. Bucky grabs your hips before you can roll back over, pulling you backward with your ass in the air. You twist to look at him and find his attention entirely fixed on your core. On the mess between your legs.

He’s almost in a trance, as he drags two fingers through your pussy lips. You flutter, overly sensitive from before, and Bucky shoves his fingers right into your pussy.

You go limp, at the sudden stretch. Bucky’s fingers are everything you’d imagined they’d be, and more. Rough in all the right place, deft and thick, crooking right at the edges as he finds your g-spot faster than even you can sometimes. He hums like he’s figured out something interesting and kisses the curve of your ass. He starts to rub the tips of his fingers, massaging that happy, spongey place inside you, and you moan into the sheets.

“Bu- Bucky-“

“You’re tight.” He mutters, kissing between your ass and pussy, the tiny patch of skin that sends a shiver up your spine. “And wet. Gonna feel real good around my cock, babydoll. Got a perfect pussy for me to fill up.”

You make another desperate sound, and Bucky presses further in.

“Oh, that sounds good to you, doesn’t it. Getting stuffed full of my cum, being my pretty cockslut. I’d make you walk around with it after, wear a skirt so I can fuck you again whenever you run out. Fuck you until it’s stained on your legs, until everyone can fuckin’ smell it. ‘Till they know you’re mine.”

Your pussy clenches at the possessive promise, and Bucky groans.

“You wanna be mine, don’t you sweet girl.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Bucky yanks his fingers out of you unexpectedly, and you almost scream in frustration. You try to twist around again to chew him out, but he grabs the back of your neck and shoves you into the sheets. You go limp, trembling as tears prick at your eyes. Bucky arms snakes around your stomach, his thumb resting under your clit. Never touch it, or where your pussy is fluttering, desperate to be filled.

“Say it.” He grunts, and you shake your head. You’re not that easy.

Bucky doesn’t seem in any rush to give up though. He spanks your pussy, and you cry out in a mix of pain and delight.

“Say it.” He orders, and your hands fist in the sheets as he spanks your pussy again. You grind against him, chasing more, and he pinches your clit hard.

You almost fly out of your skin, a lewd, garbled plea escaping your lips as another orgasms rushes through you. This one is shorter, but no less consuming. You clench around nothing, mouth hanging stupidly open, and Bucky sucks near your throat, his teeth brushing and making the pleasure all the more intense.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He mutters, awe almost coating his voice. “I’m a damn saint, making you cum again when you’re so greedy. When you got this hungry little pussy, begging to be stuffed with cock, and I’m letting you go first.”

“Please,” you try to flip over, but Bucky’s hold on you is too strong. “Bucky, please- Please just fuck me.”

“Oh, I will.” He kisses under your ear, voice silken and taunting. “But not now, babydoll. Then we would’ve brought this out for nothing.”

“What’s-“

A buzzing sound fills the air, and your eyes widen.

“Bucky, wait-“

“You know, you get more sensitive after you cum.” Bucky drawls, dragging the thick tip of the rabbit up and down your pussy. You try to focus on your breathing, squeezing your eyes shut as your body starts to get swept away in a wildfire.

“God, fuck-“

“Quiet.” He grunts. “I’m trying to talk, sweetheart. Be good.”

You nod, biting on your lower lip, desperate to listen well. To be good.”

“Like I was saying.” Bucky drawls, shoving the vibrating dildo up against your clit, then yanking it away. “You get more sensitive. And I was thinking all night about your little confession. That you can cum just from listening to me talk.” Bucky hums, dragging the head down to rest right over your entrance. “I like a challenge, but I’m got enough on my hands with you today. And since I’m so nice.” He pushes the thick length a little inside you, and your pussy clenches around it. “I’m gonna give you some extra hands. Extra sensitive,” he gives your clit a series of tiny hits, shoving the rabbit in deeper. “Some fake fuckin’ cock to get you ready for the real thing, and me.”

Bucky drags you back into his lap, right as he shoves the dildo home. You almost scream as the smaller bit presses over your clit, the thicker part driven right against where Bucky already knew your g-spot was.

“Bucky- Holy shit-“

He pulls your face to the side, silencing you with a deep kiss as you shake. You’ve already cum twice. That’s more than usual, and you’re not sure if you’ve got another.

You don’t get to tell him that, though. You don’t think he’d care to hear it right now, and fuck, do you want to see him try.

“I said quiet.” He growls when he pulls away, and before you know what’s happening he’s shoving the same fingers that had been in your pussy into your mouth.

You melt immediately, sucking on them as your eyes flutter. Bucky groans in your ear, moving his free hand to hold the rabbit inside your gushing, oversensitive pussy.

“Good girl.” He drawls in your ear. “Didn’t even have to ask, you just knew didn’t you. Fuck, you suck my cock half this good I’m not gonna be able to last ten minutes.”

You moan, and Bucky kisses the corner of your jaw before continuing.

“I know you’d like that. What was it you said? That you wanted to touch me? When this is done we can get you on your knees. If you behave.” He nips at your sweaty skin. “I’ll let you suck my dick. I’ll even fuck your face if you ask real nice. I hope you’re nice, baby, cause I can imagine it. You crying, lips around me, fucking your fingers while you choke on my cock. My pretty baby, my sweet fuckin’ doll loving me so much.”

You slump back against him fully, hips rolling uselessly, and it’s more subtle this time. The heat building at the bottom of your tummy, winding tight and made of a strange pressure.

“You’re gonna say it.” He coos in your ear, and your pussy starts to fight against the rabbit. Like it knows you can barely take it.

But you can’t lend it much energy. You like this position well enough.

“After you cum for me again, I’ll fuck you. Fuck you properly like the brat that you are.” Bucky groans, pressing his nose into your hair. “Walking around, making me feel like I’m the asshole for wanting you, for loving you when you’re snapping off at me,you’re a mouthy fuckin’ thing, aren’t you babydoll. Lotta bark but,” he pushes his fingers further into your mouth. “Not even a little bit of bite.”

Your eyes roll back, head pressing into his shoulder, and you give him a silent look of pleading that’s only met with a mocking grin.

“So pretty like this, sweetheart. Stupid and quiet, I ain’t even fucked you yet. Won’t clean you up after you’re done, just let you walk around with it dripping. Maybe I’ll fuck you until it sticks. Until you’re mine.”

Your back arches, and you’re so close. You can feel Bucky’s dick twitch against your ass, and somewhere in the distance your thoughts manage to collect enough to tell you that he removed his bottoms at some point.

“Fuck, ‘course you’re into that. Shouldn’t have expected more from you, with how much you love this. You’re close, baby.” His lips tease the shell of your ear. “So close.”

You whimper, grinding down onto him as the dildo vibrates, and Bucky groans. He pins you down to his lap with a hiss, fingers flexing on your stomach.

“Shit- You can’t just-“

He presses his mouth where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and sucking as his dick throbs against you, and his dirty talk becomes mumbled and deep. 

“My pretty fuckin’ girl, can’t even wait for it, cum for me, babydoll, come on, fuckin’  show me how much your greedy pussy wants my dick-“

The pressure breaks like a flood. Your pussy gushes so hard it pushes out the rabbit, and your head flies back as you grind into the air. Bucky moans, fully moans, and starts to rub your clit back and forth with the palm of his hand. You grab his wrist, spasming and trying to chase it and escape all at once. You whine as it becomes all too much, batting at Bucky’s hand.

He stops, collecting your release on his fingers.

When he presses them against your lips, you open. Hum as he feeds your own juices to you. All you can do is lap at his fingers and look at him under fluttering lashes, and he smiles.

“Good girl.” He coos, and your body seizes up again. You moan around his fingers, and Bucky laughs.

He pulls them out, turning your head for a gentle, deep kiss. You’re boneless and cockdrunk, only able to let him give and give whatever he’s willing. You can’t even try to drag him close.

Bucky rolls you over, making sure your back is pressed into the mattress as he kisses you lazily. He rises up after a few moments, his gaze raking down your body, and you flush. If you had more strength, you’d cover yourself. You’ve never been good at being looked at.

But there’s nothing expect awe and affection in Bucky’s eyes. He traces a hand over your every curve and softer spot, rising slowly on his knees to part your legs.

“You’re a miracle, baby.” He murmurs, pumping his cock in his hands and for once, you feel like one. “Look at what you do to me.”

You do, and you might be about to burst into flames.

Bucky’s thick. Long, but not enough to worry you, and thick. He’s going to drag, be able to get balls deep and make you feel him everywhere.

You’re drooling, and he sees it. He smirks knowingly, and you wrinkle your nose.

“Come on.” He teases. “Say it, and it’s all yours.”

You shake your head, and Bucky hums. Crawls back over your body, notching his cock right at your entrance. His hovers his lips over yours, not quite fully kissing.

“Say it.”

When you find your voice, it’s raspy and broken.

“No.”

“But you know you want to.” He presses the first inch inside, and if you’d had any worries about not being able to take more, they’re knocked away with how good he feels.

You were right. He’s an even bigger stretch than his two fingers, and it perfect. There’s a slight ache, but it’s overwhelmed by the closeness. By how well he fits, how much you need more of this brimming, explosive pleasure already threating to take you over.

“Just say it, pretty girl. Say it for me.”

You shake your head, and Bucky pushes further in, and your hands fly into his hair like they were pulled there.

He groans, rutting into you, and bottoms out. You didn’t know you could feel this good. Be this full. Bucky moans in your ear, and you breath slowly, trying to adjust.

“You feel so good.” He smashes his lips over yours, the kiss demanding and long. “Knew you’d feel this good, always knew you’d feel this good, Christ-“

You roll your hips up, and it makes Bucky jerk. He slams into you, knocking the air from your lungs, and your toes curl in delight.

He barks your name, grabbing your jaw, and you beam at him.

“More.” You breathe, and Bucky’s eyes widen in slight surprise.

He recovers fast.

“Yeah?” He pulls out slowly, then slams back in, his tip kissing your cervix. “You like that? Like being fucked like a toy?”

You moan happily, and Bucky laughs.

“Thought you might surprise me, babydoll, but no.” He taps your cheek, and you open without a thought. “You’re just the pretty cockslut I thought you were.”

He drags all the way out again, but this time pushes in slower. You whine, but he doesn’t even acknowledge you, setting a slow pace that feels good, but is far too much. The roughness made you numb with a good, fuzzy sensation, but this makes you feel it. Bucky’s cock dragging against your gummy walls, the press of him over your g-spot and heat of him, right over your clit.

You can barely take it. You’re already so fucked out from the other orgasms, you’re barely able to hold onto Bucky properly. You think you might be about to black out from pleasure, but no part of you wants him to stop altogether, and how you’re trapped somewhere between paradise and hell.

“Look at you.” He grabs one of your breasts, palming it as he thrusts smooth and deep. “Nobody else does this to you, do they. Makes you feel so good, gets you so stupid on their cock.”

You shake your head, and Bucky taps your mouth again.

“Words.”

“Bucky…”

“Want to hear you, sweet girl.” He kisses your cheek, words pure filth in your ears. “Here you scream for me while I fuck you, hear how much you love it.”

“Can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He slams a little firmer, giving you a pointed look. “Good girls listen. And when they listen,” he repeats the motion, holding your gaze. “They get filled up.”

You whimper, but nod. Bucky smiles in satisfaction, returning to his torturous speed from before.

“Anyone else do this to you?” He grunts, and you shake your head.

“No- No. Never, Bucky, only you-“

He groans, picking up his pace. “That’s fuckin’ right. No one fucks you like this, I’m gonna ruin you. If you wanna cum you’ll have to find me, I’m the only one who plays this perfect fuckin’ pussy- Shit-“ He groans, jaw clenching as he hits a little deeper than before. “Nobody takes care of you like me-“

“No one.” You echo, and you’re rewarded with another rough slam. “No one, Bucky, only- Only wanted you, needed you- Fuck-“ You cry out, pressing your cheek into his jaw. “You and your thick cock, needed you so bad-“

“I know. I know, babydoll, but I’m here now.” He kisses you quickly, speeding up again.

