Summary: Two days into a cover mission, you and Steve are already frighteningly good at playing newlyweds: hand in hand, pet names on autopilot, smiles for the neighbors. It’s supposed to be safe. It’s supposed to be fake. But the more convincing the act becomes, the harder it is to remember where the cover ends… and what it’s waking up between you.
Wordcount: 12.4k
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Warnings: MDNI, porn with plot (for once), pronebone, unprotected p in v, big dick Steve (I mean... yk what I mean...), fake marriage au, undercover au, mission partners to lovers, friends to lovers, slow burn (but make it fast), mutual pining, pet names (honey, baby, sweetheart, doll), domestic fluff, protective steve rogers, sam wilson is an idiot
Elixir's Arcade Event: Flush with "Do I need to remind you that we're not actually married?" + "Do you know how hard I'm trying not to kiss you right now?" + "We're not supposed to do this." - "Then stop kissing me like that."
A/N: I was a little stuck with this one at first, because I knew I wanted it to be smutty, but at the same time I had no inspiration apart from some "vanilla" sex. And then, Cassie talked to me about the lack of pronebone fics with Steve, and I had no idea what that was, and looked it up, and I went "Oh. That. I want to write that." So, this one got @blobfishlol 's stamp of approval.
Masterlist
The plan had come out of Sam’s mouth like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“You’ll go in as a married couple.”
You had stared at him over the edge of the briefing table, waiting for the punchline to land.
It didn’t.
Sam, completely unfazed, had leaned back in his chair and shrugged like he’d just suggested ordering takeout. “It’s clean. It’s believable. People don’t look too hard at married people.”
Across from him, Steve had gone very, very still.
Which, in your experience, usually meant he was either biting back a comment… or bracing for impact.
You took a slow breath through your nose.
“Sam,” you said, carefully. “Do you realize who he is?”
Sam blinked. “Yes?”
“You know, the part where he’s–” You pointed at Steve without even looking at him, because it felt like pointing at a monument. “–Captain America.”
Steve’s ears turned pink. Of course they did.
Sam lifted his hands. “I’m aware.”
“So walk me through this,” you pressed, leaning in. “Walk me through how this is supposed to work in a world where everyone and their grandma recognizes his face.”
“It’s a cover,” Sam insisted. “Not a red-carpet announcement.”
You let out a laugh that had no humor in it. “A cover. Right. Because nothing says ‘low profile’ like Captain America suddenly having a wife.”
Steve cleared his throat, very quietly. “It doesn’t have to be–”
“No,” you cut in, because if you gave him room, he would try to smooth it over, and you were not in the mood to be smoothed. “No, Steve. We’re not doing this thing where we pretend it makes sense just because Sam said it with confidence.”
Sam’s smile widened, annoying and victorious. “Confidence is important.”
“It’s implacably stupid,” you snapped, and you didn’t even feel bad about it. “It’s the kind of stupid that only sounds brilliant if you say it fast and then leave the room before anyone can argue.”
Bucky, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, made a noise that might have been a laugh if he’d ever allowed himself joy. Natasha’s eyes flicked to you, sharp with interest – like she was watching a fire catch.
Sam pointed a finger at you like you were the one being unreasonable. “Okay, hear me out.”
“No.”
“Just–”
“No.”
Steve shifted again, his gaze fixed somewhere near the schematics, like the diagram might save him. “It’s… not the worst idea.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Don’t.”
His mouth shut. The pink in his cheeks got worse.
Sam seized the opening like a man starving. “Thank you! It’s not the worst idea.”
You looked between them – Sam with his smug optimism, Steve with his painfully earnest discomfort – and felt a headache blooming behind your eyes.
“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that we’re going to walk into a place crawling with people who have televisions and internet access, and our plan is… what. Hope nobody says, Hey, isn’t that Captain America? and then immediately follows it with, Wait, why is he wearing a wedding ring?”
Sam tilted his head. “People will assume he has a life.”
“Steve doesn’t have a life,” you said flatly, then immediately regretted the words when Steve’s expression flickered – something quick and wounded that he covered before it could fully exist.
You exhaled, rubbing your forehead. “Okay. That came out wrong.”
Steve shook his head once, small. “No, you’re… you’re not wrong.”
That was worse.
You straightened, forcing yourself back into the argument because it was easier than looking at the way his hands were folded so tightly in front of him.
“It’s not believable,” you said, more controlled now. “It’s not clean. It’s not anything. It’s a neon sign. People don’t look too hard at married people? They look at him.”
Sam leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright. “That’s exactly why it works.”
You stared at him.
Sam smiled like he’d been waiting for this moment. “They’ll look at him and stop thinking. They’ll fill in the gaps themselves. Captain America is married? Sure. Why not. It’s not like the tabloids haven’t tried to marry him off a hundred times.”
Natasha made a thoughtful sound. “He’s not wrong.”
You turned to her. “Don’t you start.”
Natasha’s mouth curved. “I’m not starting. I’m observing.”
Bucky hummed. “It’s gonna be funny.”
You glared at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I’ve had a hard life,” he deadpanned. “Let me have this.”
Steve finally lifted his eyes to you. And there it was again – that quiet steadiness that made you feel seen in the most inconvenient way.
“I’ll do whatever makes the mission safer,” he said, simple as that. “If it’s a bad idea, we’ll find another cover. We don’t have to force it.”
Sam pointed at him again, triumphant. “Look at that. Team player. America’s husband.”
“Sam,” Steve warned, but it had no bite. It never did.
You pushed your chair back with a scrape that sounded louder than it should have in the sterile briefing room.
“It’s stupid,” you repeated, because you needed them to understand that you meant it with your whole chest. “It’s stupid and I’m not backing down. There are a dozen other covers we can use. Hell – put a fake mustache on him. That would be less recognizable.”
Sam’s grin widened to something almost affectionate. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”
“I will end you,” you said, without missing a beat.
Natasha’s eyes gleamed. “Please do it quietly. Some of us are trying to work.”
Steve’s lips twitched, traitorous. He looked away quickly, like smiling at you was a secret he couldn’t afford.
That – that was the problem.
Not the ring. Not the paperwork. Not the logistics.
The problem was that this ridiculous idea had already started to pull at something that had been tight and controlled between you and Steve for months. A thread you both pretended wasn’t there. A tension you both filed away under not now and not allowed and don’t even think about it.
And Sam, in all his “brilliant” stupidity, had just yanked on it with both hands.
“We’re not actually married,” you said, pointing at Steve again like it would somehow anchor reality.
Steve nodded, earnest. “I know.”
“And we’re not going to act like we are,” you added, sharper. “We’re going to act like… like two people who–”
Sam cut in immediately, delighted. “Like two people who love each other.”
You made a sound of pure, visceral disgust. “Absolutely not.”
Steve’s breath caught – so soft you almost missed it – and his eyes flicked to yours.
For a second, the room faded. The table. The files. The mission.
Just his gaze. Just the way it held too much.
Then he blinked, and it was gone, tucked back behind the shield he wore even when the shield wasn’t in his hands.
Sam clapped his hands together. “Great! So we agree.”
“We do not–” you started.
“–agree,” Sam finished, completely ignoring you. “Rings, names, backstory. We’ll workshop it. Steve, you’re gonna have to get used to saying ‘my wife’ without looking like you’re about to apologize.”
Steve’s face went red so fast it was almost impressive.
You threw your hands up. “This is incredibly stupid.”
Sam beamed. “See? You’re already saying it like it’s a catchphrase.”
You glared at him so hard it should’ve set him on fire.
Steve shifted beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, and his voice dropped just for you – low, quiet, sincere.
“We can still say no,” he murmured. “If you want. I’ll back you.”
You should’ve said yes.
You should’ve grabbed onto that lifeline and dragged yourself out of this before it became something you couldn’t control.
Instead you looked at him – at the honesty in his eyes, at the way he offered you safety even when it meant making himself uncomfortable – and something in your chest went soft in the worst possible way.
And Sam, watching the two of you with the satisfied patience of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, just smiled wider.
“Come on,” he said, already gathering the folders. “It’s gonna be fine. Everybody loves a wedding story.”
You muttered, under your breath, “I hate you.”
Sam didn’t even pretend to be offended.
“I know,” he said cheerfully. “Now pick a date. Nothing says ‘committed’ like a date.”
Steve made a strangled sound.
And you realized, with dawning horror, that this mission wasn’t going to be dangerous because of the target.
It was going to be dangerous because of the lie.
By the time you reached the apartment, you already hated everything about Sam’s “brilliant” plan.
It wasn’t a safehouse in the usual sense – not a bunker, not a sterile S.H.I.E.L.D. box with reinforced doors and cameras in the vents. It was an ordinary unit in an ordinary building with beige walls and a lobby that smelled faintly of old mail and someone’s reheated pasta.
Normal.
That was the point.
You went up the stairs with your duffel biting into your shoulder, Steve a step behind you with his own bag like he wasn’t Steve Rogers, like he was just another man moving in with his wife.
The thought made your jaw tighten.
Inside, the apartment was… decent. Small, clean, staged. The kind of space someone had rented out furnished and forgotten about. A neutral sofa, a little kitchen, a table with two chairs. A framed print of something abstract on the wall that looked like it had been chosen specifically because it meant nothing.
You dropped your bag by the entryway and did a quick scan out of habit – sightlines, exits, hiding spots, anything that could turn into a problem.
Then you walked toward the bedroom, pushed the door open, and…
Of course.
One bed.
One, single, wide bed that took up most of the room like it had been placed there to make a point. Crisp white sheets. Two pillows. A faint scent of detergent and that slightly too-sweet air freshener smell that every “temporary” apartment seemed to have.
You stood there for a second, staring at it like it might multiply if you glared hard enough.
Behind you, Steve halted in the doorway. You didn’t have to look at him to know he’d clocked the same thing.
Silence stretched.
You exhaled slowly, turning on your heel. “I’ll take the couch.”
Steve’s head lifted, as if he was going to argue – and of course he was. Because Steve would rather sleep on broken glass than let someone else be uncomfortable.
“I can–” he started.
“You can take the bed,” you cut in before he could do the whole gentle martyr routine. “This isn’t a debate, Steve.”
His brows drew together. “It’s not fair.”
“It’s a mattress,” you said, grabbing one of the throw blankets from the sofa like you’d already decided. “I’ll survive.”
He opened his mouth again…
And the doorbell rang.
Sharp. Immediate. Like the universe had impeccable comedic timing.
You froze.
Steve’s entire posture changed in an instant – from awkward and domestic to alert and ready, the kind of switch that always made you remember he was built for war even when he was holding grocery bags.
You moved toward the door without thinking, peeking through the peephole.
A couple stood in the hallway: middle-aged, friendly faces, the kind of people who waved at neighbors and remembered birthdays. The woman held a small plate covered in foil. The man wore a baseball cap and a curious smile.
Neighbors.
Great.
You pulled the door open and forced your expression into something approachable.
“Hi,” you said, brightening your voice just a touch. “Can I help you?”
The woman’s face lit up. “Oh! Hi. We’re so sorry to bother you, we just– we saw someone moving in and thought we’d come say welcome. I’m Linda. This is my husband, Mark. We’re right across the hall.”
You smiled, polite. “That’s really nice, thank you.”
Before you could add anything else, Steve stepped up behind you.
And then it happened so smoothly you almost didn’t register it until you felt it.
His arm came around your shoulders – warm, solid, familiar – pulling you in just enough to make it natural. Not possessive. Not dramatic. Just… intimate, in that casual way couples were intimate without thinking about it.
Like he’d done it a thousand times.
Your body reacted before your brain caught up: a stiff little jolt in your spine, your breath catching in the back of your throat.
Steve didn’t hesitate.
“Hi,” he said, easy, friendly, utterly un-Captain-America in the best way. “I’m Steve. Thanks for coming by.”
Then, without even looking down, he tipped his head toward you and added, voice softening just a fraction, “Honey, do we still have those waters in the fridge?”
Honey.
The word landed like a hand on your pulse.
Not because it was loud.
Because it was right – in the worst possible way. Like his mouth had shaped it naturally. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.
You felt the neighbors’ eyes flicker between the two of you with immediate approval, the way people did when they sensed something familiar and comfortable.
Linda beamed. “Oh my God, you two are adorable.”
Mark nodded, grinning. “Yeah. Welcome to the building.”
You forced a laugh that sounded a little too high in your own ears. “Thanks.”
Steve’s thumb shifted against your shoulder, a tiny squeeze – a silent play along.
Your brain finally caught up enough to do its job.
You leaned into him, just slightly. Let your shoulders relax. Let your body lie as convincingly as your mouth was about to.
“Sorry,” you said, aiming for warm. “We just got in and we’re still… unpacking.”
Linda lifted the plate. “We brought you something. Banana bread. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s fresh.”
“That’s so kind,” you said, accepting it with both hands. The foil was still warm.
Steve’s arm didn’t move.
His presence at your side was steady, reassuring, and suddenly far too distracting.
Linda’s gaze dropped – naturally – to your hand. To the ring.
And then to Steve’s.
Her smile widened like you’d just confirmed something she wanted to believe. “Newlyweds?”
Oh, for the love of–
You felt Steve’s breath change. Not a flinch, exactly. Just a fractional pause, like even he hadn’t anticipated the direct hit.
But he recovered instantly.
“Yeah,” Steve said, gentle, almost shy. “Pretty recently.”
Your stomach flipped.
Linda clasped her hands together. “That is wonderful! Congratulations!”
Mark chuckled. “You picked a good building, man. Quiet. Safe.”
Steve nodded. “That was the idea.”
You kept smiling, kept your face smooth, kept the lie sitting on your tongue like it hadn’t just scorched your throat.
“Thank you,” you managed. “We’re… we’re happy to be here.”
Linda’s eyes softened in that way women’s eyes softened when they thought they were looking at something sweet. “Well, if you need anything – sugar, flour, a screwdriver, someone to take a package – you just knock.”
“We will,” Steve promised. “Thank you. Really.”
They said their goodbyes after another minute, still smiling, still satisfied.
You kept waving until the elevator swallowed them.
The second the door clicked shut, you exhaled so hard it felt like you’d been holding your breath for hours.
Steve’s arm fell away immediately, like he’d been burned.
The warmth it left behind on your skin was almost worse.
You turned slowly, banana bread still in your hands like evidence.
Steve stood a few feet away, eyes on the floor for a beat, then up to you – apologetic already forming on his face.
“I’m sorry,” he started.
You held up a hand. “Don’t.”
His brows knit. “I just– it was automatic. I thought–”
“I know,” you said, because you did. That was the problem. It had been automatic. Instinctive. Like his body knew the role.
Like he’d wanted to play it.
You set the plate on the counter a little too carefully.
Then you looked back at him, trying for exasperation and landing on something softer you didn’t want.
“Honey?” you repeated, dryly.
Steve’s face went red in a way that would’ve been funny if it didn’t make your chest ache.
“I panicked,” he admitted.
“You panicked and your brain decided ‘honey’ was the best option.”
Steve’s mouth opened, then closed. “I–”
You shook your head, letting out a small, incredulous laugh. “This is going to be a long few days.”
His gaze flicked to the bedroom door behind you.
Then to the couch.
Then back to you, like he wanted to say something responsible and didn’t know where to put it.
You could see the thought forming – the inevitable argument about who slept where, about propriety, about comfort, about what you were “supposed” to do.
And then, like the universe wasn’t done tormenting you, you heard footsteps in the hall again. Another door opening. A murmur of voices.
Other neighbors.
More eyes.
More “welcome” smiles.
More rings to notice.
Steve’s shoulders squared subtly, the way they did when he stepped into a role.
When he looked at you this time, there was an apology in his eyes – and something else, too.
Something you didn’t let yourself name.
“Okay,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “Ground rules.”
Steve blinked. “Ground rules?”
“You do not call me honey,” you said firmly.
His lips twitched, helpless. “What about–”
“No.”
“Amazing,” he murmured, like he couldn’t help it. “Because I was going to suggest we–”
The doorbell rang again.
You both froze.
Steve’s gaze slid to yours, and for half a second, you saw it: the way he was already bracing to put his arm around you again.
The way you were already bracing to let him.
You swallowed, stepped toward the door, and forced your best smile back into place.
Behind you, Steve moved closer – close enough to feel.
Close enough to make the lie believable.
And you hated how easily your body adjusted to it.
By the end of the first day, you hated two things with equal intensity.
Sam’s smugness.
And how quickly your body learned the rhythm of the lie.
Because outside the apartment, Steve didn’t just play along. He inhabited it like he’d been born knowing how.
It started small – almost reasonable.
A “honey” murmured at the corner store when you reached for the wrong brand of coffee filters. A “darling” said with a soft laugh as he held the door open for you, palm resting at the small of your back like it belonged there.
The first few times, it made your spine go rigid.
Not because it was inappropriate – you’d done worse covers than this – but because it was Steve. Because his voice did something unfair to those words, like he meant them even when he absolutely couldn’t.
And the worst part was that it worked.
The cashier looked at you and didn’t see an Avenger and an agent. She saw a couple. A man with a patient smile, a woman rolling her eyes affectionately, two people bickering gently over which cereal was “actually edible.” She saw normal.
The building’s doorman learned your faces. The elderly lady on the second floor smiled at you like you were her favorite kind of story. The guy with the dog stopped giving Steve the suspicious once-over after the second day, because Steve had started crouching down to scratch the dog’s ears like he didn’t have a single dangerous thought in his head.
And you…
You held his hand.
Not dramatically. Not with some performative squeeze meant for an audience. Just… naturally.
Because it was easier.
Because it was safer.
Because once you’d done it once, your fingers started reaching for his the next time without you even thinking about it.
Two days.
Two days and your body began to anticipate the warmth of his palm before your brain could remember why it was a bad idea.
You ran the perimeter as if you were just stretching your legs after unpacking, strolling past the same coffee shop twice, ducking into a small bookstore, lingering at the window of a florist for no reason other than to look like you had time.
Steve walked beside you like he belonged there.
Sometimes his arm would slide around your shoulders with that same easy familiarity, tugging you in against his side when you crossed a street. Sometimes his hand would settle at your waist when you paused near a storefront, a light pressure that felt like an anchor.
He said your name less.
He said darling or honey more.
And each time he did, it got… easier.
Less jarring.
Less like a performance.
More like a habit.
You told yourself it was because repetition made anything feel normal. That this was just conditioning. That if you repeated a lie often enough, it stopped feeling like a lie.
It was a comforting thought.
It was also a dangerous one.
By the second night, you’d stopped flinching when he touched you.
By the second night, you’d stopped fighting the instinct to lean into him.
By the second night, you’d caught yourself laughing at something he said while his arm was around you – and you’d forgotten, for half a second, that anyone was watching.
You’d forgotten the mission.
You’d forgotten you weren’t supposed to let this seep under your skin.
That was what terrified you.
The third morning should have been routine.
The apartment was quiet in that early way, the kind of quiet that felt domestic whether you wanted it to or not. Pale light spilled through the blinds. The building’s pipes hissed somewhere in the walls. The scent of coffee hung in the air, warm and grounding.
You were sitting at the small table with your laptop open, hair still messy, one knee tucked up under you. A map and a list of names were spread out beside the keyboard, the practical skeleton of the operation laid bare.
Steve moved around the kitchen with a kind of careful ease you didn’t know he had – barefoot, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the shower. He’d taken the couch the first night. You’d argued. He’d insisted. You’d rolled your eyes and let him, because it was easier than acknowledging how the idea of sharing the bed made your pulse do stupid things.
He’d taken the couch the second night too.
You’d told yourself that proved you were both being professional.
You were still telling yourself that when he approached with a mug in each hand.
He set one down in front of you – black, two sugars, exactly how you took it – like he’d been doing it for years instead of… forty-eight hours.
Then he tilted his head, mouth curving, voice soft with that morning warmth that made you want to throw something at him.
“Here you go, darling.”
You froze with your fingers hovering over the keyboard.
It wasn’t the word.
It was the way it came with no hesitation at all. No performative wink. No glance toward a window to check who might hear.
Just… natural.
Intimate.
Like you were alone and it was real.
You looked up slowly.
Steve was still smiling, but there was a question in his eyes too – like he wasn’t sure why you’d stopped moving. Like he was just… existing in the habit you’d both built.
Your gaze flicked to the coffee. To the mug. To his hands, big and steady and careful not to spill.
Then back to his face.
“You’re getting comfortable,” you said, suspicion sharpening your tone on purpose, because if you didn’t make it a joke, it would turn into something else.
Steve blinked. “What?”
You nudged the mug slightly, as if moving it could shove the moment back into place. “With the… pet names.”
His mouth opened like he was going to deny it. Then he seemed to think better of it.
A faint flush crept up his neck.
“I thought–” he started, then stopped, because whatever excuse he had didn’t sound convincing even in his own head.
You leaned back in your chair, lifting an eyebrow.
And then you let it land exactly where it needed to.
“Do I need to remind you we’re not actually married?”
For half a second, Steve just stared at you.
Like the words had yanked him out of a daydream.
Like you’d pulled a thread and something inside him had gone tight.
His gaze dropped to your hand – to the ring that still sat there, simple and cruel – and his jaw worked once, as if he was swallowing something he hadn’t meant to taste.
Then he looked up again, and the softness in his expression didn’t disappear.
It just changed.
“I remember,” he said quietly.
There was no defensiveness in it.
No embarrassment.
Just… truth.
And for a moment, the apartment felt too small. The air too warm. The coffee too rich in your throat.
Because he wasn’t arguing.
He wasn’t correcting you.
He was simply acknowledging the line you’d drawn – and the fact that he’d stepped close enough to it to make you nervous.
You forced a small, dry smile, because you needed control back in your hands.
“Good.”
Steve’s eyes held yours, steady and too honest for seven in the morning.
“I’m not doing it to–” he began, and stopped again, like he was choosing his words with care. “It’s… habit. Like you said.”
“Right,” you agreed quickly. “A habit.”
He nodded once, but his voice was lower when he added, almost like he couldn’t help himself–
“It’s easy.”
You didn’t breathe for a second.
Easy.
Like it didn’t cost you anything.
Like it didn’t twist something in your chest every time he called you darling.
Like it didn’t make your skin remember his hand around your shoulders before you’d even stepped outside.
You looked away first, because if you didn’t, you were going to let him see too much.
You reached for the mug, wrapping your hands around the heat like it was something solid to hold onto.
“Let’s just… keep it outside,” you said, casual on purpose. “In here, we can be normal.”
Steve’s lips quirked faintly. “Normal.”
You shot him a look over the rim of your coffee. “You know what I mean.”
His smile softened – gentle, almost fond.
And that was the real problem.
Because you were starting to recognize that look.
Not from missions.
From moments.
“I do,” he said. “I’ll– I’ll be careful.”
Careful.
You nodded, taking a sip, letting the bitterness ground you.
Then the quiet stretched, filled with the small sounds of morning – the building settling, the distant hum of traffic, the faint clink of Steve setting his own mug down.
You told yourself you’d put the line back where it belonged.
That you’d reminded him.
That you’d reminded yourself.
But when you stood a few minutes later to grab the printed file from the counter, Steve shifted to make room for you in the narrow space.
And as you passed him, he murmured, almost too soft to hear, “Sorry, honey.”
The word curled around you like smoke.
You stopped for half a beat.
Steve went still too, like he realized what he’d done at the exact same time you did.
Then you exhaled slowly, not turning around.
“This is going to be a long mission,” you muttered.
Behind you, you heard the smallest sound – not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
And Steve, voice warm with something dangerously close to amusement, answered anyway.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
The invite had come through one of the informants like it was nothing.
A “small get-together.”
A “few people.”
A “chance to be seen.”
Which, translated into your world, meant: a room full of eyes you couldn’t afford to trigger.
It wasn’t black-tie. No glittering ballroom, no orchestra, no photographers. But it was still the kind of evening where people noticed details. Where you couldn’t show up in tactical gear and a hoodie without sticking out like a warning sign.
So you made an effort.
Steve did too.
That was part of the problem.
He’d swapped his usual mission-friendly layers for something softer, cleaner. Dark jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, the collar open just enough to look relaxed. His hair was still Steve-hair – stubborn and slightly unruly – but he’d tamed it a little, like he’d actually stood in front of a mirror and tried.
You hated how unfair it was.
How one small shift made him look less like Captain America and more like… a man.
A man you had to pretend was yours.
You chose something simple. Nothing that screamed date night, nothing that made you feel like you were trying too hard. Just a dress that hit your knees and a jacket you could move in, your hair pinned back enough to keep it out of your face. You’d checked the seams, the pockets, the way the fabric fell – because even when you were dressed like a civilian, you still thought like a soldier.
In the hallway mirror, you’d both looked almost… believable.
Steve had glanced at you, then away, like looking too long would be a mistake.
“Ready?” he’d asked.
You’d swallowed. “Yeah.”
And then you’d stepped into the lie together.
The party was in someone’s apartment a few blocks away – bigger than yours, warmer, louder. The kind of place where furniture got pushed back to make room for bodies and music and laughter. Someone had lit too many candles. Someone had put together a playlist that tried hard to be cool.
There were drinks on every surface.
There were clusters of people talking with their whole hands. Couples leaning close. Friends laughing too loudly. A dog weaving between legs like it owned the place.
Normal.
That was the point.
You and Steve slipped into it like you belonged there.
He rested a hand at your back when you moved through the crowd. You smiled at strangers. You laughed at jokes you barely heard. You nodded along to conversations about work and rent and the building’s plumbing like you weren’t mentally mapping exits.
You played your role.
He played his.
And together, you were… seamless.
A couple.
A unit.
Steve’s “honey” came out at the right moments – just loud enough for other people to register, just casual enough to feel real. He introduced you with an arm around your waist. He let people assume things about you without correcting them.
And the room accepted it.
The dangerous part was that you started to accept it too.
You should have paced your drinking. You knew that. You always knew that. But the atmosphere was easy, and the conversation was harmless, and it felt good – too good – to let your shoulders loosen for once.
Someone handed you a glass of something citrusy and sweet. Then another.
Steve didn’t say anything at first. He watched, as he always did – quiet, protective, letting you make your own choices.
But at some point, you realized his hand had moved from your waist to your hip, firmer now. A silent reminder. A steadying weight.
When you glanced up at him, you found his eyes already on you.
Careful.
A little concerned.
A little… something else, maybe.
“You okay?” he murmured, close to your ear so no one else could hear.
You smiled, too bright. “I’m fine.”
Steve’s thumb pressed once into your hip. “You’re flushed.”
“It’s warm in here.”
His gaze dipped to your mouth. Came back up.
“You’ve had a few.”
“Captain,” you teased, leaning in just enough to make it look affectionate, “are you monitoring my alcohol intake?”
His mouth twitched. “Someone has to.”
You laughed – real, this time – and Steve’s expression softened like that sound had hit him somewhere tender.
It made your stomach flip in a way you didn’t have permission to feel.
So you drank again, because it was easier than thinking about it.
You left at the right time.
Before anyone got too drunk to keep their stories straight. Before the noise turned sloppy. Before you started forgetting why you were there.
Steve guided you out with a hand on your back and a polite smile, thanking the host, waving to people you’d spoken to for exactly twelve minutes and would never see again.
Outside, the air was colder, cleaner. The night pressed against your skin like a reset.
You inhaled too deeply and swayed just slightly.
Steve’s hand immediately tightened on your arm.
“Easy,” he said, voice low.
“I’m fine,” you repeated, stubborn.
“I know,” he replied, and there was something in his tone – patient, affectionate, impossibly gentle – that made you look at him.
Really look.
Streetlight pooled gold on his hair. On the line of his jaw. On the collar of his shirt, open at the throat like he wasn’t wearing armor for once.
His face was relaxed from the social performance, but his eyes were still sharp, still tracking, still Steve.
Only now, with the alcohol warm in your blood, you couldn’t keep your mind on the mission.
You saw the way he’d smiled at the dog.
The way he’d said your name like it mattered.
The way his hand had stayed on you the entire night, not for show, but because he didn’t seem to want to let go.