It’s enough to make you start to feel it again. Not slowly building, but being dragged out. The tip of Bucky’s cock drags through you, and that hot feeling in your core starts to fill up again. 

“Wanted to do this for so long.” He groans in your ear, and a loud moan escapes your lips. “You really got no idea, I thought I was gonna lose it every time I saw you, thought you’d never let me- God-“

You clench around him, and Bucky angles your hips up, allowing him to hit deeper. You moan, and he kisses the back of your neck, sucking a dark mark.

“My girl.” He mutters possessive, and you babble an agreement. “My smart, mean fucking baby, drunk on my cock. Prettiest girl in the world, mine-“

You moan, and Bucky cuts himself off with a groan. He kisses you again, then rises over you. Bracing his arms on either side of your head as he looks to where he’s fucking into you. Your gaze follows, and the warmth in your gut flares at the sight.

It’s the most vulgar, pornographic thing you’ve ever seen. Bucky’s thick cock, sliding in and out of you with ease. Precum and your own need for him shining on the thickness of him, his chest flexing with restraint as he forces himself to keep the same pace. You watch his cock vanish into your body, and feel him deep inside you, and God-

You look up, checking if Bucky’s as strangely moved by that as you are, and find him staring at you. The moment your eyes meet, he grabs your jaw, pressing you back down into the pillows with a rough kiss. You’re unable to do anything but take it all. Bucky’s tongue pressing down your throat, his lips moving expertly over yours, his cock fucking every word but his name out of your head.

“Look at me.” He rasps when he pulls away, and you nod.

His eyes are almost wholly black, and shining. Tears prick at yours, but Bucky leans down, kissing them away before going faster again.

His balls start to slap on your ass, his cock pumping in and out of you until it’s all you can think about. Bucky deep inside you, lighting you up, how you can feel a rush up your spine with his every thrust. A lewd, wet sound is filling the room as he pounds into you. Your pussy burns and spasms every time, but it’s too good to fight.

Bucky’s too good to fight. You don’t know why you tried for so long.

“Bucky-“ You breathe, and he grunts.

“You’re close, sweetheart.” He mutters, and you don’t know how he knows, but he’s right.

You’re about to snap again. To lose it from how he’s fucking you like you’re a doll and the love of his life, all at once. You grab his wrist, squeezing tight.

“Pretty girl,” he teases. “Gonna soak this cock like a good girl, aren’t you. Give it to me, baby, show me how much you love it-“

“Love you.” You breathe out, and Bucky freezes.

Balls deep, he stills. His cock throbs in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care. 

You blink at him, praying you didn’t ruin it. Bucky swallows, and rasps out your name.

“What?”

“I- I love you- Oh.”

He jerks into you when you say it, and you almost fly out of your skin.

“Fuck, Bucky- I- I love you-“

It happens again, but you don’t think he’s doing it to mess with you. He can barely seem to control himself, his attention almost feral as his cock jumps inside you.

“I- I love you- Oh my god-“

Bucky dives over you, kissing you like he’s trying to steal the words from your mouth. Like he can taste them.

“Damn right you do.” He grunts, cock dragging inside you as he starts to fuck you, shallow and brutal. “Love you, love you so much, you’re-“

He kisses you, and somewhere through the floating, hazy dreamworld his cock is fucking you into, you think he’s run out of words.

Bucky’s fucking you like an animal, because there’s nothing left for either of you to say. He pulls your hips back up to that angle from before, returning to that pace from before that pulled the confession out of you. You’re in incoherent, babbling mess, tugging at the sheets and watching Bucky above you like he’s God.

“Good girl.” Is all he’s grunting out, but it’s deep and every word of a noise than anything else. “Mine, my good fucking girl, gonna fill you up, you’re-“ He moans, doubling over your body as his thrusts become short and harsh. “You’re perfect-“

From nowhere, you find the strength to reach up and grab Bucky’s face. You pull it down, kissing him with every word you’re too ruined to say, and he moans.

Bucky slams home, muttering your name against your lips like a prayer. You can feel him everywhere. Hot and sticky, pumping deep into your own heat, coating your walls, dripping out and running down your ass. When Bucky starts to move again, slow and lazy, he presses it deeper, spreads it everywhere.

It’s hot on your clit, and Bucky’s still jerking and spraying inside of you. You’ve never been this full, it’s addicting. Your brain is empty, body alight with the feeling, Bucky’s cum so thick and demanding that you could swear you feel it washing through your whole body.

He reaches between your legs to rub your clit.

You get there all on your own.  

Your vision goes white, as you cum. You’re so out of it you feel it the same way you feel a cool breeze. Light and relieving, washing over the heat inside you and pulling a happy sigh from your lips.

Bucky kisses you, and this time it’s only sweet. All his mean words and taunts so easily dissolve as you reach up, running your fingers through his hair. He smiles against your lips, and you smile back.

“Told you I’d do it.” He mutters, and you shove his chest with a weak laugh.

“Shut up.”

He grins, moving up to kiss your brow, then the side of your face. He’s still buried inside you. Neither of you are in a rush to move any time soon.

“You mean it, though.” He pauses, moving back over your body.

There are those worry lines again. You reach up with a tiny smile, and soothe your fingers over them. Bucky hums, leaning into your touch, and you smile.

“Yeah.” You whisper, and his shoulders sag.

“Thank god.” He presses his face between your breasts. “That would’ve been bad.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around your body. He’s slid out a little, but you’re still connected to him, and you never want to move again.

“How long?” He mutters against you, tilting his head to meet your gaze. “Cause mine was when I saw you.”

You flush stupidly—he’s inside you—and mumble, “Me too.”

Bucky frowns. “But you were always- “

“And were you any better?”

He snorts, leaning up to peck your cheek. “Fair shot.”

“I know.” You snip, then, “You- You meant yours, right? I mean- What you said while…”

You trail off, because you didn’t imagine it. I love you and mine, too sincere to just be dirty talk.

Bucky rises back over you, gently guiding your gaze back to his. He smiles when your eyes meet, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“With everything I fuckin’ got.” He mutters, and you smile.

“Good.”

“I know. I mean, I did really well for myself- I’m complimenting you, woman!”

You’d shoved him, and Bucky grabs your wrists, wrestling them down into the mattress. He looks at you with a rough, fond exasperation.

“You’re a gremlin.”

“You like it.” You beam up at him, and he lower back down, kissing you lightly.

“Tough curse.” He mutters. “But I’m enjoying it.”

You roll your eyes at him, and he grins. Beautiful and all yours.

“Can we stay here for a while?” You ask, just because you want to have this, and sit in it. “Please.”

Bucky nods, and you feel your heart shine like it’s been given new batteries. Beating out of your chest and comfortably all at once, as Bucky rolls you both onto your sides, wrapping tight around you.

“We can do whatever you want.” He mutters, rubbing your hips and kissing the marks on your neck.

You relax, because you believe him. About all of it.

And now, you have him with you for all the time in the world.

✦End note: big fan of that horny old man in every universe.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦

[buttybarnes1917]

THIS IS PHENOMENAL

[navybrat817]

Big Spoon, Little Spoon

Pairing: Clark Kent x Female Reader

Summary: Clark is the big spoon to your little spoon, but tonight he asks to be the little spoon.

Word Count: Over 1.1k

Warnings: Established relationship, comfort, slight angst, slight humor, pet names, bit of fluff, healthy communication, Clark Kent (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: A bit of fluff and comfort for FriYAY. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Clark was always the big spoon. It made sense. He was the protector, the one who loved embracing you in his strong arms, providing you with a sense of security. You joked once that it was a way to enforce some sort of gentle authority, which earned you a little love bite on your shoulder. You both knew he was just a big cuddler. 

The truth was you were more than happy to be the little spoon. Curled up with your back against his front, you’d tease him now and then by pushing your hips back against his. Most of the time you were simply content for him to keep you close while you fell asleep. No matter what, teasing or not, you felt safe and cherished in his hold. 

But imagine your surprise when he came home tonight after a lengthy battle, his eyes downcast and hair a mess, the dimples you loved not showing since he didn’t offer you a smile. There was no kiss either. Just your gentle giant of an alien collapsing on the bed without a word, his back to you, the gentle sound of his breathing sounding sad to your ears. 

“Clark?” you asked, placing your hand on his back. He didn’t flinch or stiffen, but his next exhale was shaky. 

“I’m fine,” he barely managed to whisper. 

“Are you?” you whispered back. 

Just because he had no injuries on the surface didn’t mean he wasn’t in pain. Just because he had the powers of a god didn’t mean he didn’t mean he wasn’t human. You believed in your heart that Clark sometimes felt things even more than most people you knew. Whether that was in his biology or his heart, maybe a bit of both, you wanted to pull him out of whatever abyss his mind was plunging into. You refused to let him settle in that.

He sighed, the sound weary and heavy. “Just a tough one,” he answered, looking over his shoulder. There was a hint of tenderness in his blue eyes when he added, “Maybe we can talk about it later?”

You nodded. Something you appreciated about Clark was that he didn’t keep things bottled up inside. If he said he’d talk about it later he would. He was a man of his word. 

“May I ask another question?” You raised an eyebrow when he fought trying to smile. “Do you think I can be the little spoon for a bit tonight?”

Your eyes widened before your heart melted. You were never the big spoon, but there was a first time for everything. He deserved comfort, a sense of peace, whatever he needed to soothe him. The same way he had done for you time and time again.

“You don’t even have to ask,” you replied, positioning yourself directly behind him and wrapping an arm around him. He let you pull him closer, his body as solid as a rock, his heart beating nice and steady under your hand. You thought for a moment that it would feel awkward, but it somehow worked. “So, this is what it’s like to be the big spoon. How am I doing?”

His chest shook, his laughter making you smile. “You’re doing just fine, darling.”

You gasped dramatically. “Just fine? I think I’m doing a pretty awesome job,” you teased, making him laugh more. It was nice to hear him laugh. 

“I’ll give you pretty awesome,” he teased back, resting his hand on top of yours. “Sorry if I smell.”

It was your turn to laugh. “You’re fine,” you promised. He would have to shower eventually, but you weren’t about to push him out of bed when he specifically asked you to be the big spoon. 

A couple of minutes passed in silence and you thought he fell asleep before he asked, “You know why I like being the big spoon?”

“Why?” you asked. 

“Because when I hold you it’s like I have the world in my hands.”

“Oh. I…” You swallowed, emotions bubbling in your throat. “I didn’t know that.”

You knew from the beginning that you were special to Clark. That wasn’t a secret. He was the first to say he loved you, which you reciprocated, but hearing a declaration like that was like another way of saying it. It meant… Well, it meant the world to you. 

“Yeah. I just… I think about how lucky we are. We love each other, and we get to come to each other.”  He took a deep breath. “Not everyone is so lucky.”

You pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, the same spot where he affectionately bit you. You wondered if there was someone he couldn’t save tonight. He did his best to save everyone, and he took it so hard when he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair for him to carry that burden, but he continued to have hope. And hope was all some people had. 

“I’m thankful you came home to me, and that we fell in love,” you said, feeling his heart race faster. You weren’t afraid to love him with your whole heart. “You’re my whole world, too.”

“Yeah?” he asked, looking back at you again. 

“Yeah. Superman. Kal-El. Clark,” you said, lifting your head to kiss his nose. “You’re the big spoon to my little spoon. We just fit.”

He turned over completely to face you, his dimple finally showing when he smiled. “And sometimes you’re the big spoon to my little spoon.”