And something in your chest went strangely quiet.
When you reached your building, you fumbled slightly with the keys.
Steve took them from your hand without a word, unlocked the door, held it open. His shoulder brushed yours as you stepped inside.
You were too aware of that brush.
Too aware of him.
The elevator ride was short and silent.
In your apartment, the familiar blandness hit you – neutral walls, neutral furniture, neutral space that was supposed to be a base and not a home.
Steve set the keys down, loosened his shoulders, exhaled like he’d been carrying the night for both of you.
You turned to face him.
The room was dim. Just the kitchen light, soft and yellow, catching the edges of his features.
You stared.
Not like you normally did, quick and pragmatic, checking for tension, scanning for stress.
Different.
Longer.
Like you were seeing him as something other than a teammate, other than a symbol, other than a role.
Steve noticed.
Of course he did.
His gaze flicked to your eyes and held, suddenly still. Something changed in his posture – not alarm, not defense.
Awareness.
A careful kind of attention that made your skin prickle.
“Hey,” you said, and it came out quieter than you meant it to. Almost tender.
Steve didn’t answer right away. His throat worked once, like he was swallowing.
He took a step closer.
Not enough to crowd you.
Just enough that you could feel the heat of him.
And when he spoke, his voice was low – roughened by restraint, by the whole night of playing husband, by the way you were looking at him now.
“Do you know how hard I’m trying not to kiss you right now?”
The sentence hit you like a shove.
Not because you hadn’t felt the tension.
But because he said it like it was the truth. Like he couldn’t carry it alone anymore.
Your breath caught, your pulse spiking under your skin.
“Steve…” you whispered, and you didn’t know if it was a warning or a plea.
His eyes dropped to your mouth again, just for a second – like he was measuring the distance. Like he was imagining it. Like he was fighting himself with everything he had.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t touch you.
He just stood there, hands loose at his sides, looking at you like he was asking permission without daring to ask.
The alcohol in your blood made you brave in the worst way.
Or honest.
You took a small step forward, closing the space he refused to close.
And you tilted your head, voice soft, almost teasing – but your eyes were serious.
“Then don’t look at me like that,” you said.
Steve’s breath stuttered.
His jaw clenched.
“We’re not supposed to do this,” he murmured, like the words cost him.
You could almost hear the mission between you.
The rules.
The consequences.
You could almost hear Sam’s laugh if he knew.
And still – you didn’t move away.
Instead, you lifted your hand, not touching him yet, just hovering near his chest, feeling the heat radiating off him.
“Steve,” you said again, quieter. “You’ve been calling me honey all week.”
His eyes flicked up, sharp with something raw. “That was for the cover.”
“And what about the way you held me tonight?” you asked, too softly. “Was that for the neighbors too?”
Steve’s throat bobbed. His voice came out even lower.
“Stop,” he warned – not harsh, not angry. Just desperate.
“Why?” you whispered.
Because he was losing, and you could see it.
Because you were losing too.
He swallowed, eyes burning into yours like he was trying to memorize you before he did something he couldn’t take back.
“Because if you keep talking,” he said, “I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”
The air between you tightened.
Your smile trembled at the edges, not quite playful anymore.
“Then stop trying,” you breathed.
And that was the moment.
The exact moment when Steve’s restraint cracked – not into violence, not into recklessness.
Into want.
His hand lifted, finally, and hovered by your cheek like he was still giving you a chance to back away.
His voice was barely a whisper.
“Tell me to stop.”
You didn’t.
You just leaned in.
Steve kissed you.
It wasn’t careful, not this time – not the gentle, testing press that left room for doubt. This was heat and momentum, the kind of kiss that swallowed the air between you like it had been starving for it.
His hand found your jaw, thumb braced beneath your ear, and you felt the tremor he tried to hide. Like even now, even with his mouth on yours, some part of him was still fighting – counting consequences, holding the line by sheer force of will.
You made a small sound against his lips, and it was like the last thread snapped.
Steve pulled you closer, chest to chest, the slide of fabric and warmth and breath. Your fingers fisted in his shirt, dragging him in because you couldn’t do anything else. Because you didn’t want to.
You broke apart only to breathe, foreheads nearly touching, mouths still brushing – stolen seconds, stolen air.
His eyes stayed on you, dark and wrecked with restraint.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he breathed, the words catching between your mouths like a prayer he didn’t believe in anymore.
You almost laughed. Almost.
Instead you kissed him again, and the sound he made was all frustration and surrender.
He moved you without thinking – one step, then another – until your back hit the wall. Not hard. Not violent. Just decisive, like his body knew exactly where it wanted you. Like he needed something solid behind you to stop himself from falling.
His hands came up, sliding into your hair, fingers spreading at the base of your skull to hold you steady, to keep your face exactly where he wanted it. The tenderness of it should have felt contradictory with the hunger of the kiss, but it didn’t.
It felt like Steve.
Like devotion, even when it was dangerous.
Your breath hitched as he kissed you again, deeper, slower, like he was learning the shape of your mouth by force. Your hands slid up his sides, gripping him like you could anchor yourself to him and keep the whole world from tilting.
Between two kisses, you felt his forehead brush yours.
“We really–” he started, voice ragged. “We–”
You cut him off by pulling him back in, your mouth demanding his until the thought evaporated.
He kissed you like he was trying to convince himself. Like he was trying to forget. Like he was trying to remember, all at once.
When you finally managed to speak – when your lips parted just enough to let words slip out – you were still pinned there, still held in place by his hands in your hair, his body a shield in front of you.
“Then stop kissing me like that,” you whispered, breathless and accusing and not meaning it at all.
Steve stilled for the smallest second.
His eyes flicked over your face – your mouth, your eyes, the way your hands were still gripping him like you were afraid he’d disappear.
His thumbs pressed gently against your scalp, grounding, reverent.
And then he leaned in again, lips brushing yours like he couldn’t help it.
“I can’t,” he murmured.
The admission hit harder than any of the kisses.
Because it wasn’t an excuse.
It was surrender.
You swallowed, your pulse a loud, reckless thing in your throat. Your fingers slid up, catching at his collar, tugging him down again. You wanted to taste the truth of what he’d just said until it stopped making you feel like you might break.
Steve’s breath shuddered against your mouth.
His hands held your head carefully as he kissed you – like he was afraid of hurting you, like he was afraid you might change your mind, like he needed you to stay right there because if you moved away he’d come apart.
You felt the restraint in him anyway, under the hunger. The way he kept stopping himself from crowding you too hard, the way his hips stayed just far enough back, the way he kept his hands only where they could steady you.
Like he was drawing the line with shaking hands.
Like he didn’t trust himself not to cross it.
You pulled back a fraction, just enough to look at him.
Steve’s eyes were blown wide with want, his breathing uneven, his mouth swollen from kissing you like he’d forgotten how to do anything else.
He looked… undone.
And still, even like this, there was a question in him. A need to be sure.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, voice breaking at the edges, as if saying it cost him.
Your chest rose and fell too fast.
You could feel the mission hovering in the air like a ghost. The rules. The rings. The thin walls. Tomorrow.
But Steve was here, in front of you, holding your head like you were precious, kissing you like he couldn’t survive without it.
You lifted your hand, sliding your fingers along his jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble there.
“No,” you breathed. “Don’t.”
The sound he made was almost a groan – caught in his throat, swallowed by the next kiss as he pressed his mouth to yours again like you’d just given him permission to breathe.
His lips moved to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw – slower now, reverent in a way that made your skin prickle. He lingered like he was trying to map you. Like he was trying to memorize the places that made you go still.
You tilted your head back instinctively, giving him more.
Steve paused, his forehead resting against yours again, his hands still in your hair, holding you there.
“You’re sure?” he asked, quiet and wrecked.
Your answer came without hesitation, even if your brain was still screaming about consequences.
“Yes.”
Steve closed his eyes like that single word had finally broken him.
Then he kissed you again – deep, aching, unhurried – and his lips pressed harder against yours in the dim light of the kitchen, his strong hands tangled in your hair, tilting your head just right to deepen the kiss.
His fingers threaded through the strands with a firm grip, holding you steady as your tongues met in a slow, heated dance that sent sparks racing through your body. Each swirl and flick left you both gasping for air, breaths mingling in short, ragged bursts between the press of mouths.
Your arms slid up around his broad neck, pulling him closer, fingers digging into the muscles at the base of his skull. He responded instantly, his large hands dropping to your thighs, gripping the soft flesh there with effortless strength. In one fluid motion, he hoisted you up as if you were weightless, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The cool edge of the kitchen counter brushed your back for a split second before he spun you both, pinning you firmly against the wall with his solid frame.
The impact jolted a soft moan from your lips into his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, his kisses turning fiercer, more demanding.
His body trapped yours there, hips grinding subtly against you, the hard line of his cock already straining through his pants against your core. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his chest heaved with every breath, matching the wild thrum of your pulse.
For what felt like an eternity but was probably only moments, you lost yourselves in that wall-bound embrace–lips bruising, tongues battling, hands roaming just enough to tease without mercy.
But soon, the thin barriers of fabric became unbearable, a frustrating veil between skin and skin. Your fingers clawed at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward to expose the chiseled planes of his abs, while his palms slid under your dress and went up your body, calloused thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, making your nipples harden instantly under the touch.
He broke the kiss just long enough to growl low in his throat, eyes dark with hunger as they locked onto yours. “Doll,” he murmured, the word rough and intimate, before his mouth claimed yours again. One hand stayed firm on your thigh, keeping you elevated, while the other pushed your dress higher, fingers tracing the edge of your panties, dipping just beneath to feel the damp heat waiting for him.
Steve's hips rolled forward in a deliberate grind, the rigid length of his cock pressing insistently against the damp fabric of your panties, sending jolts of friction straight to your core. Each subtle thrust built a mounting ache between your thighs, his body heat seeping through the layers as he trapped you more firmly against the wall.
His mouth left yours with a wet pop, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. He nipped there lightly, then sucked harder, marking you with a blooming heat that made your pulse thunder in your veins.
His lips wandered lower, brushing over the exposed curve of your collarbone, then dipping toward the swell of your breasts where your dress had ridden up. The fabric bunched awkwardly, but he didn't care – he kissed and licked at whatever skin he could reach, his breath fanning across your chest in ragged exhales.
One hand kneaded your thigh, fingers digging into the muscle to hold you steady as his hips kept that torturous rhythm, rubbing his erection along your slit through the barriers, teasing your clit with every pass.
Your fingers twisted deeper into his hair, clutching the thick strands like a lifeline, pulling him closer as if the touch alone could ground you amid the whirlwind of sensation. The pull elicited a low groan from him, vibrating against your skin, and he rewarded you by sucking a spot just above your pulse point, his tongue swirling to soothe the sting.
Your body arched into him instinctively, breasts pressing against his chest, nipples pebbling painfully against the confines of your bra, begging for more direct attention.
He shifted slightly, his free hand sliding up your side to cup one breast fully, thumb circling the hardened peak through the thin material. The pressure was exquisite, bordering on rough, and you gasped, your grip in his hair tightening enough to make him hiss in pleasure.
“God, sweetheart,” he rasped against your throat, voice thick with need, before his mouth returned to yours in a brief, devouring clash – tongues tangling fiercely while his grinding grew more urgent, the seam of his pants dragging over your soaked folds.
“Steve,” you panted, the word escaping in a breathless rush as he pulled back from the kiss just enough to draw in air, his lips hovering inches from yours, swollen and glistening.
"Yeah?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest into yours, eyes dark and locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.
"Bedroom. Now. Need you inside me." The demand tumbled out, raw and urgent, your body thrumming with the ache he'd built, every nerve screaming for more.
A deep growl tore from his throat, primal and possessive, as his arms tightened around you.
He glanced down to ensure your legs were locked around his waist, your fingers still buried in his hair, and then he moved – super soldier speed turning the world into a blur. In less than fifteen seconds, the cool tile of the kitchen floor gave way to the plush carpet of the bedroom, the dim lamp casting golden shadows across the king-sized bed.
He lowered you onto the mattress with controlled strength, his body following yours down until he hovered above, caging you in with his broad frame. The weight of him pressed you into the soft sheets, his hips settling between your thighs, that hard cock still straining against his pants and nudging insistently at your core.
Without pause, his mouth crashed back onto yours, kissing you like a man deprived of his fix – desperate, devouring laps of his tongue against yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip to draw out a whimper.
His lips trailed fire along your jaw, then down to the curve of your neck, sucking and licking at the tender skin there.
"Bet you taste as sweet as honey," he whispered hotly against your pulse, his breath fanning over the damp marks he'd already left, one hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head for better access. The words sent a shiver racing down your spine, your hips bucking up to grind against him in response.
"But need to be in your pussy now," he added, the confession rough and edged with hunger, his free hand yanking at the hem of your dress to shove it higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of your soaked panties and tugging them aside.
You arched beneath him, legs spreading wider to accommodate his bulk, the friction of his clothed erection dragging over your bare folds making you gasp into his mouth. He groaned at the feel of your wetness coating him through the fabric, his hips thrusting forward in a sharp snap that had the head of his cock pressing right against your entrance, teasing without entering.
His mouth returned to your neck, biting down gently as he rocked against you, building that slick heat until you were writhing, nails scraping down his back under his shirt, desperate for him to follow through on that promise.
Your hands fumbled with the buttons of Steve's shirt, fingers trembling from the heat coursing through you, while his strong palms worked at the zipper of your dress, yanking it down with impatient tugs. Fabric whispered against skin as it peeled away – his shirt tossed aside to reveal the sculpted planes of his chest, muscles rippling under your touch; your dress shoved up and off, leaving you in just your damp panties, which he stripped next, the cool air hitting your exposed folds like a shock.
He shed his pants in a swift motion, kicking them off, his thick cock springing free, heavy and veined, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. You reached for him, wrapping your hand around the base, stroking once, twice, feeling him throb in your grip, but he captured your wrist gently, guiding you back to the bed.
Naked now, skin flushed and slick with sweat, you collided again in a frenzy of kisses – lips crashing, tongues tangling in wet, open-mouthed exploration.
He positioned himself between your spread thighs, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping his shaft as he dragged the swollen head of his cock through your slick folds. The first slide coated him in your arousal, his length gliding easily now, lubricated by the evidence of your need.
You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled as his glans nudged your entrance, parting your lips just enough to tease penetration before pulling back, only to repeat the motion – rubbing up to circle your clit with deliberate pressure.
Each pass sent sparks exploding behind your eyelids, your hips jerking up to chase the friction, a sharp gasp escaping when the broad tip bumped your sensitive nub, nearly slipping inside but holding back at the last second.
“Oh fuck,” you whimpered, the pleasure coiling tighter in your core, your walls clenching around nothing, desperate for him to fill you.
He groaned low, his breath ragged against your cheek, hips rolling in a slow, torturous rhythm that had his cockhead kissing your clit again and again, dipping shallowly at your opening each time, stretching you fractionally before retreating, building the ache until you were dripping onto the sheets.
Your teeth grazed his lower lip in a playful bite, nipping just hard enough to draw a hiss from him, and you pulled back slightly, eyes locking with his heated gaze.
“Want you to take me from behind,” you moaned, the words laced with urgency, your voice husky from the moans he'd already pulled from you.
He panted, chest heaving, his cock twitching against your thigh as he processed your plea.
“You want that?” he rasped, voice thick with desire, one hand sliding down to squeeze your hip possessively.
You nodded fervently, biting your lip as another wave of need washed over you.
“You want me on top of you?”
“God yes. Want to feel you everywhere,” you confessed, arching into him, your breasts pressing against his chest, nipples pebbling from the contact.
“Okay. Okay baby, let's do this,” he murmured, his tone rough with promise.
With gentle but firm hands, he rolled you over, helping you shift onto your stomach, your cheek pressing into the pillow as you stretched out fully on the bed. Your legs parted instinctively, ass lifting just enough to present yourself to him, the cool air kissing your exposed pussy.
Steve settled behind you, his thighs bracketing yours, the heat of his body blanketing your back as his cock rested heavy along the cleft of your ass, still slick from your arousal. His hands roamed your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your waist before one slid up to cup your breast, pinching the nipple lightly, while the other gripped your hip, positioning you just right.
Steve lowered his body over yours, the solid heat of his chest pressing against your back as he aligned himself fully behind you. One strong arm braced beside your head, muscles flexing to hold most of his weight off you, while his other hand wrapped around the base of his cock, the thick shaft sliding down from the cleft of your ass to nudge insistently at your slick folds.
He dragged the swollen head through your wetness once more, parting your lips before pressing forward, the tip breaching your entrance with a slow, deliberate push.
The stretch hit you immediately, his girth forcing your walls to yield as the head popped inside, filling you just enough to steal the air from your lungs. Your breath hitched sharply, a gasp escaping as your body tensed around the intrusion, the sensation bordering on overwhelming.
“God, you're big,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut, lashes brushing your cheeks while you focused on the burn of accommodation, your inner muscles clenching involuntarily around him.
His hand released his cock, leaving it buried to the tip as he reached for yours, fingers seeking and finding your own splayed on the sheets. He laced them together tightly, his grip firm and reassuring, palm rough against your softer skin.
Leaning down, Steve's lips found the curve of your shoulder, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along the slope, then trailing up to the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck. His breath fanned hot there, stirring the fine hairs as he nuzzled closer, teeth grazing lightly before soothing with his tongue.
“Breathe for me, doll,” he whispered against your skin, voice low and gravelly, laced with restraint as he held himself still, letting you adjust.
“Let me in. Let me make you feel good.”
You drew in a shaky inhale, the air filling your lungs as you relaxed fractionally, your free hand clutching the pillow beneath your cheek.
The fullness at your core pulsed with each heartbeat, a mix of ache and promise, your arousal easing the way as he began to inch deeper, the veined length of him sliding past your gripping entrance. His hips rocked gently, feeding more of his cock inside with controlled thrusts, the friction igniting sparks along your nerves.
Steve's mouth continued its worship on your back, kissing the knobs of your spine, sucking lightly at the juncture of neck and shoulder, marking you with faint red blooms that would linger as reminders of this moment. Your joined hands squeezed, anchoring you both as he sank further, the weight of him grounding you in the building pleasure, your moans mingling with his soft grunts of effort and desire.
Steve pushed forward with a steady roll of his hips, the remaining length of his thick cock sinking deep into your pussy until his pelvis pressed flush against your ass, his balls nestling heavy against your clit.
The full invasion stretched you wide, every inch of him buried to the hilt, filling you so completely that your walls fluttered around the pulsing heat of him, a deep ache blooming into exquisite pressure that radiated through your core.
He stilled there, his breath ragged against the back of your neck, giving you those precious seconds to adjust to the overwhelming girth splitting you open, your body trembling as it accommodated the sheer size of him, slick arousal coating his shaft and easing the burn into a throbbing need.
His lips brushed your ear, voice dropping to a husky growl as he murmured filthy words against your skin, each one sending fresh sparks of heat coiling in your belly.
“Fuck, doll, your pussy's gripping me so tight, like it never wants to let go,” he rasped, the obscenity vibrating through you, making your inner muscles clench involuntarily around his buried cock, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses that drew a low groan from his throat.
“Gonna ruin this perfect little hole for anyone else– make it mine, all mine.” The dirty promises ignited your arousal further, your hips twitching back instinctively, chasing the fullness as wetness seeped around where he filled you.
“Move, please,” you begged, the words spilling out in a breathless plea, your fingers tightening around his in a desperate squeeze, nails digging into his knuckles as you held on, the interlaced grip your lifeline amid the intensity. The ache inside you demanded friction now, your body craving the slide and drag that would turn the stretch into shattering pleasure.
Steve obliged with a slow, experimental thrust, pulling back just enough to feel your pussy cling to his retreating length before driving forward again, the motion deliberate and controlled, his cock plunging deep once more with a wet, obscene sound.
The sudden glide hit every sensitive spot inside you, the head nudging against that hidden bundle of nerves, and a sharp wave of ecstasy ripped through you, forcing a high, mewling cry from your lips – almost a whimper, raw and unrestrained, your back arching as stars burst behind your closed eyelids.
“You like that?” he murmured into the hollow of your ear, his free hand sliding up your side to cup your breast, thumb circling the hardened nipple as he held himself deep again, the question laced with dark amusement and hunger, his hot breath teasing the shell of your ear while he waited for your response, his cock twitching inside you in anticipation.
“Yes,” you panted, the word escaping in a ragged breath that caught in your throat, your body still reeling from that first thrust.
“Feels – oh! Feels so good, Steve!”
The pleasure crashed over you in waves, your skin prickling with goosebumps as shivers raced down your spine, every nerve ending alight from the way his cock filled you so utterly, the stretch turning into a delicious burn that made your toes curl against the sheets.
Steve's mouth found your shoulders again, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of your skin, trailing up to your neck where he nipped gently with his teeth. His free hand gathered the strands of your hair, pushing them aside with a tender sweep to clear the path for his kisses, his breath warm and uneven against your damp flesh as he savored the taste of you, the salt of your sweat mingling with the faint scent of your arousal.
He established a steady rhythm then, his hips snapping forward in measured strokes, pulling his thick cock almost all the way out – enough to let your pussy walls drag along the veined length, clinging desperately – before slamming back in with a forceful push that buried him to the root, his pelvis slapping against your ass with a sharp, wet smack.
Each thrust drove deeper, the head of his cock grinding against your inner walls, hitting that spot inside you that sent jolts of ecstasy sparking through your core, your juices slicking the way and easing the glide while your body adjusted to the relentless pace.
“Been wanting to– ah, fuck,” he groaned, the words breaking off into a guttural moan when your pussy clenched around him again, the involuntary spasm milking his shaft in tight, fluttering squeezes that made his control waver, his fingers tightening in yours as he fought to keep the rhythm.
The sound of his voice, raw and strained, only heightened your own building tension, your hips rocking back to meet his thrusts, chasing the friction that had you gasping.
“God, do that again, baby, please?” he begged, his tone laced with desperate hunger, the plea vibrating against your ear as he leaned over you, his chest brushing your back, the heat of his body enveloping yours like a blanket of fire.
This time, you did it on purpose, focusing on the muscles inside you and contracting them deliberately around his buried cock, squeezing him in a slow, pulsing grip that rippled from base to tip, feeling every ridge and vein throb in response as you held him tight, your arousal dripping down your thighs from the effort.
“Oh, you feel like heaven, doll,” he rasped, the praise spilling out in a low rumble that made your heart stutter, his thrusts picking up speed now, pounding into you with more urgency, the bed creaking under the force as his balls slapped rhythmically against your clit, building the pressure toward an inevitable peak. His hand released your hair to slide down your side, gripping your hip to angle you better, pulling you back onto him with each drive, the interlaced fingers still locked as he anchored you both in the storm of sensation.
Steve's lips returned to your neck, pressing fervent kisses along the sensitive curve where your pulse hammered wildly, his tongue flicking out to taste the sheen of sweat there as he sucked lightly, drawing a fresh wave of heat through your veins. The sensation sent sparks racing down your spine, amplifying the building pressure in your core, your body arching instinctively into him.
You moaned deeply, the sound raw and unrestrained, vibrating from your chest as your fingers clenched tighter around his, nails digging into the back of his hand in a desperate grip, seeking an anchor amid the overwhelming tide of pleasure that threatened to sweep you under.
“Steve,” you gasped out, the warning laced with urgency, your voice breaking on his name as the first tremors of your climax coiled tight in your belly, your pussy fluttering erratically around his plunging cock, the walls gripping him in spasmodic pulses that made your thighs quake.
“I’m– Steve– Gonna–”
“I know, honey,"“he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and ragged as he maintained that relentless rhythm, his hips driving forward with unyielding force, each thrust burying his thick length deeper, the slick sounds of your joined bodies filling the room like a primal symphony.
He didn't falter, didn't slow, instead pushing you closer to the edge with every measured snap of his pelvis against your ass.
“Can feel your pussy squeezing me,” he growled low, the words vibrating through you as his free hand dug into your hip, holding you steady for his assault, his cock stretching you wide with every withdrawal and re-entry, the veined shaft dragging along your inner walls and sending jolts of electricity straight to your clit.
He delivered another powerful thrust then, the head of his cock slamming against that sweet spot deep inside, grinding insistently as his balls slapped wetly against your swollen folds, the impact ripping a cry from your lips.
“God,” he groaned, the exclamation torn from him in a guttural burst, his body tensing above yours as your contractions intensified, milking his dick in rhythmic squeezes that had him shuddering, his control fraying at the edges.
“You gonna drive me crazy. Your cunt feels too fucking good.”
The words, filthy and possessive, tipped you over the brink.
Your orgasm crashed through you like a storm, your pussy clamping down hard around his cock in vise-like waves, convulsing as ecstasy ripped through every nerve, your vision blurring with stars while your body convulsed beneath him. Juices gushed from you, soaking his shaft and dripping down your thighs, your moans turning into breathless sobs of release as the pleasure peaked, leaving you trembling and spent, your inner muscles still twitching in aftershocks.
Steve followed moments later, unable to hold back against the vise of your climax. With a final, deep thrust that seated him fully inside you, he came undone, his cock pulsing as hot spurts of cum flooded your depths, painting your walls with his seed in thick ropes.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning your name like a prayer, his body jerking with each release until he was utterly drained, collapsing partially over you while still lodged deep, both of you panting in the hazy aftermath, the air thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction.
Before his full weight could pin you down in the languid haze of release, Steve shifted with deliberate care, rolling onto his side and easing his spent cock from your pussy in a slow, slick withdrawal that left you feeling achingly empty, a warm trickle of his cum seeping from your folds to dampen the sheets beneath you.
The sensation drew a soft whimper from your lips, your inner walls fluttering in protest at the loss, still sensitive and pulsing from the intensity of your shared climax.
He gathered you close without hesitation, his strong arms wrapping around your trembling form, pulling your sweat-slicked body flush against his chest where his heart thundered steadily, a rhythmic counterpoint to your own ragged breaths.
One hand splayed possessively across the small of your back, fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin, while the other cradled the nape of your neck, tilting your face up to meet his gaze – those blue eyes softened now, filled with a tender affection that contrasted the raw hunger of moments before.
His lips found yours in a gentle kiss, unhurried and deep, his mouth moving with a reverence that spoke of more than just the physical sating; his tongue brushed yours lightly, tasting the salt of your shared exertion, as he poured quiet reassurance into the connection.
You melted into him, your hands sliding up his broad shoulders to tangle in the damp strands of his hair, returning the kiss with equal softness, the world narrowing to the warmth of his embrace and the subtle press of his body against yours, bodies entwined in the quiet aftermath of passion.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the thin spill of streetlight through the blinds and the soft glow from the hallway you’d forgotten to turn off. The air still felt warm, heavy with the aftermath – quiet in that particular way a room became when it had held too much breath.
You lay tangled together on the bed, bare skin against bare skin, the sheets kicked into a messy heap around your legs. Steve’s mouth was still on yours – slower now, unhurried, like he was making sure you were still here. Like he was learning you in a language that didn’t require urgency.
His hand traced the line of your jaw, knuckles brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. When you sighed against his lips, he kissed you back, softening into it until the kiss became less about hunger and more about… staying.
Eventually, you pulled away just enough to breathe.
Steve followed, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb still stroking your cheek in an absent, reverent motion.
“Hi,” you whispered, because your brain had decided that was the only safe word in existence right now.
Steve’s answering smile was small, almost shy. “Hi.”
Your laugh came out quiet, shaky around the edges. You tucked yourself closer, as if proximity could make the world stop moving. Steve’s arm tightened around you, pulling you in until you were pressed against his chest, your ear over his heartbeat – steady now, slower than before.
You listened to it for a few seconds, letting it ground you.
Then reality, rude and persistent, slipped back into the room.
You shifted slightly, drawing back just enough to see his face in the low light. “We should talk,” you murmured.
Steve’s eyes opened fully. A flicker of seriousness crossed his features – immediate, attentive, the soldier in him snapping back into place.
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Okay.”