“Sometimes,” you agreed, cupping his cheek and smiling when he leaned into your touch. “The peanut butter to my jelly.”

“The cheese to my macaroni,” he said without skipping a beat. 

You both laughed, lost in the moment, the happy sound filling the more. Clark helped you appreciate the little things like this, laying tighter and finding reasons to smile. The world looked a little brighter thanks to his optimism. His humanity. 

In a world that could be dark and uncertain some days, the world needed more people like him. 

He pressed a soft kiss to your lips once the laughter died down. “Thank you,” he whispered, your heart skipping a beat when he wrapped his arms tight around you. “Whole world in my hands.”

You put your arms around him, too, your heart full. “And in mine.”

He’d tell you later in the dark about the battle, about the weight on his shoulders that he didn’t mean to carry home with him. You’d kiss him, gently remind him that he was both a hero and a good man. For now, you held each other and thought about how lucky you were. Big spoon, little spoon, a perfect fit. 

Always. 

He deserves everything. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Clark Kent Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[buttybarnes1917]

i love me a cuddly clark kent 😭😭😭

[kinanabinks]

Perv 💋 Bucky x Reader One Shot

content warning: bucky x fem!reader, friends to fuckers, flirting, dirty talk, smut (dub!con, dry humping, daddy!bucky, fingering, handjob)

Masterlist

💋

“I guess it’s on us to pick a movie,” You say once the others leave the motel room, slamming the door shut behind them.

Bucky doesn’t reply. He’s too busy staring at your nipples which are poking through your cotton top, practically drooling at the sight.

“I’m in the mood for horror, but Steve will complain,” You think out loud, laying back on the bed and continuing your verbal thought process while Bucky continues drinking in the view.

Keep reading

[buttybarnes1917]

this was FANTASTIC

[pellucid-constellations]

The Weight of Us

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: You find out Clark is Superman, and he finds out what it feels like to lose you. In more ways than one.

Word count: 4k

Warnings: Angst (but a happy ending!!), injury, canon-typical violence, dual POVs that kinda bop around

a/n: Guys another fandom I know I know 😭 I'm honestly kinda unsure about this but I always feel unsure and silly when I try something new so ignore me <3 but also don't ignore me and please please tell me what you think thank youuuu :)

~~

As wind fluttered past the open window and disrupted the gently parted curtains, Clark Kent felt his world fall apart. An exaggeration to some, maybe, especially considering that he had just saved the world from a 400-foot monster moments before, but you were Clark Kent's world, and you were in his apartment when you shouldn’t be. 

Eyes blown wide, bowl clutched to your chest, Clark watched your expression shift from fear, to shock, to complete and utter betrayal. The faint scent of cinnamon wafted from his kitchen, a smell he’d cling to over the next few days—until it faded, much like your presence in his life. 

The bowl had begun to hurt your hands, the metal creating indents in your skin as you held it tight to protect you from nothing. There was still so much batter left. Did you set the timer for the batch in the oven? 

Clark—Superman—took a step forward. You took a step back. Not on purpose; your body was moving based on feelings, and you were feeling hurt beyond belief. Clark’s face flashed with something raw when you favored the wall at your back over his hands on your body. 

“I can explain,” were his first words to you. He held his palms out facing the floor as if trying to tame your rampaging emotions before they were fully felt. 

Your throat hurt as you spoke. “I don’t think I need an explanation.” 

“You do. Please let me explain. Please, honey.” 

Some of the pain in your throat must have moved its attention to your eyes. Your waterline burned as tears built, and it felt silly to cry, but you had asked him about this. You had thought— 

“Gosh, don’t cry. C’mere, let me just—” 

Hearing your boyfriend’s endearing pleas from such a larger-than-life figure was too much. You shifted the bowl into your arm and held out a finger, silencing him. It would’ve been easier to speak without the knot lodged in your throat.

With a steady inhale and a few more tears building, you shakily said, “You don’t trust me.” 

Clark let out a heavy breath that moved his whole body, posture slacking as if it physically hurt to hear you say those words. “What? No, I do. I-I trust you so much. I love you. I wanted to tell you I just—” 

 “You just didn’t,” you finished for him. “You didn’t. After I asked you, Clark. After—you made me feel crazy, you know that? I thought you were cheating on me and then—” 

“I would never be with anyone else.” 

“I know that. God, I know that.” You finally abandoned the mixing bowl on the nearest counter, palm pressing to your forehead for some sense of relief. “I asked you if something was going on. Do you remember that?” 

The slow tempo of your words made him nervous. Clark flexed his fingers outward, his body urging him to just touch you. “Of course I do. It was two months ago. I missed dinner.” 

“Again. You missed dinner again.” 

Clark nodded hurriedly, desperate to keep you talking. You tracked the movement and attempted not to feel ridiculous talking about a missed dinner with Superman. You looked towards the counter when his cape billowed from the open window. 

“And you told me it was just work. I asked if there was anything, and you said work. You looked at me and you lied, Clark. For probably the hundredth time. We—God, our anniversary is next week. It’s been a year!” 

As your voice became louder, more frantic, Clark felt his chest begin to hurt. This wasn’t going well. This was going terribly, like out of his nightmares where he would tell you, and then you would leave him. Only, he hadn’t given you the opportunity to do that. He’d made you find out like it was an accident—like he never meant for you to ever find out. 

“I know. I know, and I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Things have just been so tense with this—this side of my life, and it would have been dangerous for you. Lexcorp could have—” 

“Don’t,” you interrupted, word thick with tears. “Don’t make this about me, Clark. And don’t talk about things being tense or-or dangerous because I don’t know! You said it yourself—it’s another side of your life. One you decided I shouldn’t be part of. God, do I—do I even know you?” 

Clark lost his breath behind panic. He rushed you without meaning to, holding your face in his hands when you hadn’t permitted him. He was losing you; he could feel it, and nothing could be worse than that. You could be mad at him for this, but this could be his last chance to hold you, and his brain recognized that somehow. 

“You know me,” Clark pressed, eyes searching yours. “You know me better than anyone. I should have told you. I’ll regret that I didn’t do it sooner—that I didn’t let it come from me—for the rest of my life. But you have to know that it had nothing to do with not trusting you. And I’m still me. Still Clark.” 

He could tell you wanted to believe him. You leaned into his touch on instinct, wet eyes staring up at him in such a pretty way, but filled with so much disappointment. Like you wanted this all to be made up. Like he was too good to be true, and you had always figured that. 

Your continued silence was too much. 

“I love you. So much,” Clark emphasized. His face was drawn in so much panic it made you ache. “I never wanted to hurt you. That’s the last thing I wanted.” 

“I know, Clark,” you whispered. The words did not comfort him—not the way you said them with such finality. “I’m not—I’m not mad at you, I don’t think. I know you wouldn’t try to hurt me.” 

Clark was so eager to cement that. “I wouldn’t.” 

“But I’m still—” you paused, pressing your lips together as Clark’s thumbs brushed against your cheeks over and over. “I think I might need some time to… get my thoughts together.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Clark nodded vigorously, brows drawn together in earnest. He pulled back and rubbed his palms down his thighs, and you were reminded again—looking at him fully—that your timid, adoring boyfriend was Superman. “I’ll leave. I can—” 

“Clark, this is your apartment. I’ll leave.” 

“But you’ll come back, right?”

Your deep breath had fear pulsing through him.

“Right?” he tried again. 

“I need time.” 

Several emotions splayed across his face. His brows raised and then lowered. His mouth opened as if to argue. He tried to smile to make it all seem okay, because it had to be okay. Clark loved you, more than anything, and he was trying to protect you. He thought he was doing the right thing. 

“Okay, yeah. Let me just walk you—” 

“Time alone. For a little while.” 

And then you told him goodbye and his apartment still smelled like cinnamon, even with you gone. 

~~

Clark had tried to reach out on the first day, and then the second, and then the third. You weren’t ignoring him, but every response you sent was dry and devoid of the warmth he loved. 

He was going crazy. 

Actually, he was exhausted and sad and everyone could tell. And he was going crazy. 

His articles weren’t making sense. Perry looked at him exasperatedly as he slapped papers back on his desk for the third time. He was dropping everything he picked up, the coffee stains on the carpet by his desk a testament to his fumbling hands. And he cried at work yesterday—a complete accident when he thought no one was around. He had stayed far past closing, staring blankly at his computer, and it was just one tear, but he was pretty sure the custodian saw him. The older man shot him worried looks as he ambled out of the elevator this morning. 

Jimmy had tried to cheer him up, and Lois had used her stern tone to pull him from his slump, but none of it worked. He screwed up. And what did “some time” even mean? Did that mean forever? Clark had had girlfriends in the past, but the breakups didn’t feel like this. Were you breaking up with him? 

Clark felt his stomach turn as he leaned back at his desk. 

He wanted to marry you. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. There was no other future for him, and he might’ve caused that future to blow up. 

“Hey,” Lois called from across the bullpen. “You gonna be okay? Seriously, Clark, you look like you’re about to throw up.” 

Clark’s brows jumped in recognition. He lifted his glasses to wipe his hand down his face and let out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” 

Jimmy snorted, tearing his eyes from his screen. “Sure about that, buddy?” 

“Honestly?” Clark posed, because why not? It wasn’t as if things could get any worse. 

“‘S why we’re asking,” Lois chimed in, resting her hip against her desk. “Is it about y/n? I haven’t wanted to bring it up, but—” 

“But it totally is, isn’t it?” Jimmy asked. 

Clark stared at his dull, lifeless phone. “Yeah. Pretty sure it’s over.” 

“What?” Lois’s shrill voice called. “Actually what? That’s ridiculous.” 

“Yeah, no offense, Clark. But the two of you are kind of gross. Like all the time. There’s no way it’s over so easily. Relationships like yours don’t work like that.” 

Clark knocked his head to the side as Jimmy spoke, a spark of hope igniting. He didn’t let it flourish, however. They didn’t know what he’d done. They couldn’t. 

Clark shook his head slightly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I screwed up. Badly. I don’t—I don’t really know where to go from here.” 

This conversation was not appropriate for the workplace. Employees of the Daily Planet walked past none the wiser, and the usual commotion persisted, but he still shouldn’t be talking about this. Talking about you. He didn’t even want to share in the first place, afraid speaking would make his memory of you less vivid somehow, but they kept asking, and, to be honest, he needed advice.

“Well, what’d you do?” Lois asked

“I—Well, I kept something from her.” 

“Something big?” Jimmy asked, brow arched. 

“Obviously something big,” Lois rolled her eyes, softening as she turned back to Clark. “But it couldn’t be that bad. Nothing a bit of groveling couldn’t fix. What’ve you done so far?” 

“Uh, texted her?” 

Jimmy let out a low whistle. “Wow, dude.” 

“What?” Clark panicked, sitting up straighter. “What should I have done?” 

“Flowers, at the least. A handwritten letter to be cheesy. Maybe stand outside of her apartment with a boombox over your head to show off your big, strong arms.” 

Lois smacked Jimmy’s arm. “Stop being an ass. But he’s right. Partially. You have to show her you’re sorry.”

“But she said she needed time alone.” 

“She can still be alone with you trying. Let her reject you. Let her be angry and show her you aren’t going anywhere.” 

The spark of hope from earlier returned. Clark considered his friend’s words for a beat, and then he kicked up from his chair with a renewed energy buzzing under his skin. He was going to go to that floral shop you always stared at longingly and then—

Far off screams stopped him in his tracks. They were distant, probably a few miles from him, but they were clear. The telltale sounds of crashing buildings came next, and Clark knew that his efforts to win you back would have to wait. Disappointment tinged his resolve; he’d been looking forward to catching a glimpse of you. 