Your fingers traced idly over his shoulder, a nervous habit. “We… can’t let this screw up the mission.”
“We won’t,” Steve promised at once, firm. “I won’t let it.”
It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t a denial of what had happened. It was a vow, plain and simple.
You nodded, swallowing. “And when we go back to the base…”
Steve’s jaw tightened. You could see him thinking – logistics, fallout, consequences. Who would notice. Who would talk. How it would change the way people looked at you. At him.
“How do we handle it?” you asked softly.
For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just watched you, eyes moving over your face like he was trying to hold onto every detail.
Then his voice dropped even lower, a whisper meant only for you.
“Honestly?”
“Yeah.”
Steve exhaled, slow. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
Your throat tightened.
You looked away for half a second, because the words hit too close to what you’d been trying not to want for too long. Then you looked back at him, the truth already climbing out of you like it had been waiting for permission.
“It’s been months,” you admitted, barely audible. “Months since I stopped wanting to be… just your colleague. Or just your friend.”
Steve’s expression softened in a way that made your stomach flip. Like he’d been holding the same confession between his teeth, afraid it would cut someone if he let it go.
His hand slid up to cup your cheek again, thumb brushing beneath your eye with impossible gentleness.
“I’ve always wanted more,” he said, voice rough. “From the moment we–” He hesitated, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it. “From the moment our eyes met the first time.”
You stared at him, stunned by how simple he made it sound. How true.
“How long ago was that?” you whispered, half a joke, half a plea.
Steve’s mouth curved faintly. “Long enough.”
Your laugh was breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I know,” he murmured, and the way he said it was fond. Warm. Like he’d finally stopped fighting the idea of being happy for five seconds.
Silence settled between you again – thick, intimate. Steve’s thumb kept stroking your cheek like he couldn’t stop, like touching you was an instinct now.
You laced your fingers with his, pressing your palm to the mattress beside your head.
“Okay,” you said softly, as if naming it could make it real without breaking it. “We finish the mission.”
Steve nodded once. “We finish the mission.”
“And when we go back,” you continued, voice steadier, “we don’t hide it.”
His gaze sharpened, searching you. “Are you sure?”
You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
A beat of silence.
Then Steve’s face changed – something like relief sliding through him so visibly it almost hurt to witness. As if he’d been bracing for you to take it back.
He leaned in and kissed you again, not hungry this time. Just grateful. Just certain.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.
“Okay,” he whispered. “No hiding.”
You let out a slow breath. Your heart felt too full, too loud.
“And if anyone has a problem,” you added, because you couldn’t help yourself, “they can–”
The image hit you then – Sam’s face when he found out. The grin. The commentary. The insufferable victory lap.
A smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it.
“Sam is going to be unbearable,” you said, voice warm with resignation.
Steve’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his thumb still tracing your cheek like he’d never get tired of it. “Yeah.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. “I’m already regretting telling him later.”
Steve’s hand drifted down, the back of his knuckles brushing your skin as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His gaze stayed locked on yours, steady and tender.
Then, in a low murmur – half promise, half threat – he said, “I’ll make him pay during training.”
Your laugh came out quiet, bright in the darkness.
“Please do,” you whispered.
Steve kissed the corner of your mouth, lingering there as if he didn’t want to move away.
And for the first time since the mission began, the lie felt less like a trap and more like the strange, accidental path that had finally led you somewhere honest.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦Author's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollen✦
It doesn’t bother you. If you tell yourself enough, you’re really going to believe that it doesn’t bother you.
But he’s everywhere.
There isn’t a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and he’s there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks you’re going to bite him. In the gym he’s at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think he’s doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but he’s spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.
Because it’s not just Bucky’s eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. It’s that you like it.
That when you’re next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your body’s connect. He’s warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts it’s like you’re being shot up with a drug.
“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”
You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”
“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“
“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m not-“
“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.
“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.
“Congratulations.”
You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-
Get a fucking grip.
“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”
Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.
You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.
It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.
“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.
That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.
You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.
As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.
Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.
The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.
“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.
Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.
You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.
“I was busy.”
“Too busy for your job?”
“It’s not my job-“
“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.
“Have you been carrying that around all day?”
“That doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it really does-“
Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“
“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“
“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“
“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”
“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.
But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.
“Why’re you skipping.”
You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.
“I have a date.”
“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.
“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.
Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.
“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”
“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.
“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“
The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.
“What’s-“
“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.
“No, he’s not-“
“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”
Then he’s gone.
And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.
You just need to know what the fuck that was.
There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.
He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.
You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.
And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.
“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.
You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.
At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.
“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”
He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.
The mission is over.
Two days early.
Your jaw tightens.
Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.
Something went wrong, and they have to come back.
You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.
But they’re back early.
And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all.
You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.
Maybe they really did just… Finish early.
You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.
Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.
“You need to go, Buck-“
“I’m fine-“
“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“
“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“
Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.
He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.
His hand is hot.
Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.
He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.
“Hi.” You whisper.
His throat bobs. “You’re back.”
“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“
“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”
Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.
“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.
He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.
“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.
“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“
“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.
He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.
“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”
Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.
“How was your date?” He grunts.
“Bucky-“
“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.
The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.
You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.
Get a fucking grip.
“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”
And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.
But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.
“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”
Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.
Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.
Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.
You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.
“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.
You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.
“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”
Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.
That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.
You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.
Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.
He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.
You somehow—just barely—fight it.
“Why can’t I access these files.”
Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.
“Barnes-“
“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”
You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“
“Steve should change that.”
God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.
“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”
Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.
“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”
You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.
And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.
You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.
Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.
Instead, you find Bucky.
He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.
You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.
“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.
He just nods.
You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.
“You want hot chocolate?”
A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.
And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.
His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.
Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.
“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”
You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.
But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.
You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.
That he wants to be here.
Near you.
He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.
Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.
It’s almost a moan.
You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.
But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.
You feel almost sick.
It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.
His fever is building again.
You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.
When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.
You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.
If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘
But it is Bucky.
And he’s never going to make anything that easy.
You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.
“Hi.” You say lamely.
He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“
“Bucky, are you-“
“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.
You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.
But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.
“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“
“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”
You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.
And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.
“Bucky-“
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”
You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.
But you do go right to Steve.
“What happened on the mission.”
Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.
“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“
“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”
Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’
“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“
“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”
You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”
Steve sighs. “Is it you?”
“Yep.”
He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.
“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“
“I really don’t care.”
“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.
You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.
“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“
“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.
“No, you just won’t tell me-“
“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“
“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“
“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”
“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.
“I know how it sounds-“
“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“
“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”
You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole.
“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Steve-“
“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”
You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.
“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”
Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.
“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“
You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.
And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.
“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”
You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”
Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”
You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.
But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.
“What are the symptoms?”
Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”
“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”
“But- Bucky-“
“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”
“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”
Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”
“Before or after the mating?”
Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“
“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”
“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“
Steve says your name plainly. You blink.
“What-“
“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”
You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.
“Steve-“
“I didn’t say anything-“
“Yes, you did-“
“Nope.”
You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”
Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.
“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”
This is a bad idea.
Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.
But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.
After you fix this for him.
If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.
Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and move to Indonesia.
But if he doesn’t turn you down…
You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.
“Fuck off, Stevie-“
“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response.
Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.
He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.
His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.
You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.
“You shouldn’t be here-“
“Steve said you need me.”
You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-
“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.
“I- I made him.”
He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”
“I was worried about you-“
“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“
“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”
Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.
“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.
“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“
“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”
He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.
“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“
“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“
“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.
“Who says?”
“You’re an ass to me-“
“You’re an ass to me.”
“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”
Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.
“Me neither.”
You nod. “But…”
“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”
You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.
“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“
Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.
It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.
Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.
You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.
“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”
And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.
But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.
You didn’t know you could want him more.
“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”
For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.
Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.
“You- You got no idea, do you?”
Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“
“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”
And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.
“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.
“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”
“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”
He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.
“Didn’t you?”
You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“Bet I imagined more.”
And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.
You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.
“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”
You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.
“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”
Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.
You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.
“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”
He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.
“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“
Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.
“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“
He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.
Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.
You can’t have that.
“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”
Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.
“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”
You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.
“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”
He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“
You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.
“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.
“How?”
“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“
His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.
“You think this is funny?” He rasps.
You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”
He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.
“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“
“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.
He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“
Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.
There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.
A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.
Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.
“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.
Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.
Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.
You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.
He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.
“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.
And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.
“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.
You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.
Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.
“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”
You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.
Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.
“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”
You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.
You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.
“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”
And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.
So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.
Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.
“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”
You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.
“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”
He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.
“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”
You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.
Permission to go further.
His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.
“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”
In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.
A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.
Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.
“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“
“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“
His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.
Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.
“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”
He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.
“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“
Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.
He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.
Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.
You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.
“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”
You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.
“Aren’t you?”
“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“
“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”
You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.
“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“
He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.
And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.
“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“
The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.
Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.
He’s jerking off while he eats you out. He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.
Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.
Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.
“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“
Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.
You don’t want to.
With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.
“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“
Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles
“Good girl.” He coos.
You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.
“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.
You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.
“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”
You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.
But you’re at an advantage.
Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.
You want him to give in.
So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.
Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.
His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.
“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”
You almost beam. Yes, please.
Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.
He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”
If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.
But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.
The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.
“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“
Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.
He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.
You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.
“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“
His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.
That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.
Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.
“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.
He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.
“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“
“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“
Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.
And he’s not even done.
The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.
You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.
He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.
You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.
Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.
“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.
You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”
You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.
They’re blue again.
“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.
He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.
“I’m back.”
You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.
You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.
He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.
God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-
Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.
He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-
“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”
Oh.
Or that. That’s nice.
You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.
Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.
“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”
You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.
“Yeah. I’m staying.”
✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Johnny Storm has never been good at sharing. Food? Sure. His car? Sometimes. Attention? Absolutely not. You? Hard no.
Which was exactly why you should have known something was wrong the second he spotted you standing in the Baxter Building lobby dressed for a date. You'd spent nearly an hour getting ready. Sue had even helped you with your hair. Not because you were particularly excited about the date, but because it had been so long since you'd actually gone on one.
The man was visiting New York for a scientific conference with Reed. You were helping Sue prepare the auditorium for Reed’s next lecture when he politely interrupted you. Sue had smirked as she watched the interaction.
You talked for a while, eventually leading to him asking you to dinner and Sue lightly nudging you in encouragement. So, you said yes. He was smart, charming, and had somehow worked up the nerve to ask you out after three days of meetings.
Apparently not according to Johnny. You were checking your reflection in the glass doors when you heard a familiar voice.
“Where are you going all dressed up? Sue got you running around at this hour?” Johnny asked as he approached you.
You turned to find Johnny smirking with his hands in his jacket posckets.
His blue eyes swept over your outfit.
Then his jaw tightened as the realization hit that you were definitely not in your typical “Sue’s number one assistant clothes”.
“A date,” you answered simply.
The word seemed to physically offend him. “A date,” he repeated.
“That's what I said,” you shrugged.
“With who?” He asked, his tone defensive.
You laughed. “Why do you sound like an angry boyfriend?”
“I'm not,” he said too quickly.
“Good,” you said simply.
Johnny's expression darkened. You tried to ignore the strange feeling in your stomach that came with his reaction.
For months the two of you had existed in this weird gray area.
Friends, best friends, honestly. Friends who occasionally kissed. Friends who occasionally spent the night together. Friends who have seen each other naked more times than they could count. Friends who definitely weren't dating but were probably in love if they could gather the courage to tell one another.
You had spent almost every night for the last two months in Johnny’s bed or in your bed with Johnny. Prior to that, it was just sex. Your average, friends with benefits situationship with your boss’s younger brother who was also your best friend. Because that’s totally normal, right?
Somewhere between late night kisses, tangled sheets, and early morning laughter the lines blurred and you found yourself hopelessly in love with him. What you didn’t know was that he was hopelessly in love with you long before you realized you were.
Every time either of you got close to discussing feelings, one of you changed the subject. And it was usually Johnny, which is what lead you to believe the love was completely one sided.
So eventually you'd stopped trying, and when Sue had nudged you before you could say no to this date, you had the epiphany that if you let yourself keep falling back into Johnny’s arms, the cycle would never end.
Now he was glaring at you like you'd personally betrayed him. “What's his name?” he demanded.
“Why?” You asked, raising your brow at him, testing him.
“Because,” he said confidently, like that explained all the emotion swirling in his irises.
“That's not an answer,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
Johnny rolled his eyes, “fine. Because I want to know."
“Daniel,” you said simply.
“Daniel,” Johnny repeated like it was an insult.
You sighed, “what is your problem?”
"Nothing,” he grumbled.
“Johnny,” you scolded, losing patience for his behavior.
“Nothing,” he nearly whined back like a child having a tantrum.
You stared at him and he stared right back. You narrowed your eyes, trying to read him.
“If you have something to say, something that might effect whether I go on this date,” you took a deep breath, willing the strength to finish your thoughts, “I suggest saying it before Daniel gets here.”
The tension stretched between you. Your heart was beating so loud you were sure he could hear it.
His eyes flicked to your lips, and for a moment you thought he was going to do it.
He simply shrugged, “nope… nada.”
You nearly flinched at his words. You shook your head, “okay,” you stepped around him, “have fun acting weird and being mad for no reason whatsoever.”
His voice followed you, “maybe he's boring.”
You stopped in your tracks just as you reached the door and turned around to face him again, “what?”
“I'm just saying. I know what makes you laugh.” He paused as if he was trying not to cringe at his own words, “you don't even know him.”
“Exactly,” you blinked, “you wouldn’t know… because you don’t go on them, but that’s the point of a date.”
Johnny opened his mouth and then closed it. He was very rarely left speechless.
His hands clenched at his sides. For one second you thought he might actually say whatever he was feeling, that your words had gotten to him just enough to make him drop to his knees for you.
Instead he muttered, “Forget it. Have fun.”
Your heart sank. Just like it always did when it came to Johnny and his feelings.
So you forced a smile, “goodnight, Johnny.”
You turned and pushed the doors open without sparing him another glance.
Johnny stomped so loudly back into the penthouse the walls were nearly shaking.
“Woah tough guy, I thought you were Ben shaking the apartment like that,” Sue said from the couch, “what’s got you so worked up?”