“Getting right to it?” Jimmy called as Clark continued his path out of the Daily Planet. “I’ll cover for you!” 

“Thanks!” Clark called over his shoulder. He wasn’t really lying. He was going to continue his plan right after he took care of whatever was ravaging Metropolis. 

Something immediately felt… off about the air. He was flying fine, felt fully in control of his powers, but something wasn’t right. Clark spotted the scaled beast ducking between skyscrapers in the distance and knew it wouldn’t be too hard to take it down, especially with help from the Justice Gang currently slowing it down. 

But still, he couldn’t shake this feeling. 

Clark joined the efforts and fought as he always did, taking even more care to save the city’s infrastructure than was typical. This was your neighborhood, and you would probably be even more mad at him if your favorite coffee shop was turned to rubble. Luckily, Clark had maneuvered the alien off the path towards your apartment. 

Unluckily, you had decided to take a walk across town, trying to clear your head after shutting yourself in your apartment for the past few days. According to several of your worried friends, the fresh air was supposed to be good for you, but you were sure they hadn’t accounted for the massive extraterrestrial clobbering through the streets. Or the falling debris. 

You were only a couple of blocks into the walk when the fight began. 

As if on instinct, you had looked for Clark. 

You always looked for Clark when you were scared. And anxious. And sad and happy and everything in between. 

In all honesty, you knew being upset at Clark wouldn’t last long. You wanted to stop as soon as you’d started, but the sense of betrayal and mistrust was still raw, and it overpowered the feeling of missing him. At least, it had for the first couple of days. This morning, you had rolled over in bed and reached for him, and you realized that missing him was rising above the hurt. 

But he should have told you. He shouldn’t have lied. You knew his explanation was probably air-tight with his stupid Clark logic, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. You could have been there for him—that was the point of relationships, and he hadn’t let you in. 

As you stared up at the sky and searched for him now, you considered that maybe this was part of his reasoning. You were worried for your safety, yes, but the thought of him going after that monster made you antsy. Nervous. So much so that you didn’t move. You didn’t run like the others on the street. You simply stood on the sidewalk, shoulders crashing into you, and stared up at the sky. 

Looking for him. 

You decided staying home would have been better for your mental health when the pain in your leg shot you out of your stupor. The billboard wasn’t a massive one. It was a rinky thing, haphazardly thrown on the window of a building and probably only cost about $200 to advertise, but it still pressed you against the concrete as if it had a spot in Times Square. 

In your shock, you grabbed for it and attempted to shove it off, but it was too heavy. Your leg was throbbing where it was pinned, but you were sure the adrenaline was masking much of that pain. Fear was prevalent and available, though. You felt it stronger than anything else as the ground shook under the monster’s steps.

You screamed for the only thing that made sense. 

Over and over. 

When Clark heard the shout of his name, the world seemed to pause. It wasn’t a cry for Superman. It wasn’t a cry for help. It was you—fear scratching each letter of his name. 

Clark abandoned his efforts with the Justice Gang, no longer caring for buildings and subway lines as his name ricocheted through the weight on his shoulders. He flew faster than he ever had, and you still felt too far. When he had hoped to hear your voice again, the reality of a moment like this had never even entered his mind.

He found you on an otherwise empty street, narrowing his shoulders as he plummeted to the earth. The creature was still roaring in the distance, the sound of attacks following each screech, but that barely registered to him. The ground shook as he landed and had little time to recover as he threw the metal from your body, the material crashing harshly through a window in the distance. 

His mind was in overdrive. Find the threat—neutralize it. 

Clark looked over his shoulder and then spun when rubble crashed a block away. He felt his eyes begin to heat on instinct, needing to protect you even though you were mad at him and hadn’t spoken to him in days. Even if you hated him and wanted him to leave. The cry of his name was on repeat in his mind, and he knew it would live there for years. What was the point of keeping this secret from you when you had to scream like that? How could he— 

“Clark?” your breathy voice called, still so unsure and scared.

Clark’s defense began to shatter, the armor of Superman cracking as he turned towards your voice and saw you on the ground. Dust coated your face and layered through your hair. Small cuts dotted your skin. Your hand was placed precariously on your leg, and the sight of that alone made Clark drop to his knees. 

His eyes raced over every inch of your body, searching for anything internal and finding a broken leg. He raised his hand to do something and came up blank, leaving it hovering by the apple of your cheek. You stared back at him, brows furrowed, jaw quivering from the anxiety and adrenaline.

Clark broke a little more because he wasn’t sure what to do—he knew what Superman would do, but he wasn’t just Superman. Not with you. 

“Clark,” you said again, whispering it into the settling dust.

He gave in. Clark placed his shaking hand on your shoulder and poured as much reassurance as he could into a small smile. 

“We’re going to get you help, okay?” he promised. “To a hospital. You’re going to be okay.” 

Superman—he still sounded like Superman. 

You blinked, and your chest shuddered. “I’m sorry,” you cried, halting Clark’s motion to pick you up. “I’m sorry for being so upset—for not talking to you. I-I was just scared and sad and I thought you weren’t fully in. I thought you didn’t want me to know everything because you weren’t serious about us.” 

Clark shook his head as you spoke, feeling more of Superman chip away as tears fell from your eyes. He softened and found himself somewhere in the middle, still in hyperdrive to protect you, but falling into the need to comfort you. 

“Don’t apologize,” he softly called into the short space between you. “Let me take you to the hospital and we can talk—” 

“I didn’t know if I’d get the chance to tell you. You—you do these dangerous things every day and I didn’t know. I didn’t know that you could die, Clark. I ignored you for days and you could’ve—” 

“Hey, hey—look at me, yeah? Deep breaths, honey.” Superman was gone, his suit the only remnants of the persona. “Nobody’s dying. I’m not going anywhere unless you send me away.” 

Blasts could be heard in the distance, a final, roaring cry spelling the end of the alien. Clark felt the vibration of it crashing to the earth under his knee, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was you and the softness of your skin as he rubbed the dust from your cheek. 

“You hear me?” Clark asked, searching each corner of your face, tracking each tear as it trailed down. 

You nodded, and he rubbed both palms along your temples to push your hair back, the motion just a touch uncoordinated and reminding you so much of your Clark. It was a stark contrast to the last time you saw him like this—when he was pristine, blowing in the wind. 

This was still Clark. And he kept glancing down at your leg like it was going to fall off your body. 

“It doesn’t hurt that much,” you mumbled, causing Clark to flick his gaze back to your eyes. 

“It’s broken, sweetheart. I can see it clear as day.” 

“Oh, right. You can do that.” 

“Will you be okay if I pick you up?” 

“Think so,” you sniffed. You looped your arm over his shoulders and shoved your face into his neck immediately, feeling the tinge of pain blossom in your leg as he rose. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he rambled, trying to be gentle and struggling over the debris on the street. “I’m going to go up now, okay?” 

“Up?” 

“Flying.” 

“Right. You do that, too.” 

You gripped him tighter when the pressure of gravity began to feel different, face still glued to his neck. Air flowed along your skin as he went, his hands steady under your body. It felt familiar. This felt like Clark, too. 

The brush of wind was the only sound between you. 

“I thought I lost you. Twice.” 

You pulled your head up to find Clark’s voice, the shakiness clear even beneath the wind. His eyes were glossed over as he looked down at you. 

“The second time, when I heard you scream, I thought that none of this even mattered. Superman, my duty—none of it. If you were gone, I don’t—” 

“Clark…” you began. 

Clark shook his head, face shining with tears, even with the small smile that met his sad features. “I should’ve told you sooner. I thought I was protecting you. I couldn’t even do that.” 

“That’s not true. You were protecting me. You always do.” 

“I thought you were gone.” Your chest split open at the crack in his voice. 

Still in the air, still being held by Superman, you reached up and held your Clark’s face in your hands. “If you don’t get to go anywhere, then I don’t get to either, got that? No dying for either of us.” 

The bittersweet smile was still plastered on his face as he nodded and furrowed his brows. He was hovering now, stagnant above the clouds as if that would keep you safer. Clark brought his forehead to meet yours and scrunched his eyes shut. 

“I love you,” he said, like a fact. He nodded against you slightly as if to confirm it.  

“I love you, Clark.” 

Clark let out a breath and found you again, dimple peeking out as he kissed your temple and began the descent back down.

“I have a lot of making up to do.” 

You clutched his neck tighter, the force of the flight igniting fear back into your chest. “What does that mean?” you called, the Metropolis General Hospital finally coming into view. Crowds had stopped on the street to watch Superman save a damsel in distress, completely unaware that he had tears still drying on his face. 

Because he was your Clark, and not just Superman. 

“Tell you later. Lots of flowers involved.” 

[bckyslover-deactivated20251213]

sweet girl--b.b

touching you--b.b

look at me--b.b

keeping up--b.b

no sharing--b.b

pornstar!bucky--b.b

shy little tease--b.b

itty bitty sundress--b.b

damn you ovulation--b.b

needy baby--b.b

sweet love--b.b

beefy!bucky--b.b

dad!bucky--b.b

so revealing--b.b

baby in you--b.b (pt2)

precious sugar--b.b

neighbor!bucky x married!reader--b.b

sub!bucky--b.b

praises--b.b

bucky text--b.b pt four

tied up--b.b

dbf!bucky--b.b

dbf!bucky teasing--b.b

roomie!bucky--b.b

public sex--b.b

lumberjack!bucky--b.b

scary privileges--b.b

beefy!bucky from behind--b.b

pervy!bucky--b.b , part two

stucky! x reader--b.b & s.r

alpha!bucky--b.b

beefy!bucky riding--b.b

super serum--b.b

jealousy--b.b

taunting me baby?--b.b

baby, I appreciate you--b.b

older help--b.b

it tickles--b.b

[kinanabinks]

bad reputation

18+

you're not the most innocent girl on campus, and everyone knows it - and when you overhear bucky's friends talking shit, you can't help but wonder if you deserve to be with him.

warning: frat!bucky x f!reader, mature themes, slut shaming, insecure!reader, angst, physical violence, protective!bucky, hurt/comfort, fluff.

a/n: this isn't the super long tower fic i've promised you or even the fwb!bucky i mentioned but instead a secret third thing.

this is dedicated to shawn mendes. i don't care much for you or your music, shawn, but my friend dragged me to your concert and. you brought niall fucking horan out and i genuinely couldn't stop crying so. thanks for that experience and this is named after and slightly inspired by your song bad reputation

The beat is so loud you feel it in your chest, banging and throbbing and making your whole body shake. You've been drinking, but not too much - you still want to be able to go home with Bucky later on.

Just as you think about him, you see him, standing on the other side of the room. Steve's saying something to him but he doesn't seem to be listening, just staring as you dance with your friends. This is new for you. He isn't just looking at you with lust. It's deeper than that.

"He's so in love with you!" Jane yells over the music as she grins at you. "Can you guys get married, already?"

You snort at her suggestion, not allowing your subconscious to take her seriously for even a second. You're not exactly the type to be in a real relationship, but after a few weeks of sleeping together, you and Bucky realized you wanted more. He's not your boyfriend, by any means, but you're seeing each other, and for the first time in your life, you can imagine falling in love.

"I literally don't recognize you," Belle adds with disbelief. "Like, who are you? Since when are you a lover girl, hello?"

"Chill out, you guys," You say with an eye-roll. "You've both dated plenty of people; you don't see me overreacting about it."

"Yeah, 'cause you never date, like, ever!" Belle replies. "I was beginning to think you were incapable of feelings."

"Ouch!" You yell, just as Bucky and Steve make their way over to you. While Steve shmoozes Belle and Jane, you grin up at Bucky who wraps his arm around your shoulder.

"Having fun?" He asks, bringing his lips to your ear.

"Tons," You reply. "You?"