He huffed an annoyed laugh and continued walking towards his rooms, ignoring her advances.
“Okay, turn back around and sit down.” She demanded.
He took a deep, annoyed breath, but he knew better than to defy her. He rolled his shoulders and turned around, taking a seat across from her on the couch.
“Did you see my assistant in the lobby?” She asked teasingly, knowing that you were much more than that to both of them, and also knowing you were headed on your date.
The truth was she couldn’t stand to watch you both continue this dance. You thought you were smooth, sneaking out of his room in the morning, reeking of his cologne when she found you in her office before eight o’clock. She’s known for a while, and she’s also known you both belong together but won’t admit it.
“Yes. I saw her.” He said simply, acting grumpy.
She hummed in response, “she looked pretty, I helped her do her hair—”
“Sue, what is this?” Johnny asked accusingly.
She scoffed, “you know exactly what this is.”
He shook his head and let out a laugh, “what do you want me to do, huh? Sit here and tell you I’m in love with her? Go crash her date? She’s not mine.”
Sue raised her eyebrows, closing the book that was in her lap, “well I’ll admit, I thought it was going to be a lot harder than that to get you to say it.”
Johnny's mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide, “holy shit. Did you set this up?”
Sue bit her lip and shrugged.
“You are evil sister,” he said with a laugh. He ran his hand down his face.
“So what’re you gonna do about it?” She asked, raising a brow at him.
He threw his hands up in exasperation, “do you know where she is?”
She nodded with a smile.
Daniel had met you on the side walk just as you had willed the courage to keep your tears behind your eyes.
The restaurant was beautiful and the food was amazing. It was the type of restaurant you weren’t sure how he managed to get a reservation at on such short notice.
Daniel was perfectly nice and you were miserable.
Why the hell were you miserable? The sweet, tall, brunette with floppy eyes and brown eyes was basically yearning for you from across the table.
He was polite and ordered the perfect dishes and a delicious bottle of wine. But you couldn’t even taste the food or the wine. Because every few minutes your brain replayed Johnny's expression in the lobby.
You hated how much it bothered you and there was a storm inside your mind raging so loudly that you weren’t even listening to the sweet man across from you.
“So,” Daniel said with a smile, “I was hoping maybe tomorrow I could—“
A loud voice interrupted him from behind you.“absolutely not.”
Your eyes widened and slowly, you turned around, twisting uncomfortably in your chair. Although, you didn’t need to turn to know who’s voice it was.
Johnny stood in the middle of the restaurant breathing heavily like he'd sprinted ten blocks to get there.
Half the restaurant had already noticed him and stopped their conversations to listen in.
The flames were sizzling off his hands and there was some smoke left from it, did he just blast through New York to interrupt your date?
“Johnny,” you hissed.
“Oh, good. You're still here,” he said, his lips twitching up into his signature smirk.
“What are you doing?" You whisper yelled.
“I've been asking myself that for thirty minutes,” he took a few steps closer so that he was leaning against the small table you were sharing, “had to pick a place all the way downtown, huh?”
“Oh my god,” you ran a hand down your face, thoroughly embarrassed.
Daniel looked thoroughly confused, but Johnny was looking at you.
“You know what?" he said, “you were right.”
Your stomach dropped, “about what?”
"Me being weird,” he said.
Several nearby diners were openly staring now and when you glanced around and saw you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
Johnny didn't seem to care.
“I've been acting like an idiot,” he continued.
“Johnny—” you tried to cut him off.
“No, let me finish,” Johnny took a breath and suddenly every trace of humor vanished from his face, “I hate that you're here with him.
Your heart stopped.
“I hate that some other guy gets to make you laugh tonight,” he was dead serious.
The room disappeared, Daniel was clearing his throat, but neither you or Johnny flinched, holding each others gaze.
There was only Johnny, even the sound had faded around you. Only those blue eyes fixed on yours.
“I hate every date you've ever gone on,” he took another step closer. “And I know I don't get to be mad because you aren't mine.” Johnny swallowed hard, “but I want you to be.”
The entire restaurant gasped collectively. You were pretty sure you did too, but honestly you think you blacked out for a moment.
Johnny's voice softened, “you make every day better. I look for you at the end of every day. I see you in everything I do.”
Your eyes burned.
“And somewhere along the way I fell completely in love with you. You’ve had my heart for months,” he nearly whispered the confession.
Daniel slowly raised his hand, “I feel like I should leave.”
“Its probably in your best interest to do so,” Johnny said without glancing toward him. His eyes remained locked on yours.
You didn’t say anything, you felt like your throat had gone completely dry and you were dizzy.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Daniel throw cash on the table before scurrying away.
“Good luck with whatever,” he pointed between the two of you, “… this is.”
Johnny never took his eyes off yours, “if you don't feel the same, that's okay, but I couldn't sit there knowing I might lose my chance because I was too scared to tell you.”
Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt, “you idiot,” you let out a wet laugh.
Johnny laughed weakly, “yeah.”
“You absolute idiot,” you said with a smile.
“I've been told,” he smiled back.
Tears filled your eyes.
Then you stood up from your chair, and before he could say anything else, you closed the distance between you and you kissed him.
The restaurant erupted into applause, snapping you back into reality enough to make you realize you caused a scene, but not enough to make you pull away from him.
Johnny kissed you back instantly, his hands finding your waist. It wasn’t like your usual lustful ones, it was slow and passionate, like you had been waiting your entire life for this.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless. He rested his forehead against yours.
“Soooo… you love me too?" He asked with a smirk.
You rolled your eyes, “I've been in love with you for like forever."
Johnny groaned dramatically, lare you kidding me?”
“You couldn't tell?” You asked. His hands still held your waist tightly as you stood there.
“No!” He said, “we’ve wasted so much time being stupid.”
Johnny pulled you closer, “well,” his grin finally returned, “what happens now?”
You smiled, “first?” You brought your hands to his chest, resting them comfortably.
“Yeah?” He smirked, getting excited.
“You apologize to Daniel,” you bite your lip, knowing that’s not what he wanted to hear.
Johnny looked over at the door, “honey, we scared him right off. He’s long gone.”
Then he looked back at you. The expression on his face was so full of affection it made your chest ache.
"Second?" He asked.
You smiled, “second, we’re going to finish this bottle of very nice wine and talk about how we finally stop pretending we're just friends.”
Johnny's answering grin lit up the entire room, “best idea you've ever had.”
**read touch and go here**
✮ synopsis: steve rogers has spent two years keeping you at arm’s length. but when a mission goes wrong and his skin meets yours, suddenly every wall he’s built starts crumbling.
(or: the soulmate fic where touch is the one thing captain america can’t fight.)
✮ pairing: steve rogers x soulmate!reader
✮ warnings: gunshot wound, severe blood loss, near-death experience, touch starvation/deprivation, PTSD, panic attacks, grief, hospitalization, steve's crippling self-destructive tendencies, some bone-deep yearning, angst with HEA, explicit sexual content
✮ word count: 17.2k (ur girl doesn't know how to shut up)
✮ a/n: this was supposed to be a drabble. like. idk. (I think I might like it more than 'touch and go' WHO SAID THAT)
series masterlist
bonus drabble 1
bonus drabble 2
The first time you see Steve Rogers cry, you're not supposed to be there.
The SHIELD medical bay at 2:47 AM is meant to be empty—just you, a dislocated shoulder from a mission gone sideways in Prague, and the ice pack you're too stubborn to ask someone else to help you position. But there he is, Captain America himself, hunched forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside bed seven with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking in that particular way that says everything hurts and I'm trying to be quiet about it.
You freeze in the doorway, good arm holding your bad arm, heart suddenly hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, making everything look sharp-edged and surreal. Your mouth goes dry. There's a metallic taste on your tongue—adrenaline, maybe, or just the copper-tang of exhaustion that's been following you since your transport touched down six hours ago.
He's still in his tactical gear—dirt-streaked and blood-spattered from wherever he's been. You'd heard whispers in the hallways. A Hydra facility. The Winter Soldier, recovered. Captain Rogers, who never fails, who never breaks, bringing his best friend home after seventy years. You'd seen him from a distance when they'd brought Barnes in, shield on his back like it weighed a thousand pounds, and thought what you always think: beautiful and untouchable as a monument.
Now, though. Now he's just a man in a room that smells like antiseptic and grief, crying over—
The bed. There's someone in the bed.
Barnes. James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. Whatever name he's wearing today. This is your first time seeing him up close, seeing him as something other than a ghost story whispered in SHIELD corridors. He looks smaller than the legends suggest, more human than weapon.
He's unconscious, or close to it, hooked to machines that beep in rhythms that must mean something to someone who isn't you. But what catches your attention—what makes your stomach twist and drop like you've missed a step going downstairs—is the woman curled against his side.
You don't know her, have never seen her before, but you know what she is. It's in the way she fits against him, like two pieces of something broken made whole. The way even unconscious, his body angles toward hers, his metal arm—and God, that's the arm that's killed presidents—draped protectively across her waist. The way her hand rests over his heart, monitoring his breathing even in sleep.
His soulmate. The Winter Soldier has a soulmate.
And Steve Rogers is crying over them.
Your shoulder throbs, sending white-hot spikes down your arm, and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. You should leave. This is private, sacred, none of your business. But when you try to shift backward, your shoulder screams—a sharp, electric agony that races down your spine and makes your vision go spotty at the edges. The small sound that escapes your throat—half-gasp, half-whimper—cuts through the quiet like a gunshot.
Steve's head snaps up.
His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated, the blue of them turned dark and stormy with an emotion so raw it feels like looking directly at an exposed nerve. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, catching the harsh fluorescent light, and his lips are parted like he's forgotten how to breathe properly. For a second, neither of you moves. You're caught in the doorway like a deer in headlights, your pulse thundering in your ears, and he's frozen mid-grief, and the moment stretches taut as wire between you.
The air feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Your skin prickles with it, every hair on your arms standing at attention.
Then his face closes off. All that naked emotion disappears behind the Captain America mask, so fast you'd think you imagined it if your heart wasn't still trying to claw its way out of your chest from the impact of seeing it.
"You need help?" His voice comes out rough, scraped raw, gravel and exhaustion and something else threaded through it. He clears his throat, stands, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the walls pressing in. He's always so much—six feet of genetically enhanced perfection that makes your body confused about whether it wants to fight or flee or something else entirely that you refuse to examine.
"I—" Your voice catches, sticks in your throat like you've swallowed glass. You force yourself to look at your shoulder instead of his face, but that means looking at the way his hands flex at his sides, the way his weight shifts like he's fighting the urge to move toward you. "Dislocated. From Prague. I can manage."
"You can't." Matter-of-fact, not unkind, but there's something underneath it—a tension that makes your stomach flip. He crosses the room in three strides, and you have that thought again—monument—but monuments don't usually smell like gunpowder and sweat and something cedar-sharp that makes your hindbrain light up with interest you absolutely cannot afford.
He stops just short of you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. The movement makes your shoulder scream, and you can't quite suppress the way your breath hitches.
"Really, I'm—"
"Stubborn?" There's something almost like amusement flickering across his face, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it makes your chest go tight and warm. "I know. You once tried to extract yourself from a building collapse with three broken ribs and a concussion."
You blink, stomach doing something complicated and uncomfortable. He knows that? He noticed that? Your skin feels too tight, like your body's trying to contain something that won't fit.
"Sit." He gestures to one of the beds, and when you don't move immediately—frozen by the way he's looking at you, intent and focused like you're a problem he needs to solve—his head tilts slightly. "That's an order, agent."
"You're not my CO," you point out, but you're already moving, because arguing with Steve Rogers while your shoulder feels like it's full of ground glass and your body is betraying you with all these inconvenient reactions seems like a losing proposition.
He follows, and you're hyperaware of him in that way you always are—the space he takes up, the way air seems to bend around him, the way your skin prickles with awareness even though he hasn't touched you. When you sit on the bed's edge, the paper crinkles beneath you, too loud in the quiet. He stands in front of you, and you have to focus on the SHIELD logo on his chest because looking at his face feels dangerous right now, like staring directly into the sun.
"This is going to hurt," he says, and his voice is lower now, closer. You can feel it rumble through the space between you.
"I know." Your good hand is gripping the edge of the bed so hard your knuckles have gone white. Your heart is doing something irregular and concerning in your chest.
"I mean it's going to—"
"Captain Rogers." You finally look up at him, find him watching you with an expression you can't parse—something intense and careful and guarded all at once. The fluorescent light catches in his hair, turns it more gold than blonde. There's a smudge of dirt on his jaw. "I've been in the field for six years. I know what a shoulder reduction feels like."
Something shifts in his jaw, that little muscle tick you've catalogued along with a hundred other Steve Rogers tells. Your breathing has gone shallow, and you don't know if it's from the pain or the way he's looking at you—like you're something he needs to be careful with.
Finally, he reaches for your arm.
He's wearing tactical gloves.
Of course he is. Steve Rogers always wears gloves on missions, black leather that make his already large hands look even more capable. You've never thought about it before—lots of agents wear gloves. Protection, grip, a hundred practical reasons.
But now, with him this close, with his hands carefully bracketing your injured arm, you notice the deliberateness of it. The way the leather covers every inch of skin from fingertip to wrist. The way he's careful, even now, not to let any exposed skin above the glove brush against you. There's a gap, barely an inch, where his sleeve has ridden up, revealing a strip of pale skin. You stare at it, pulse jumping in your throat for reasons you don't understand.
"On three," he says, and his voice is closer now, quieter. You can feel the heat of him, the solid presence that makes your good hand want to reach out and—
Your fingers twitch on the bed. The paper crinkles.
"One."
He adjusts his grip, and even through the leather, even through your tactical shirt, your nerve endings light up like a circuit board. Your breath catches, stops, starts again too fast.
"Two."
You're watching his face because you have to look somewhere, and that's when you see it—a flicker of something that looks like resignation. Like loss. Like he's steeling himself for something that's going to hurt. The tendons in his neck are taut, and there's a bead of sweat trailing down from his temple despite the cool air.
"Three."