"Always fun watching you," He says with a smirk. "Let me know when you're ready to go."

"Not yet," You say, pulling his shirt. "I've still got some dance left in me."

"No rush, baby," He mumbles, moving his hand down to your waist which he rubs. "I'm gonna go outside for a smoke."

"Might join you in a bit," You tell him.

With that, Bucky leans down and kisses you, holding your body against his.

If it wasn't so enjoyable kissing him, you'd pull away as soon as Belle and Jane started screaming, but instead you stick your tongue down his throat while they cheer you on.

He pulls away with a smug grin while you just roll your eyes. "Love the enthusiasm, guys," He says to Belle and Jane before giving your ass a squeeze and making his way to the kitchen with Steve.

Before the girls can gush, you give them a glare. "I don't wanna hear it," You say sternly.

It looks like it physically pains them not to scream about how cute you and Bucky are together, but they manage to hold it in. The three of you continue dancing and drinking, until it gets to that point of the night where you'd appreciate nothing more than your warm bed.

You tell the girls you're planning to find Bucky and leave before you wander through the house, assuming he's come back inside by now. It isn't as big as the frat house Bucky lives in, but it's still just as confusing to navigate when you're half drunk and the only source of light are strings of tiny LED bulbs on the ceilings.

When you spot Jared, one of Bucky's frat brothers, head into a side room, you make your way over, thinking Bucky is likely in there with his friends. Just as you're about to walk in, though, you hear your name being said, and you can't help but eavesdrop.

"Y/N, though? Seriously?" One of them says, and it sounds like Devon. Though their voices are slightly muffled, you can still tell who's talking.

"I don't know, man, he seems to really like her," Jack chimes in.

They're talking about you and Bucky.

"That's fucking crazy," Jared says while laughing heartily. "I mean, this is Y/N we're talking about here."

"Since when does Bucky go for girls like that, though?" Hunter asks incredulously. "Like, out of fucking nowhere, too."

"I thought he just fucked her that first time to see what all the hype was about," Mason says with a snort.

"Yeah, then the idiot fell in love," Devon replies.

"How the fuck do you catch feelings for someone who's fucked all your friends?"

You feel sick to your stomach.

The boys burst into laughter, and you could swear you even hear some high-fives.

"Nah, Bucky's fucked it," Jack says between laughs. "He's giving a whore the girlfriend treatment. He's lost his damn mind. The bitch is ran-through."

"Man, I'm sure I've still got videos from when I fucked her."

With that, you spin on your heel and speed away, your heart pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest. And you're not sure you'd mind if it did.

In desperate need of a drink, you make your way to the kitchen. When you get there, though, all you can do is stand at the island, numb. There are a few people taking up space, including Steve who's standing by the back door, talking to a girl.

"Woah, are you high?" Brock asks you with a smug look on his face. "You look fucked."

"Go away," You can just about find the energy to whisper.

"Aw, don't be like that," He whines, snaking his arm around your waist. "C'mon, you used to be fun, before Barnes locked you down. Wanna go find somewhere quiet?"

"No, thank you," You grumble through gritted teeth before pulling out of his grip and storming out the back door, past Steve who looks concerned when he sees the look on your face, and then confused when he sees Brock hot on your trail.

The fresh air feels soothing on your face as you step out into the yard, finding a quiet spot by the fence that's untouched by anyone's vape smoke.

"Y/N, come on," Brock calls out as he strides over, holding out his arms. "You can't seriously be avoiding me because of Barnes."

"It's not because of him; it's because I don't want anything to do with you," You reply curtly.

He sighs, resting a hand on the fence and lowering his voice. "I'm sorry, okay? Can you blame me for wanting you?" He asks, softening his voice. "You were the best fuck I ever had. Just gimme one more."

Meanwhile, Steve's also ventured out into the garden, and he makes his way to Bucky who hasn't yet seen you. Steve nudges his side before nodding towards you. "Hey," He begins. "What's going on over there?"

Bucky frowns, looking around the garden before his eyes land on you. And, more importantly, on Brock, who's getting a little close for comfort. You look obviously agitated, so Bucky hands Steve his beer before walking over.

"No means no, Brock," You spit. "I'm not in the fucking mood for your bullshit tonight."

"Since when were you such a fucking tease?" He asks with a frown, all the softness gone from his voice. "The good girl act doesn't suit you, babe, especially not in that tiny skirt. How about I take you to my car and you suck my cock, for old time's sake?" With that, he grabs your arm and pulls you closer, and before you get the chance to kick him in the balls, Bucky appears, and he's instantly grabbing Brock and punching him square in the jaw. In shock, you stand back as Bucky throws Brock to the ground and pummels him mercilessly.

Steve runs over and grabs Bucky's shoulders, pulling him off of Brock. "Alright, alright, I think that's enough," Steve says sternly, while Brock lays whimpering on the ground with a bloody face and what looks to be a broken nose.

"Fuck," You whisper, running your hands through your hair.

Though Bucky still doesn't look satisfied, one look at you makes his eyes soften, and he quickly makes his way to you. "C'mon, let's go," He says, taking your hand and walking you over to his car which is parked across the street.

Once you're both in the car, you sit in a short silence. The words his friends said race through your mind on repeat. Embarrassment and shame is all you can feel.

"Are you okay?" Bucky finally asks, breaking the silence.

You nod. "Thank you for doing that," You utter.

"Are you kidding? I've been waiting years for an excuse to beat that asshole up," He tells you, turning to you with a small grin.

Unable to find it in you to return his smile, you look down. "You shouldn't have had to do that. I'm sorry," You mumble, pulling on the hem of your skirt.

"The fuck do you have to be sorry for?" He asks with a frown.

You shake your head, still unable to make eye contact with him. Your voice is low, unenergised, defeated. "I... I'm not exactly a blank canvas, Buck. I'm not some innocent, pure, untouched thing. The past doesn't just cancel out now that I'm with you, it... it'll always be a part of me," You say, fiddling with the leather on the gear stick.

"Hey, now," Bucky begins, placing his hand on top of yours. "I already know full well you're the only person whose body count could rival mine."

You snort, looking up at him.

"I'm not pure or innocent either, so why would I ever expect or demand you to be?" He asks you, his brows furrowing. "I like you a lot, Y/N. I couldn't give a fuck about your past."

You wince, feeling your eyes start to sting. "I- I've slept with your friends," You remind him.

"And? I'm pretty sure I fooled around with Belle in freshman year," He retorts with a shrug.

"It's not the same," You claim, shaking your head.

"Why isn't it?" He challenges you, squeezing your hand.

The tears gathering in your eyes finally spill over.

Bucky cups your face, concern in his eyes as he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs. "What's wrong, baby? Where's this coming from, hmm? We both know we've been around in the past."

With a sniffle, you look away from his eyes. "I... I overheard your friends talking," You tell him, feeling your stomach flip.

"Saying what?" Bucky asks lowly, his face falling.

"Uh, I was looking for you just now," You begin. "I heard them talking about me, and I got curious so I listened. They were... saying I'm not your usual type, questioning why you're with me when you know what I'm like, and..." You trail off, not sure if you can repeat the rest.

"And?" Bucky presses, one of his hands moving to the back of your neck which he gently holds.

Deciding it's best to keep the gory details to yourself, you shake your head. "Nothing," You mumble, hoping he'll drop it but knowing better than to expect he will.

"Tell me," Bucky insists lowly.

"I don't wanna say it," You whisper. "Don't want you to hear it."

"Whatever it is, I promise you it will have no impact on my feelings for you," He tells you firmly. "Tell me exactly what they said."

So, you do. Wincing and cringing, you tell him the exact words they used, unable to look at his face to see his reaction.

You stare out the windscreen, at the dark sky, letting Bucky process what you've told him in silence. You feel awful. What if he agrees with them? What if he realizes they're right and he doesn't want anything to do with you?

His right hand is still around the back of your neck, the other is clenched into a fist on his thigh. After a gut-wrenching minute, he finally speaks.

"Was Steve in that room?" He asks, his voice gravelly.

"No," You answer quickly. "Steve- I saw him straight after in the kitchen."

Bucky nods. Then he opens the door and leaves the car.

You race to jump out the car and rush around it, following him back towards the house. "Bucky, stop!" You call out desperately. The last thing you want is for him to get into another fight.

He continues walking, ignoring you.

"Come back, Bucky!" You yell, getting the attention of a few people in the backyard. "If you respect me at all, you will stop, right now."

That finally gets him to stand still. He turns to you while you catch up to him, pure rage on his face.

"Please don't say anything to them," You beseech him, feeling nauseous again.

His eyes are dark. "I don't plan on saying much," He utters.

"Bucky, please, you've been in enough fights for one night," You say, feeling your eyes sting for the second time tonight. "Please."

He says nothing, hands still in fists at his side.

You take in a shaky breath, your voice no louder than a whimper. "I just... I just wanna go home. I don't wanna be here anymore," You manage to get out before the tears begin to stream.

Bucky lets out a sigh, his features softening as he takes a few steps closer to you and wipes your wet cheeks. "Okay. Okay, baby, let's go home," He says gently, and you know it's taking all his will-power not to storm into the house.

In relief, you nod. "Thank you," You whisper, taking his hand in yours.

He swallows, before glancing back. "Let me just go get my phone from Steve," He says casually, but you're not buying it.

You give him a flat look.

"Seriously, he has my phone," Bucky insists, and you know he isn't lying about that. "Look, he's only in the kitchen. I'll be in and out in fifteen seconds."

Taking in a deep breath, you release his hand. "If you see any of them, please don't say or do anything," You say sternly.

"Okay," He replies, taking your hand back and kissing it.

"Promise?" You question with a raised brow.

He lets out a soft laugh. "I promise. Now, get back in the car, and I'll be back before you can even put your seatbelt on," Bucky claims, giving your hand one last kiss before turning to the house.

Six minutes pass before he re-enters the car.

He sits down and starts the car without a word. His knuckles are even more bruised than before.

You turn to face him with an expectant look. He doesn't look at you. You release a sigh, and place your hand on top of his on the gear stick. "Take me home, Bucky," You mumble.

Leaning across to you, he gently kisses your lips, before doing exactly that.

bucky masterlist

i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications for updates.

buy me a kofi <3

main masterlist

[danysdaughter]

ᴛʜᴇ sʜɪᴘ ᴏғ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

pairing | titanic!au!bucky x fem!reader

summary | on the most luxurious ship in the world, you find yourself torn between duty, desire, and the boy from third class who could ruin everything.

tags | Titanic!AU, star-crossed lovers, class differences, forbidden romance, lowkey cheating, slow burn to not-so-slow burn, angst & yearning, EVENTUAL SMUT, third class!bucky x first class!reader, canon-typical titanic tragedy, angst & longing, bratty!reader x lovesick!bucky, classism, reader is valentina’s daughter, period-typical sexism

a/n | this was literally supposed to be a oneshot 🧍‍♂️

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my “The Ship of Dreams” taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

divider by @uzmacchiato

ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 3

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 4

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 5

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 6

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 7

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 8

[buttybarnes1917]

i am gnawing at the bars of my enclosure this is SO GOOD IM GONNA LOSE MY MIND

[honeypiehotchner]

go save the world, i'll be around (Clark Kent x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

I have not watched Smallville and this is purely inspired by the scenes with Ma and Pa Kent and me missing my grandparents' farm. Also I'm posting this while tipsy bc sober me didn't think I should post it xoxo

Warnings: uh so much angst, but also lots of fluff, major movie spoilers, genuinely that might be it!!

WC: 7.7k

After a taxing day of farm chores, despite enjoying every second of it spent with the Kents, you’re finally lying down in your bed, ready for an entire night’s sleep.

Except, you don’t make it that far, because your eyes are just about to close when you hear a soft whirring outside, followed by bright lights hitting your window. Car headlights, you think at first, but then you realize they’re too high up. They’re coming from the sky? 

“What the hell?” you mutter, slowly crawling out of your bed and peering through the blinds.

It’s… Well, you have no clue what it is, but it’s not a helicopter. You’re tempted to go back to bed when you spot two figures rushing through the field that look a lot like Martha and Jon.

You don’t care that you’re in your pajamas -- a Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt that Clark let you borrow years ago and sleep shorts that you’ve had to patch holes in three times now. You scramble and nearly trip as you shove your feet into your boots by the front door before hauling ass across the field.

It’s been years, your heart warns you. But who else would it be, coming in here on something like that? Your brain responds.

And too, you’ve seen the news recently. Superman has been at the heart of a lot of controversy with Boravia and Jarhanpur -- nonsense, as far as you’re concerned, because there is no way in hell that Boravia, of all places, is trying to help the Jarhanpurian people. 

But a lot of people think he shouldn’t have intervened, especially after the Hammer of Boravia showed up in Metropolis and beat Superman pretty decisively. And to make matters worse, a private video of Clark’s biological parents leaked, and apparently what they had in mind for him is not at all what he has thought. 

Last you heard, he turned himself in -- because of course he did -- and it’s had Martha and Jon worried sick ever since they saw the footage of his arrest.

All of it makes your heart ache for him, even more than it usually does. 

But you can’t think about that right now.

Your feet slow as the flying craft lands and a door opens, stairs unfolding. Clark-- Superman walks down them, held up by…a woman.

Your heart lurches into your throat, your feet rooting themselves in place.

No one has seen you yet. You can easily turn and go back home and go right to sleep. Show up for work tomorrow at the Kents’ farm and play dumb, pretend you didn’t hear or see this random flying craft in the yard.

But you can’t. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t go see if he’s okay, or if there’s anything that you can do to help.

You trudge forward, putting your feelings about Clark aside. It’s been years. He hasn’t been back here, aside from what you’ve heard to be brief and secretive trips -- as in, he’s dropped in for about fifteen minutes for his Ma and Pa’s birthdays, and then gone away again. You get it. After announcing himself as Superman, albeit still keeping him separate from Clark Kent, he wants to protect his Ma and Pa as much as he possibly can. It just means that, well, you haven’t seen him, the two of you haven’t talked, and the last words you ever said to each other weren’t exactly nice.

When you finally make it to the Kents’ house, the front door is wide open, save for the screen door that creaks loudly as it opens. Still, you call out to them to let them know you’re coming in.

“We’re in Clark’s room!” You hear Martha call back before she says something else, and you think you hear your name.

You brace yourself for meeting Clark’s girlfriend -- because that’s who she must be, right? -- as you walk down the hallway. You’d know the way even with your eyes closed.

You step hesitantly into the doorway of Clark’s room, your breath catching in your throat when you see him. Clark’s Pa kneels beside the bed, his palm on his son’s forehead. Clark is sweating, he’s shivering, his eyes are closed and he’s mumbling something, something about his parents and their message and how it’s all wrong. 

Martha turns to greet you, squeezing your elbow lovingly. At the foot of Clark’s bed -- his tiny, twin-sized bed that he stopped properly fitting on when he was fourteen but insisted on keeping -- stands one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

She sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Lois.”

You take her hand and offer a smile, introducing yourself. “Lois…Lane, right? I’ve read your stuff in the Daily Planet.” You haven’t, not entirely. You’ve just heard a lot about it because it’s all Martha and Jon talk about.

“Oh,” Lois smiles. “Thank you.”

“And thank you for bringing him home,” you say, casting a quick glance at Clark where he lies still now, his mumbling stopped. “Is he…Is he gonna be okay?”

Lois nods firmly. “Yes. Mr. Terrific says he’ll be fine, he just needs to rest.”

Mr. Terrific. A member of the Justice Gang. Someone you’ve only seen on the box, and Lois has met him. She’s talking like this is normal, like she fits in.

Because she does, you realize. You remember the way you left things with Clark and you remember that it’s you. You’re the one that doesn’t fit.

Tears well in your eyes when you look at him, noticing the black lines where blueish-green veins should be. What happened to him? You don’t even know if you want to know, if you can even stomach it.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask, turning toward Martha.

She reads you like an open book, she always has. “Oh, honey,” she says, rubbing your arms. You know she can tell you’re restless, which means you know what she’s going to suggest. “Why don’t you go home and get you some sleep? You helped us all day.”

You take in a deep breath, glancing at Clark again. Jon runs his fingers through Clark’s curls, silent tears falling down his cheeks. You don’t know what it is. You don’t want to leave Clark, even though he’s got everyone he probably needs, and that there’s no guarantee he’ll even be happy to see you if he-- when he wakes up.

“How about you take the guest bed tonight?” Martha says instead, catching your attention with another squeeze to your elbow.

“Oh, I don’t-- I mean,” you pause, wiping your nose. “If Lois is staying, I don’t want to put her out.” You turn to look at Lois, to see what her verdict is, but she’s staring at her phone with wide eyes.

“Sorry, I need to make a call,” she says. “It’s-- It’s important, I swear, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stay the night if this is what I think it is.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you and Martha watch her dart down the hall, pressing her phone to her ear.

“Come on,” Martha rubs your arms, grounding you. “Let’s get you to sleep.”

You know better than to argue with Martha Kent twice, so you let her walk you across the hall to the guest bedroom, the same one you used to sleep in when you and Clark had sleepovers. There was no way you’d be allowed to sleep in his room -- not that the both of you would’ve fit on his bed anyway. And sometimes, you and Clark still whispered across the hall, or more often than not, Clark would make stupid faces in the moonlight, causing you both to giggle and never get enough sleep before a day of romping around in the sun, helping Ma and Pa with farm chores.

You take midday naps in here now mostly, since you’re up and working on the Kents’ farm before six almost every morning. Taking cat naps here before the evening work has become routine. So it feels weird now, to be sitting on the bed with Martha next to you, in the dead of night.

You also just don’t understand why she’s next to you.

“Go be with your boy,” you nudge her side, kicking your boots off and pushing them under the bed. “I’ll be fine.”

“I can see him from right here, and his Pa’s got him,” she argues, patting your knee lovingly. “Now I’m worryin’ about you.”

You knock your shoulder into hers affectionately. “Don’t worry about me, I’m okay.”

She absolutely does not believe you, and you don’t blame her.

“Listen,” she says softly. “I know how you feel about Clark.” She waits for you to look at her. “And I know the two of you didn’t leave off on the…best of terms.”

“It’s water under the bridge,” you assure her, even though it’s not. It’s water over the bridge, all the time. You’re never not thinking about Clark, though it’s not like you even try, since you’re spending all your time with the Kents. But you don’t want her worrying about you like this, not when her son is just across the hall in much worse shape than you.

“Maybe when he wakes up, the two of you can talk,” she says. “It’s long overdue.”

“Maybe,” you tell her. Because while you agree it’s long overdue, you highly doubt the two of you will talk. He’ll probably leave the second he feels just a little bit better. There won’t be any time for talking or reminiscing with an old friend.

Which, the more you think about it, might be for the best.

+++

Your sleep is restless and fitful. Whenever you think you’re about to finally fall into deep sleep, you jolt awake, looking across the hall to see if your mind is playing tricks on you. Or if that really is Clark, lying in his bed again, in his Superman suit.

One time when you wake up with a start, it’s because something is licking your face. Martha and Jon don’t have any dogs, so imagine your surprise when you see a fluffy white dog right in front of your face, ears perking when he sees you looking at him.

You squint your eyes, realizing he’s…wearing a cape. The dog is wearing a Superman cape.

You can’t help it, you actually laugh out loud.

“What’s your name buddy?” you whisper, turning over the Superman pendant on his collar. “Krypto. I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you belong to Mr. Sleeping Superhero over there.”

Krypto jumps happily on your chest, knocking the wind clear out of you before he launches off the bed and floats onto the floor. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s not even six yet, and the sun has just barely started to rise.

“Do you need some food? Water?” you ask, standing up. “I’m following you, bud.”

Krypto barks and you immediately shush him, as if doing that is any quieter, but at least he only barks the one time.

You expect him to go down the hall toward the kitchen, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes into Clark’s room.

You freeze in the hall, watching Krypto spin in circles, practically screaming at you to follow him. You shake your head, as if he can understand you. Part of you feels like he might.

When you turn around to head back to bed, the damn dog barks again. Loudly.

“Shh!” you whip around, your hands flailing in a come on, man gesture.

“Are you shh-ing a dog?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper, and gravelly like nothing else. You almost think it isn’t him who just spoke, until he cracks one eye open and looks at you.

You smile too, despite yourself. “Maybe,” you reply. “What are you doing awake?”

“Heard Krypto barking,” he says, eyelids drooping again as he smirks. “Was gonna tell him to shh.”

You roll your eyes. “Go back to sleep, Clark.”

“Come here first,” he says. Then adds, “Please?”

And damn you, you can’t tell him no, especially not when he’s sick like this. So, you do as he asks, much to Krypto’s delight. You enter Clark’s room and stand beside his bed, waiting. He lifts his hand, the movement weak as he searches for yours. You give it to him.

“M’sorry,” he breathes, loosely threading your fingers with his.

“For what?” you whisper.

“Not calling,” he sounds like every word takes more and more of his energy. “Or writing. Or coming t’see you. Or--”

“Clark,” you shake your head, tugging on his hand a little. “We can talk about this tomorrow when you’re rested.”

“Okay,” he exhales, his body practically melting into the mattress. “Can I have a hug?” he asks, voice small. “I didn’t get one before I left.”

It’s true. He didn’t. Because you were too frustrated and hurt to offer one, and he would never take one without asking. 

“Of course,” you say, leaning down to wrap your arms around him in what will no doubt be the most awkward hug after almost four years. But instead, he wraps his arms around you, and pulls you over on top of him. “Clark!” you squeal, giggling quietly into his neck before lifting your head to glare at him playfully.

“Sorry,” he grins, and gosh, he’s just so tired. “Missed you.”

You don’t even know if he’ll remember this in the morning, if he even has any idea of what he’s saying right now.

“I missed you too,” you say despite the fact. You lay your head down on his chest, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry I was such an ass when you left.”

His arms tighten around your waist just a little, nothing like you know they’d do if he was actually feeling like himself. “Don’t be sorry. I was being mean.”

You want to protest that, but he needs his rest more than the two of you need to talk about this right now. “Go back to sleep,” you whisper, moving to get off him.

But he doesn’t let go. “Can you stay?”

You look at him, but his eyes are closed again. You crack a smile because, believe it or not, this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself in this predicament, though it was probably six or seven years ago the last time it happened. “Can you even sleep like this?”

He nods. “Will you stay?” he asks again. “If it’s comfy for you.”

Some of the best naps you ever had were with your head on Clark’s chest, and he knows it, too.

“Yeah,” you murmur, settling back down. “I can stay.”

“Thank you,” he breathes, and then he’s out like a light again.

+++

Sometime in the early morning hours, Krypto curled up between your and Clark’s feet, so when you wake up, you’re well and thoroughly trapped. In a good way.

Sunlight streams through the windows, warming you as you start to stir, and hopefully, you think, already working its magic on making Clark feel better.

Once Krypto senses you’re awake, he’s jumping off the bed and spinning in circles again, waiting for you to join him.

The only problem is that you have two arms wrapped tight around your middle like twisting vines. You expect it to be harder than it is to wiggle out of Clark’s hold, and it kind of worries you how easy it is. When you stand up, you press your hand to his forehead, sighing a little in relief. He’s not clammy, and the black veins have almost completely faded away.