The world whites out. Pain floods your system, sharp and immediate, and your vision goes sparkly at the edges. Your good hand flies up instinctively, searching for something to anchor you, and finds—
His vest. Your fingers curl into the tactical fabric, knuckles brushing against the solid wall of his chest beneath. You're falling forward, or maybe he's moving closer, and suddenly your forehead is almost touching his chest, and his hands have shifted to your shoulders—careful, still gloved, but holding you steady.
"Breathe," he says, and maybe it's the pain, but his voice sounds different. Softer. Rougher. His thumb moves in a small circle against your shoulder, probably meant to be soothing, but it sends electricity racing down your spine. "You're okay. Just breathe."
You realize you're making small, hurt sounds into his vest, and his body has curved around you slightly, protective, blocking you from the rest of the room. Your working hand has somehow fisted completely in his tactical vest, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, too controlled to be natural. His heart beats against your knuckles, faster than you'd expect for someone with enhanced everything.
"I'm good," you manage, though your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, wrecked. "I'm—thank you."
You pull back, look up, and freeze.
He's so close. Close enough that you can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, the way his pupils have dilated slightly. Close enough to count individual eyelashes, to see the faint scar on his lower lip. Close enough that when his lips part slightly, you feel his exhale ghost across your face.
His eyes drop to where your hand grips his vest, and there's something almost stricken in his expression. His throat works as he swallows, and you track the movement helplessly.
Then his gaze snaps to your face, and for a second—just a second—his eyes drop to your mouth.
The air between you goes electric.
His hand on your shoulder tightens infinitesimally, leather creaking, and you're suddenly aware that your bodies are still curved toward each other, that if you just leaned forward an inch—
He jerks back. Takes three full steps back, actually, like he needs the distance. Like proximity to you is somehow dangerous. His breathing is slightly uneven, and there's a flush high on his cheeks that wasn't there before.
"You should get that x-rayed," he says, and his voice is too loud in the quiet room, just slightly unsteady. He's Captain America again, professional and distant, but his hands are clenched at his sides and he won't quite meet your eyes. "And ice. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."
"I know the drill." Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, throaty and affected. Your good hand is still raised slightly, fingers tingling from where they'd gripped his vest.
He nods, sharp and efficient. Turns to go back to his vigil beside Barnes's bed. But something makes you speak, words tumbling out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.
"He's lucky."
Steve stops. His shoulders go rigid, the line of his spine straightening like someone's put electricity through it.
"Barnes," you clarify, though you shouldn't. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy. "To have someone who—to have her. His soulmate. They're both lucky."
When he turns to look at you, there's something hollow in his eyes, something that makes your chest ache with recognition you don't want to examine. The muscle in his jaw is working again, and his gloved hands clench and unclench at his sides.
"Yeah," he says quietly, and the word comes out like it's been dragged over broken glass. "Lucky."
He says it like the word tastes like ash, like something burned and bitter on his tongue.
"Steve—" You don't know what you're going to say, don't know why his name feels like something precious in your mouth, why your body is still leaning toward him like a plant toward sunlight.
"You should rest." He cuts you off, gentle but firm, and there's something almost desperate in the way he's not looking at you. "That shoulder needs—"
An alarm goes off. Not the gentle chime of a normal medical alert, but the sharp, angry wail that means something's wrong. Steve's already moving, heading for Barnes's bed where machines are screaming and the woman—his soulmate—is sitting up, hands pressed to her temples, saying "Something's wrong, something's—"
Barnes jackknifes upright with a sound that isn't quite human, metal arm swinging blindly, and his soulmate catches his hand without flinching. The moment their skin connects, some of the wildness bleeds out of his eyes.
"Bucky." Her voice is steady despite the chaos. "You're in medical. You're safe. I'm here."
You should leave. This is definitely not for you to witness. But you're frozen, watching how Barnes's entire being reorganizes itself around her touch, how his breathing slows to match hers, how the machines gradually stop their shrieking as his vitals stabilize. The way she runs her fingers through his hair, and he melts into it, face pressing into her palm like he's trying to absorb her through skin contact alone.
And you watch Steve watch them, standing two feet away but somehow miles distant, his gloved hands clenched so tight at his sides that the leather creaks.
You've never wanted a soulmate. The odds are astronomical, the chance of finding them slim to none, and you've seen what happens to people who lose them—the hollow-eyed grief that never quite fades. Better to never have one than to lose them. Better to be whole on your own than broken in half of a pair.
But watching Barnes fold into his soulmate's arms like coming home, watching her hold him together with nothing but touch and presence and fierce, protective love—
Your chest aches with want so sharp it steals your breath. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like your body is trying to tell you something your mind won't acknowledge.
When you look at Steve, he's already looking at you. For just a second, you see your own longing reflected in his eyes, the same hollow ache of watching others have what you'll never possess. His gaze drops to your hand—the one that had gripped his vest—and something flickers across his face, too fast to read.
Then he looks away, jaw tight, and the moment breaks, and you're just an injured agent who needs to stop projecting feelings onto a superior officer who barely knows you exist.
"Get some rest," he says without looking at you, voice carefully controlled. "That's an order."
This time, you don't argue. You leave him to his vigil, to his grief, to whatever it is that makes Captain America cry in hospital chairs over other people's happy endings.
Your shoulder throbs in time with your heartbeat as you walk away, and you tell yourself that's the only reason your chest hurts. That's the only reason your skin feels like it's burning where he almost touched you. That's the only reason you can still feel the ghost of his vest under your fingers, the phantom heat of him curved around you.
You're very good at lying to yourself at 3 AM.
But your traitorous body remembers the way he'd jerked back from you, the way his eyes had gone wide with something that looked like fear when he'd realized how close you were.
Whatever Steve Rogers is afraid of, you're starting to think it might be you.
The next time you see him is three days later, and your body knows he's in the room before your brain catches up.
You're bent over a terminal in the east wing surveillance room, trying to make sense of intel that feels like it's been encrypted in ancient Sumerian, when every hair on the back of your neck stands at attention. Your spine straightens involuntarily, muscles tensing like an animal sensing a predator—or worse, like iron filings responding to a magnet.
"Agent."
Just that. Just your title in his Captain America voice, all professional distance and careful neutrality. But your treacherous body reacts like he's whispered something filthy in your ear—pulse jumping, skin flushing hot, stomach doing that uncomfortable flip that's becoming alarmingly familiar.
You don't turn around. Can't. Not when you know what you look like right now—haven't slept in thirty-six hours, hair in a messy bun that's listing severely to the left, yesterday's coffee staining your SHIELD-issued crewneck. Not when you can feel him taking up all the oxygen in the room just by existing in it.
"Captain Rogers." You're proud of how steady your voice comes out, even as your fingers have gone white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. "Something I can help you with?"
Silence. Long enough that you almost turn, almost give in to the gravitational pull of him. Then: footsteps. Measured, deliberate. He's moving closer, and your body tracks his approach like sonar, every nerve ending pinging with proximity alerts.
He stops just outside your peripheral vision—close enough that you can smell him (soap, leather, that cedar-sharp scent that makes your hindbrain whimper), far enough that there's no chance of accidental contact. You notice he does that a lot. Maintains exact distances like he's calculated the precise minimum safe zone between bodies.
"The Brussels intel." A pause. You hear him shift, leather jacket creaking. "Fury wants us to run point together."
Your hands still on the keyboard.
Us.
Together.
Run point.
"Us," you repeat, carefully neutral, still not turning around because if you look at him right now your face will do something stupid. Something that reveals how your stomach just dropped through the floor at the prospect of working closely with him. Of being in proximity to Steve Rogers for an extended period when just standing in the same room makes you feel like you're about to vibrate out of your skin.
"Is that a problem?"
There's something in his voice—a challenge maybe, or a test. Like he's waiting for you to admit what you both know: that whatever this thick, electric tension between you is, it's becoming harder to ignore.
"No, sir." You turn then, because not looking is starting to feel more obvious than looking, and immediately regret it.
He's in civilian clothes—dark jeans that shouldn't be legal on someone with his thighs, a navy shirt that clings to his chest in ways that make your mouth go dry. The leather jacket that does things to his shoulders that ought to be classified. But it's his face that kills you—that careful, composed expression that doesn't quite hide the way his eyes darken when they meet yours, the way his jaw ticks when you unconsciously wet your lips.
"Good." He steps closer—just half a step, but your body reacts like he's pressed you against the wall. Your breathing goes shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and his eyes track the movement before snapping back to your face. "Briefing's at 0800."
"I'll be there."
He should leave. The conversation's over, message delivered. But he doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at you with an expression you can't read, and the air between you feels like it's getting thicker, harder to breathe. Your skin prickles with heat despite the aggressive air conditioning, and you can feel your pulse in your throat, your wrists, between your legs—
"Your shoulder." The words come out rough, like he's had to drag them from somewhere deep. "How is it?"
"Fine." Your voice sounds breathy, affected. You clear your throat, try again. "Good. It's good. Thanks to you."
Something flickers across his face at that—almost pained, like you've said something that hurts. His hand comes up, and for a heart-stopping second you think he's going to touch you. Your whole body goes still, waiting, wanting, every cell screaming yes, finally, please—
But he just runs it through his hair, a gesture that's so uncharacteristically unguarded it makes your chest ache.
"Steve—"
"I should go." He cuts you off, already stepping back, and the loss of proximity feels like someone's turned off the sun. "Early morning."
He's halfway to the door when you speak, words tumbling out without permission.
"Why do you do that?"
He stops. Doesn't turn. "Do what?"
"Pull back." Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure he can hear it with his enhanced everything. "You get close, and then you just—" You make a frustrated gesture he can't see. "It's like you're afraid of me."
His shoulders tense, and when he turns to look at you, there's something raw in his eyes for just a second before he shutters it away.
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Then what—"
"I'm afraid of what I want from you."
The words hang in the air between you like a grenade with the pin pulled. Your breath catches, stops entirely. Your body goes hot and cold at once, skin too tight, like you're having an allergic reaction to honesty.
He looks as surprised as you feel, like the admission escaped without his permission. His hands clench at his sides—you notice he's not wearing gloves, and for some reason that feels significant. Dangerous. His fingers are long, elegant despite their strength, and you have the sudden, visceral thought of what they'd feel like on your skin.
"Captain—"
"Steve." His voice is rough, wrecked. "Just... when it's just us, call me Steve."
Your throat feels like you've swallowed glass. "Steve."
He makes a sound—small, strangled—and takes a step toward you before catching himself. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, and his hands—Jesus, his hands are actually trembling.
"This isn't—" He stops. Tries again. "I can't—"
"Can't what?" You stand, and your legs feel like water but you need to be closer to him, need to understand what's happening in the space between his words. "Steve, what—"
"0800," he says, and it sounds like surrender. "Don't be late."
He's gone before you can respond, leaving you alone in a room that feels too cold without him in it. Your skin feels raw, oversensitized, like you've been flayed open and exposed to the elements. You sink back into your chair, legs finally giving out, and press your palms against your burning cheeks.
I'm afraid of what I want from you.
Your body is still humming, vibrating at some frequency that feels like it's going to shake you apart. You can still smell him in the air—leather and soap and something unmistakably Steve that makes your hindbrain want to follow him down the hall, pin him against a wall, and find out exactly what he wants from you.
But you don't. You sit in your chair, stare at intel you can't process, and try to convince yourself that whatever's happening between you and Steve Rogers is just chemistry. Just proximity and adrenaline and two people spending too much time dancing around each other in small spaces.
You're getting better at lying to yourself.
But your body remembers the way his eyes had gone dark when he watched you breathe. The way his hands had trembled. The way he'd said your name like it was being torn out of him.
0800 can't come fast enough.
The briefing room is too small.
That's your first thought when you walk in at 0755, coffee clutched like a lifeline, to find Steve already there. He's studying a holographic map of Brussels, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a tablet. The morning light from the floor-to-ceiling windows turns his hair gold and throws his profile into sharp relief, and your step falters in the doorway because he looks like something out of a Renaissance painting—all strong lines and perfect angles and terrible beauty.
He doesn't look up, but his shoulders tense slightly. He knows you're there.
"Morning," you manage, proud when your voice doesn't crack.
"Agent." Back to titles, then. Back to distance. But when he glances up, his eyes catch yours and hold for a beat too long, and you see him swallow.
You take your seat—across from him, with the whole width of the table between you like a demilitarized zone. But it's not enough. The room's too small, the air too thin. You can see the rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb taps against the tablet in a rhythm that matches your elevated pulse.
"The target's a bioweapon," he says without preamble, swiping something on his tablet that makes the hologram shift and expand. "Hydra remnants, we think. They're moving it through Brussels tomorrow night."
You force yourself to focus on the intel, not on the way his hands move when he talks, precise and economical. Not on the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms that make your mouth water—all corded muscle and prominent veins and a dusting of hair that catches the light.
"Extraction point?"
"Here." He rounds the table to point at a specific building, and suddenly he's beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that when you breathe in, you get a lungful of his scent that makes your head spin. "Warehouse district. Minimal civilian presence after dark."
You turn your head to look at the map, but that's a mistake because now his face is inches from yours. You can see the barely-there freckles across his nose, the way his lips part slightly when he breathes. His eyes drop to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he jerks back, stepping away so fast you feel the displacement of air.
"We'll go in quiet," he says, voice rougher than before. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his tell for when he's affected. "Two-person infiltration. Quick and clean."
"Just the two of us?" The words come out more breathless than you intended.
He nods, still not looking at you. "Fury wants it kept small. Discreet."
Discreet. Right. You can be discreet. You can be professional. You can absolutely handle being alone with Steve Rogers on a mission without doing something stupid like wondering what his hands would feel like in your hair, or how his voice would sound saying your actual name in the dark, or—
"Questions?"
You realize you've been staring at him, and your face goes hot. "No. No questions."
"Good." He's already moving toward the door, eager to escape, but he pauses at the threshold. When he looks back, there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "We leave at 1400. Quinjet bay three."
"I'll be there."
He nods, starts to go, then stops again. His hand tightens on the doorframe, knuckles going white.
"You should wear tactical gear," he says without turning around. "Full coverage. It's going to be cold."