You brush his curls back with a smile before you part from him. You’ve definitely slept through a bit of the morning farm chores, so you should get dressed. Thankfully, you have some extra clothes in the guest room, so you quickly get changed before heading to the kitchen.

Martha made some breakfast, so you scarf some down, all while she fusses over you and tells you that you don’t need to help Pa with the chores. All that tells you is that she saw where you were sleeping and she’s hoping the two of you have made up. You don’t give her the chance to ask you outright before you head outside.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Jon’s affectionate scolding immediately meets your ears once you get close to the barn.

“Helping you, what’s it look like, old man?” you grin, grabbing one of the milk buckets and moving it closer to him. “Can’t run the farm all by yourself, you know.”

He makes a disapproving noise immediately followed by a smile. “How’d you sleep, kid?”

“Pretty good,” you nod, scratching the cow’s neck while he milks her. “What about you?”

“Just fine, got my six hours,” he jokes. He waits a beat, and you know exactly what’s coming next. “Saw you sleeping with Clark.”

“He trapped me,” you chuckle, brushing it off. “He’s still sleeping.”

“Yeah, he’ll prob’ly sleep for a while in the sun.”

“I think so too.”

“Did you two talk?”

You let out another chuckle, shaking your head. “Jon…”

“Oh, don’t Jon me,” he waves his hand at you. “I know how that boy feels about you.”

You know it too. But neither of you will ever talk about it. What good will it do anyway, talking about it now? He’s going back to the city to save the day and you’re going to stay right here.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave Jon off in the same way he did to you. “What else needs to be done?”

He grumbles through telling you what he got done while you were dozing with Clark, and you head off to fill the gaps of what he didn’t quite get around to.

Some hay in the barn needs moving, and you feel like flinging some bales around will help you clear your head.

Well, you want it to clear your head. All it ends up doing is giving your mind free rein to start digging up old memories.

“I can’t just pick up and move to Metropolis right now, Clark! That’s crazy!”

“Why not?” It was the third time he had brought it up in a week. “We could rent a place together, we could--”

“I wouldn’t fit in there,” you told him again, for what felt like the fiftieth time. You understood why Clark wanted to move to the city. But it just wasn’t for you. “There’s nothing there for me.”

He had frowned then. “But I’ll be there.”

“That’s not enough, Clark. I can’t follow you around my whole life.”

“So you’re just-- You’re just gonna stay here your whole life?”

“Well someone has to help out on the farm!”

It was a low, and downright rude jab to make that day. You knew how hard it was for Clark to move away from the Kents. You knew he wrestled with it, with wanting the job at the Daily Planet and wanting to never leave his Ma and Pa’s side. With wanting to help the world and announce himself as Superman, and with wanting to stay just Clark forever. You knew that despite the Kents’ unwavering support in his decision, he was still, in those last few days, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

And then you had to say that to him. Make it sound like you were the one doing the “right” thing by staying here and helping his parents around on the farm, and he was doing the “wrong” thing by moving out so he could have a bigger, better life and even help others in ways that you just don’t understand and never will. Because you’re not like him.

You fling another hay bale with a little too much strength, groaning in defeat when it just bounces and falls back down.

Just as you’re about to pick it up again, Clark’s voice echoes from behind you. “Need any help?”

You glance over your shoulder, smiling a little when you see he’s changed into sweatpants and a flannel. That’s the Clark you know. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Krypto woke me up,” he says. He grabs the bale one-handed and tosses it up.

“Show off,” you mutter, letting him handle the last two. The dog in question circles your feet, jumping and yapping happily. “I didn’t know you had a dog now.”

“He’s my cousin’s,” Clark says with a grimace. “He’s…a lot.”

“He’s cute,” you giggle, bending down and picking him up after letting him jump at your feet for a bit.

“Oh, be careful, he’s--” Clark’s words fall short when you start laughing. “Well clearly he likes you.”

“He’s sweet!” you giggle, watching in awe as Krypto leaps from your arms and flies around the barn. “Of course he can fly.”

“Yeah,” Clark chuckles, and he sounds relieved to see Krypto flying around. “Did you have breakfast before you came out here?”

You nod. “Did you? And should you even be walking around?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “And yeah, I ate. Sat with Pa for a minute.”

“Good,” you nod, turning around, scanning the barn for anything else you can throw yourself into so you don’t have to talk to Clark. Not that you don’t want to catch up with him, it’s just.

“Thanks for staying with me last night-- or, this morning, I guess. You didn’t have to, I know we…left off on rocky terms.”

It’s just that.

You sigh, wiping your sweaty palms on your overalls. “It’s fine, Clark, seriously. You were half out of your mind. What happened yesterday?”

“Long story,” he says. Then adds, with a grimace, “Kryptonite poisoning.”

Your eyes blow wide. “Kryptonite pois-- I thought you said there wasn’t any left on Earth!”

“There’s not, it’s--” He cuts himself off, clenches his jaw. “It’s a lot to explain.”

You nod once, a jerking movement because you’re trying not to let it show just how much this is ripping your heart into pieces. 

You’ve always known the real reason why you and Clark won’t ever work. It’s because the moment he announced himself as Superman, he stopped being the Clark Kent you grew up with. Sure, nobody knows that Superman is really Clark Kent, the journalist at the Daily Planet who always somehow scores an interview with the man himself, but that doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.

The point is that for you, you’ve always known Clark has powers, that his real name is Kal-El, that he comes from Krypton, but he’s just Clark to you. It was never about him being Superman or technically a metahuman or Kryptonian or whatever-- He’s just Clark. He’s just the kid you grew up with. The kid you met one afternoon when he knocked on your front door, asking your mom if you could come outside and play. And if your parents would like any lemonade, because his ma made some, and it’s the best lemonade ever. 

That’s Clark. 

That’s the boy you know, the boy you found yourself falling in love with at sixteen and realized maybe you had loved him all that time. That’s the boy who took you on your first date to a drive-in movie, who got you home one minute after the time he said and apologized so profusely to your dad that it had him in tears. That’s the boy you love, and you feel like he doesn’t exist anymore. Like he’s been taken over by this split identity of Superman and journalist Clark Kent. 

And you just. You don’t fit anywhere in that narrative.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, swallowing down the emotion when it threatens to crack your voice. “You don’t have to explain.”

His face twists, no doubt hearing the hurt you try to hide because whether you like it or not, Clark knows you. “No,” he says. “No, please, don’t do this--”

“I’m not doing anything, Clark,” you snap, brushing past him. “I just need to go check on the chickens.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“No,” you say, and his feet halt. “Go get some rest. You’ll probably need to leave soon.”

He just nods, and you don’t look back once you’ve left the barn.

+++

The chickens don’t need to be checked on, and you’re sure Clark knows it. Jon has had the same routine since you both were little: the chickens are checked on first.

Still, you walk around the pen with them, scolding them when they try to peck at your feet. You’ve always thought they can sense when you’re frustrated, and that seems to be happening right now. They’re practically trying to force you to leave, pecking your feet to tell you just go talk to him, stop bothering us with your pacing!

You don’t listen to them.

But you don’t get much warning before you see Krypto flying toward you, followed by Clark yelling after him.

“Leave the chickens alone! Krypto! Leave it!”

You exit the pen and meet Krypto halfway, wrangling him into your arms, giggling at the way he squirms and licks your face.

“Don’t bite her!” Clark yells, sounding a lot like his Ma.

“He’s fine,” you laugh, and Krypto wiggles out of your arms, grabbing ahold of the strap on your overalls and pulling you along. Once you’re close to Clark, though, Krypto lets go and heads for the sky, yipping triumphantly.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, he’s-- I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Well, he’s kind of always a nuisance, but not usually--”

“Clark,” you laugh. “It’s fine.” You reach up and scratch Krypto’s belly mid-flight, and he seems delighted that you’ve done it, circling back around so you can do it again. You look over at Clark, noticing the flannel is gone and there’s a newfound determination on his face. “Heading out?”

“In a minute, yeah, Ma’s getting my boots, and I had to chase down Krypto,” he rambles, pausing. “And. I wanted to say I’m sorry before I go.”

“You don’t need to--”

“I do,” he argues. “I never should’ve tried to pressure you into following me to Metropolis, not so soon after your parents passed--”

“Clark,” you warn. “You need to go, and I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”

He nods, looks up at Krypto, then back at you. “When I get back,” he says. “Can we talk then?”

You know better than to think or hope that he’ll come back here. He’s got a world to save. He’s busy.

“Sure,” you say, knowing he won’t be back anytime soon. And because you know it’ll be a while, you can’t help it, you fling yourself at him, squeezing him into a hug.

He hugs you back just as tight, sighing into you.

“Be safe,” you tell him. “Promise me?”

He nods, whispering into your hair, “Promise.”

+++

You know better than to watch the news as things are happening in real time, but you can’t help it. Usually you catch up on everything after the fact, after Superman has saved everyone and is safe himself and Clark has called Ma and Pa to let them know he’s okay.

Instead, this time, you’re sitting in between Ma and Pa Kent on their couch, all of you gripping each other’s hands like your lives depend on it.

You watch the rift start to rip through the city from the news helicopter filming it from the sky. You’re nauseous just thinking about all of the people there. How does Clark do it? How does he save all these people and not let the weight of it crush him -- even mentally?

No one can get eyes on Superman and that worries you the most, not knowing where he might be. There’s a flash of blue and red here and there, but nothing to ease your nerves.

When the truth about Lex Luthor breaks from the Daily Planet, you gasp in disbelief at everything you see, though you can’t say you’re surprised. None of it ever seemed right -- his hatred toward Superman and the way he somehow got ahold of that video.

It doesn’t feel like any of you breathe a single, normal breath until there’s confirmation that the rift has closed and Superman is walking around on the ground. You watch him help anyone he sees, offering high fives and hugs to every kid that passes by, just being himself the way you know him to be.

But when you see Superman speaking with Lois Lane, smile on his lips and hands tucked behind his back, you look away.

“I’m gonna get us some lemonade,” you sniffle, standing up and heading for the kitchen.

You pull three glasses down and scoop some ice into them, wiping your tears as you grab the lemonade pitcher from the fridge. 

He’s safe. That’s all that should matter right now. He’s safe. The city is safe. Luthor is in custody, Boravia’s invasion of Jarhanpur was stopped, everyone is okay. That’s what matters.

So then why are you upset over Clark-- Superman speaking to a reporter who might be his girlfriend?

You shake your head, pouring the lemonade, trying to get the stupid tears to stop falling, but they won’t. It’s a rush of emotion, knowing Clark is safe and he saved the city again, but you know those two things mean he won’t be coming back here anytime soon. There’s a lot that still needs to be done in the city, a lot of people probably still need his help. You shouldn’t be this upset.

Soft footsteps pad into the kitchen and you try to pull yourself together, but it’s no use. One hug from Ma Kent and you’re a mess all over again, crying into her shoulder. Pa, the mush that he is, joins just a moment later, weeping right alongside with you, holding you both tight.

“He’s okay,” Ma whispers, rubbing circles into your back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You believe her. It will be okay.

You’re going to go about your life, and Superman is going to go about his. And it’ll all be okay.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” you sniffle, the deep breath you take in rattling your chest. “Just-- To calm down.”

“Okay, kiddo,” Pa Kent whispers. “Want me to come with you?”

You shake your head. “No. No, thank you, though.”

“Come back for supper,” Ma says with a raise of her eyebrows, telling you that you had better not lock yourself away in that house across the field -- again.

“I will, promise,” you murmur, rubbing her arm.

“Here, take your lemonade,” she pushes the drink into your hand. “Be careful, hon.”

“I’m just gonna walk around the property,” you assure her. “I’ll be back soon.”

With your ice cold lemonade in hand, you shove your feet into your boots at the door and head outside, turning your house.

Your parents’ farm that only became yours because of their sudden deaths, written into their wills and everything and you had no idea. They probably had planned to tell you. And it’s not that you didn’t expect them to leave the farm to you, you just never expected both of them to be gone so soon. One right after the other.

Some days you think it’s sweet that your ma only had to be alone up in Heaven for a month before your pa joined her. Some days you just think it’s plain cruel, for both of them leave you so soon.

You didn’t have it in you to keep their farm fully up and running. You’d need more manpower than yourself alone, and there wasn’t enough money for that. So, you sold off all the livestock and equipment that you no longer needed, giving yourself a substantial savings alongside what your parents left you to live off of, and to at least keep the house and land in your name. But some days you wonder if it’s enough, if you did the right thing.

Everything is so overgrown now, and you know you need to do something about it, but you’ve just not had it in you. You gulp down more of the lemonade, tears stinging your eyes, but for different reasons this time. Now, you just wish your parents were here. You just wish you could pull open the screen door and shout, “Ma! Pa, I’m home!” and they’d answer you.

You walk around the small ranch house to the barn in the back where your pa’s old truck lives. You’ll never sell it, even though it doesn’t drive right now, and hasn’t in some time. One day, you’ll fix it up and drive it somewhere.

Maybe Metropolis. Maybe you’ll visit Clark.

A laughable idea, honestly. It’s a long drive to the city, and there’s no guarantee he’d even want to see you there.

You prop yourself up on the hood of the truck, looking out over the field. Gosh, you spent so many days here, running around with Clark. It’s impossible to find a childhood memory that doesn’t have Clark in it in some form. It’s as beautiful to remember as it is tortuous.

You set your lemonade down in the grass and lean back onto the hood, propping your leg up so you can rest your eyes. They’re heavy from crying so much, and you’re all out of lemonade to drink, so you might as well try for a cat nap.

You’re starting to doze off when you feel something licking your face.

“Krypto,” you murmur, still half-asleep, not even sure that’s who it is, but who else would it be? You crack one eye and you see him. One ear perked, head tilted, hovering just above you. “What are you doing here?” you giggle, reaching up for him, but he lifts higher out of your grasp. “Don’t be a punk!” you chide, pulling him down to your chest, scratching behind his ears and under his belly. “Where’s Superman, huh?”

As if on cue, you hear Clark yelling after Krypto. The dog in question flies away from you and you hear a comical thud as he collides with Clark.

You slide off the truck and poke your head out the barn, seeing Clark -- still in his suit -- being tugged along by his cape toward the barn, pitcher of lemonade in hand with an extra empty glass. He sets both down at his feet once he spots you, though, and you break out into a run before you can think twice. 

You were so certain he wouldn’t be back that seeing him now makes you feel like you’re dreaming. You have to hold him so you know this is real.

Krypto flies around above your heads as you launch yourself at Clark, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a koala. He barely stumbles, his super strength unfazed by your tackling. His arms wrap around you, securing you against him, and he sighs, tension melting out of him.

“We were watching the news,” you gasp into his neck. “I’m so glad you’re okay-- You saved everyone.”

“Mr. Terrific closed the rift,” he says, ever humble and not wanting to take all the credit. “And the Justice Gang helped at the Jarhanpurian border, I was just--”

You can’t help it, you start giggling. 

“What?” you can hear him smiling through the question. “It’s true! I couldn’t have done it alone, no way.”

“I know,” you say, lifting your head to look at him with wide eyes. “And all that stuff about Luthor, I just--” You shake your head. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Clark breathes, arms tightening around your waist. “But he’s in custody now, and the Jarhanpurian people won’t have to worry about him or Boravia. And he had so many people trapped in his pocket universe, they’re all out now, they’re going home to their families.”

You nod along, not understanding half of it, but just glad that it all boils down to everyone being okay. “And…the video. Your parents’ message.”

Carefully, Superman sets you down, but he takes your hands. “I know. I didn’t get a chance to explain it before I had to leave but-- I swear to you, I only ever heard the first part of their message, I had no idea--”

“Clark,” you pull his hands to your chest, placing one over your heart, something you used to do when you were teenagers. It always calmed him down, got him to focus on your heartbeat instead of whatever else was overwhelming him. “I never in a million years would believe that you of all people were hiding some-- some secret harem or some scheme to rule over everyone. You’re good, Clark. You, your ma and pa, you’re good people.”

He smiles, soft and relieved. “Thank you.” 

“And I’m sorry for snapping at you before you left -- this time and last time,” you add with an awkward chuckle. “I just-- I can’t leave here, Clark. It’s all I’ve got left of them.”

“I know, I know,” he says before you can even finish. “I understand. I never should’ve tried to push you so hard.”

“And I never should’ve made you feel bad for going,” you say. “You did the right thing. You’ve helped so many people, and you’re just going to help more, and that’s what matters. You fit in there. It’s good for you.” You pause, dropping his hands finally and shifting on your feet. “And Lois seems good for you, too.”

“Lois?” The shock is evident in his voice and his face, and he nearly laughs. “What do you mean Lois is good for me?”

Now you’re the one that’s confused. “I mean, she’s good for you. She flew you here!”

“Because we’re friends,” he argues. “And she went to Mr. Terrific for help to find me after I turned myself in. She told me it was stupid, but I did it anyway, and got myself trapped in Luthor’s pocket universe with Kryptonite--”

“That’s how you got Kryptonite poisoning?” You want to shove him, but you know he won’t budge. “Clark Kent! What is wrong with you!”

“I thought I was doing the right thing!” he cries, arms flailing. “I don’t know! I was trying to find Krypto!” He pauses, lips splitting in the same boyish grin that you remember. “You thought I was dating Lois.”

“What was I supposed to think!” you glare at him, but you’re fighting a smile. “You come in here after three years of not visiting and you’re being held up by a gorgeous woman--”

“Don’t you ever let her hear you say that, she won’t let me live it down--”

“So, yeah, Clark, I thought you were dating her! It’s been three years! I thought you moved on!”

“Almost four,” he corrects you. “And no, I haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Moved on from you,” he whispers the words like a confession. “You think every time I dropped by for just a few minutes to see Ma and Pa that I wasn’t also looking for you?”

“I was hiding from you,” you grumble. “I would hear you when you came in. You should really work on that.”

“On flying quieter?” he laughs.

“Yeah,” you snort. “You’re lucky we live in the middle of nowhere, and that I’m the closest neighbor. What d’you think anyone else would say, hearing you barreling in here and then blasting out ten minutes later like a missile?”

“What if we don’t have to worry about that anymore?”

“What?”

“What if I stay here for a bit,” he says, clarifying. “What if I…” he pauses, glancing around. “Help you fix up your farm? Maybe get your pa’s truck running. Spend a few weeks here in the sun for a change.”

“What about your job?”

“I’ve got some vacation time,” he shrugs. “I can do some work from here--”

“Clark--”

“I just need to talk to Perry about it, but I think he’ll agree--”

“Clark!” you laugh, shoving his chest now, and as expected, he doesn’t move an inch. “You’re crazy.”

He shakes his head, that dumb smile on his face. “Just crazy about you. Never stopped.”

You just shake your head back at him, wondering if what you’re hearing is true. “Are you sure?” you ask. “What about Superman?”

Clark’s eyebrows furrow. “What about him?” he retorts, and it’s just so silly, hearing him say that as his cape moves in the breeze.

“He still needs to save the day,” you reply. “Can he do that from here?” 

He shrugs. “Of course he can.”

“Are you sure?” you ask again.

And Clark, the way he knows you inside and out, the way only he can understand you like no other from growing up alongside you, steps forward and carefully places his hands on your arms. “Hey,” he says. “Where’s this coming from?”

You shake your head. It’s stupid. He’s standing here, telling you to your face that he wants to stay here for a while, and you don’t believe him. You’re acting like you want him to leave. 

“I don’t-- We don’t fit anymore, Clark,” you murmur, wanting to tuck yourself into his chest and run away from him at the same time. “You’re-- You’re Superman.”

“No, honey, I mean, I am, but I’m just Clark,” he cries. “And you’re you--”

“Exactly!”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“I mean, exactly, I’m me, and that’s why--”

“That’s why I love you!” Clark practically screams, and it makes you stop. He doesn’t like raising his voice ever, especially not at anyone, and you know this. But he’s doing it now, and he looks guilty for it just as much as he looks like he doesn’t regret it. “Sorry.”

“You love me?” you ask. “Like-- You love me, or you’re--”

“Gosh, I’ve--” He tugs at his hair that has started to curl again now that he’s here, and he laughs, all light and the same as it’s always been. “I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”

Your breath hitches.

“I-- Leaving here when I moved to Metropolis was hard because I was leaving Ma and Pa, but it was hard because I was leaving you, and I didn’t-- I knew you couldn’t come with me, I knew it wasn’t right to ask you to, but I just couldn’t stand the idea of not waking up across the hall from you, or waking up and running around in the sun with you all day.” His voice catches then, his eyes watery. “I miss-- I miss you, and I should’ve come to see you, but I was so worried about keeping you safe, and keeping my parents safe. I-I don’t tell anyone where I was raised because I don’t want anyone even getting close to touching you--”

“Clark, I know, I know why you do it.” You grab his hand, once again placing it over your heart. “I miss you too. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

He lets out a laugh, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I think I do have an idea and I think I missed you more.” 

“Oh, it’s a competition now?”

“Not even a competition, I know I missed you more, honey.”

“Fine,” you roll your eyes, feigning annoyance even though it’s the sweetest thing because it’s just so Clark to argue with you about who missed who more -- and to insist that he did. His hands slip from yours and rest back down at his sides. “We should get back to the house, though. Ma made supper and told me I had better come back and eat.”

“Yeah, she actually sent me here to retrieve you.”

“And here I thought you were coming to see me out of the goodness of your own heart, Kent.”

“Well, obviously I--” You let him flounder for a moment before breaking out into a grin and he pauses, tilting his head with one of his famous Clark stares. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not,” you tease. Without another moment’s thought, you say, “Race ya!” and take off toward the house.

Krypto spots you from across the field and immediately takes off after you, Clark not far behind from the sounds of his laughter -- and telling Krypto to be careful as he lunges toward you. Krypto just flies above you, though, wanting more belly scratches as you run.

You’re not sprinting as fast as you could and you know it, and Clark does too as he catches up all too easily, reaching out for your hand to pull you back toward him.

And there, underneath the Kansas sun, Clark Kent kisses you for the second time in your life, smiling into it like he just can’t believe you’re letting him -- or that you pull him back in when he tries to break away. 

“I should’ve asked--” is all he gets out before you’re kissing him some more. 

“Yes,” you say into the next one, just so he knows his question is answered. 

His arms circle your waist and he sighs into your lips. “I love you,” he says again. “I should’ve told you that a long time ago.”

“Me too,” you whisper, pausing to rest your forehead against his. “I think I’ve loved you since that day you knocked on the screen door. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do,” he grins. “We got the water guns out and hid behind the cows! Remember--”

“Martha!” you laugh. “Gosh, I swear she hated us.”

“No, she loved us.”

“Maybe you, she was your cow.”

He kisses you again, unable to help himself. “I love you. I’m just gonna have to keep saying it.”

“Good,” you murmur, kissing him again. “Because I love you, and I plan to say it more.”

He smirks, raising an eyebrow, “So it’s a competition?”

“Not a competition Clark,” you quip. “You said you’ve loved me since we were sixteen, I said since that first day, so I’ve got about--” You check an imaginary watch. “--ten years on you. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

He laughs loudly then, tossing his head back. “Yes ma’am, I do,” he says, pulling you back in.

[buttybarnes1917]

i’m SOBBING this was so cute