There's something about the way he says it—careful, deliberate—that makes you think he's not really talking about the temperature. But before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone in a room that still smells like him.
You spend the rest of the morning trying to focus on mission prep, but your mind keeps circling back to the way he'd looked at your mouth. The way he'd jerked back like you'd burned him. The way he'd specified full coverage like he was trying to minimize the chance of—what? Of skin contact? Of touching?
By 1400, you're wound so tight you feel like you might snap. The tactical gear feels heavy, constrictive, like it's pressing all your sensitivity inward. Every brush of fabric against skin feels amplified, every movement hyperaware.
You find him in the quinjet, running preflight checks with the kind of focus that suggests he's trying very hard not to think about something. He's in his Captain America suit—the deep blue that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, red and white accents catching the cabin lights. No skin visible except his face and that thin strip at his neck where the cowl doesn't quite meet the collar, every inch of him covered like armor against something more than physical threats.
"Ready?" He doesn't look at you when he asks.
"Always."
The flight to Brussels takes six hours. Six hours of sitting across from each other in a quinjet that suddenly feels impossibly small. Six hours of trying not to stare at the way his hands move over the controls, sure and competent. Six hours of him studiously avoiding your gaze while the tension ratchets higher with every passing minute.
Halfway through, you shift in your seat, and your knee brushes his under the table. It's barely contact—layers of fabric between you—but you both freeze. His hands still on the tablet he's holding. Your breath catches in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moves, like you're both waiting to see what the other will do.
He pulls his leg back.
You curl your hands into fists and stare out the window at clouds that look soft enough to touch, trying to ignore the way your knee burns where it brushed his, trying to ignore the way he's breathing just a little too carefully across from you.
"You should get some rest," he says finally, voice neutral. "It's going to be a long night."
You don't tell him there's no way you could sleep, not when every cell in your body is hyperaware of his presence. Not when you can feel the weight of his carefully maintained distance like a physical thing.
Instead, you close your eyes and pretend, counting your breaths, trying to ignore the way your body hums with proximity to him. Trying to ignore the fact that in a few hours, you'll be alone with him in the dark, dependent on each other in the way that missions make necessary.
Trying to ignore the way your skin already aches for something you've never had.
When you fake-wake an hour later, he's watching you.
The look on his face—unguarded, soft, almost pained—makes your chest tight. But the second he realizes you're awake, his expression shutters, locks down, becomes Captain America again.
"Descending in twenty," he says, all business.
You nod, start checking your gear, and pretend you didn't see the way he was looking at you like you're something he wants but can't have. Pretend your heart isn't racing from that single, stolen moment of his true face.
Twenty minutes to Brussels.
Twenty minutes until you're alone with him in the dark.
Twenty minutes until whatever this is either snaps or shatters.
Your hands shake as you load your weapons, and you tell yourself it's just pre-mission adrenaline.
You're getting worse at lying to yourself.
The warehouse district in Brussels looks like every other warehouse district you've ever infiltrated—all concrete and shadows and too many places for things to go wrong. Your breath mists in the December air, visible for half a second before disappearing, and you're hyperaware of Steve beside you, the way his body heat seems to radiate even from three feet away.
Three feet. Always three feet.
You've been in position for forty minutes, watching the target building through night vision, and the tension between you has ratcheted so high you can practically taste it—metallic, electric, like the air before lightning strikes.
"Two guards, northwest corner," you murmur into comms, watching them through your scope. Your finger rests against the trigger guard, steady despite the way your whole body feels attuned to Steve's presence. "Rotation in approximately ninety seconds."
"Copy." His voice in your ear makes your stomach flip, low and authoritative. Through your peripheral vision, you catch him adjusting his shield, the movement precise, controlled. Everything about him is controlled. Has been since you touched down three hours ago. Maybe since before that. Maybe since that moment in the briefing room when he'd told you to wear full tactical gear like he was trying to armor you against something more than bullets.
The silence stretches, fills with things unsaid. Your skin prickles beneath the kevlar, every nerve ending hyperalert. Not from danger—not yet—but from proximity to him that feels more intimate than touch. You can hear him breathe, steady and measured. Can smell that cedar-sharp scent that cuts through the industrial stink of the district. Can feel the weight of his attention even when he's not looking at you.
"You know," you say quietly, because the silence is becoming unbearable, "for a stealth mission, you're thinking very loudly."
A pause. Then: "I'm not thinking anything."
"Liar." The word slips out before you can stop it, soft and knowing, and you feel him go still beside you.
"Agent—"
"You said when it's just us, I could—" You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "We're alone, Steve. You can use my name."
Another pause, longer this time. When he speaks, his voice is rougher. "The guards are moving."
He's right. You track them through your scope, watching them disappear around the corner, and try to ignore the way your name apparently burns in his throat, the way he can't seem to say it even when you've given him permission.
"Window's open," you confirm. "Ninety seconds, like clockwork."
"Let's move."
You're up and moving before the words finish forming, bodies falling into perfect synchronization. He goes high, you go low, covering angles with the kind of wordless communication that feels like dancing, like inevitability. Your breath syncs with his as you cross the open ground, and you tell yourself it's just tactical breathing, just professional compatibility.
You're getting worse at lying to yourself.
The side entrance is exactly where intel said it would be. Steve makes quick work of the lock while you cover him, and the domestic intimacy of it—you protecting his back while he works—makes something twist in your chest.
"Got it." The lock clicks open, and he pulls the door wide, weapon raised.
You follow him into darkness.
The warehouse is a maze of shipping containers and scaffolding, all deep shadows and blind corners. Your night vision paints everything in shades of green, turning Steve into something otherworldly as he moves ahead of you, all lethal grace and coiled power. You've seen him fight before, but there's something different about moving with him like this, just the two of you in the dark. Something that makes your body hyperaware of every gesture, every signal.
He holds up a fist—stop. You freeze instantly, trusting him implicitly. He tilts his head, listening to something you can't hear, and you watch the line of his throat, the way his pulse beats steady and strong beneath the skin.
Then you hear it too—footsteps, multiple sets, coming from the east corridor.
Steve looks back at you, and even through the night vision, you can see something pass across his face. He points to himself, then forward. Points to you, then to a stack of crates that would provide cover.
You shake your head. You're not letting him go alone.
His jaw ticks—that tell you've catalogued along with all his others. But there's no time to argue. The footsteps are getting closer.
You move together, silent as shadows, until the first hostile rounds the corner.
Steve takes him down in one fluid motion, shield connecting with a dull thud that the man doesn't get up from. But there are more—so many more—and suddenly the warehouse explodes into chaos.
"Contact!" you shout into comms that suddenly fill with static, jamming signals flooding the frequency. "Multiple hostiles—"
A muzzle flash in your peripheral. You pivot, fire twice, watch the figure drop. Steve's shield sings through the air, ricocheting off three targets in quick succession before returning to his hand. You move back to back without thinking, covering each other's blind spots, and the contact—even through layers of tactical gear—makes your skin burn.
"We need to move!" Steve shouts over the gunfire. "The bioweapon—"
"I know!" You drop two more hostiles, reload with practiced efficiency. "Northwest stairs, we can—"
The explosion knocks you sideways.
Your shoulder hits concrete hard, night vision flickering, ears ringing. Through the smoke, you see Steve fighting like something out of legend—shield and fists and absolutely ruthless efficiency. But there are too many. They keep coming, and you're separated now, a wall of hostiles between you.
"Steve!" You fight toward him, muscle memory and desperation driving you forward.
"Get to the weapon!" His voice cuts through the chaos. "I'll hold them—"
"Like hell!"
But more fighters flood in, and you're forced back, forced to watch him disappear behind a wall of bodies. Your chest goes tight with something that's not quite panic but close—the thought of losing sight of him, of something happening while you're not there to cover his six.
You fight harder, brutal and efficient, trying to close the distance. Your body moves on autopilot while your mind tracks him through glimpses—the flash of his shield, the sound of his voice calling out positions.
Then you hear it. His sharp intake of breath, pained.
"Steve?"
"I'm fine." But his voice is strained, and you catch sight of him favoring his left side, blood dark on his tactical suit. "The weapon—"
"Fuck the weapon." You slam a new magazine home, determination crystallizing into something sharp and desperate. "I'm coming to you."
"No!" The authority in his voice stops you short. "That's an order—get the bioweapon. I'll meet you at extraction."
Every instinct screams against leaving him, but he's right. The mission. Always the mission.
You run.
The stairs are clear—too clear. Your instincts scream trap, but there's no time. You take them three at a time, hip protesting from the earlier fall, listening to the sounds of fighting below. Steve's still engaged, still fighting, and you track his progress through the warehouse by sound alone.
The lab is exactly where intel indicated—third floor, northeast corner. Also exactly as unguarded as you'd feared.
Trap. Definitely a trap.
But the bioweapon is there, contained in a small metal briefcase that seems too innocuous for something that could kill thousands. You grab it, already turning back toward the stairs when you hear Steve's voice crackle through the static.
Not "Agent." Your name, sharp and desperate, and the sound of it makes your blood freeze. "Get out. Now. They're—"
The static cuts him off.
"Steve? Steve!"
Nothing.
You're already running, taking the stairs so fast you nearly fall, the briefcase clutched tight against your chest. The warehouse has gone quiet—too quiet. No more gunfire. No more fighting.
Just silence.
You round the corner into the main warehouse floor and see him.
He's surrounded, on his knees, blood running from a cut above his eye. Six hostiles have weapons trained on him, and his shield is nowhere to be seen. But what makes your blood turn to ice is the seventh figure—a man in tactical gear holding something that looks like—
"No!" The word tears from your throat as you recognize the device. Sonic disruptor, strong enough to disorient even a super soldier.
The man's finger depresses the trigger.
Steve convulses, hands going to his ears, and the sound he makes—
You're moving before conscious thought catches up, pure instinct driving you forward. The briefcase clatters to the ground as you raise your weapon, laying down cover fire that sends three hostiles scrambling. But you're exposed now, in the open, no cover between you and—
The first shot catches you in the vest.
The impact slams you backward, driving all the air from your lungs in a whoosh that whites out your vision. Your body armor holds—SHIELD makes good gear—but the force spins you sideways, and before you can recover, before you can breathe—
The second shot finds the gap.
Right where your vest meets your hip, that vulnerable slice of space where mobility trumps protection. The bullet tears through tactical fabric and skin and muscle like tissue paper, and the pain—
The pain is exquisite.
White-hot agony blooms from your hip, spreading like wildfire through your nervous system until every cell is screaming. You hear yourself make a sound—sharp, breathless, more surprise than scream—and then your legs are failing, and you're falling, and the concrete rises up to meet you like an old friend.
Your name rips from Steve's throat like something being torn from his chest cavity.
Through blurring vision, you see him move.
The sonic disruptor doesn't matter. The six weapons trained on him don't matter. He erupts from his knees with a sound that's barely human, pure rage and desperation, and bodies go flying. He fights like something mythical, like something out of the stories they tell about Captain America, except there's nothing heroic about this.
This is brutality. Devastation.
Your hands shake as they try to find the wound, fingers slipping on something warm and wet that's spreading way too fast. The pain is enormous, eating at the edges of your consciousness, white-hot and pulsing with each heartbeat. Your tactical pants are already soaked, the fabric clinging to your skin, and when you lift your hand it's painted crimson in the warehouse's emergency lighting.
That's... that's too much blood. Way too much.
Your body starts to shake—shock, probably, or blood loss, or just the simple animal recognition that you're badly hurt. Your teeth start chattering, and you can't make them stop, jaw clenched so tight you taste blood from where you've bitten your tongue.
"No, no, no, no—"
Steve crashes to his knees beside you so hard the concrete cracks. His hands—his bare hands, when did he lose his gloves?—hover over you for a fraction of a second before pressing against the wound. The pressure makes you scream, body trying to curl away from the pain, but he holds you down, holds you still.
"Hey, hey, look at me." His voice cracks completely, nothing like Captain America's steady authority. This is just Steve, terrified and desperate. "Look at me. Stay with me."
You try to focus on his face, but it keeps fracturing, splitting into doubles and triples before reforming. Your eyes won't track right, keep sliding away like they're too heavy. His face is covered in blood—from the cut above his eye, from other wounds you can't catalog—and there's something wild in his expression, something that makes your chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the bullet.
"Steve—" Your voice comes out wrong, too wet, copper flooding your mouth. When you cough, something warm splatters across your lips.
"Don't talk, don't—just stay still. I've got you." He's pressing so hard against the wound that new pain blooms, sharp and bright, making your vision white out at the edges. But his hands—his hands are shaking where they press against you, and that seems wrong somehow. Steve Rogers's hands don't shake. "Med evac's coming. Two minutes. Just two minutes, you have to—"
His voice breaks completely, and you realize he's crying. Captain America is crying over you, tears cutting clean tracks through the blood and dirt on his face.
"'S okay," you slur, though it's not, though nothing is okay. Your tongue feels thick, clumsy. "'M okay."
"You're not okay." It comes out harsh, angry, but his hands on your wound are so careful, desperately trying to hold you together. "There's so much blood. Why is there so much—"
That's when you see it. His bare hands are pressed against your wound, skin to skin where your tactical gear has been torn away, and you wait for something—for warmth, for electricity, for whatever cosmic sign is supposed to indicate a soul bond. But there's just the cold creeping up your limbs and Steve's devastated face above you.
"Please," he's saying, over and over, like a prayer or a plea. "Please, just hold on. Just—"
He reaches for your face with one blood-slicked hand, maybe to check your pupils, maybe to keep you conscious, and that's when it happens.
His palm cups your cheek, and the world explodes.
Not with pain this time, but with something else entirely. Something that races through your dying body like lightning finding ground, like coming home, like every cell suddenly remembering what they're made for. The bond slams into place with the force of a freight train, decades of waiting condensed into a single moment of contact that rewrites everything you thought you knew about existence.
The warmth that floods through you has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with recognition. With rightness. With the soul bond that's singing in your bones, drowning out even the pain, making everything else fade to background noise. You can feel him—not just his hand on your face but him, his emotions crashing into yours like a tidal wave. Fear and longing and desperate denial and—
He rips his hand away like you've burned him.
"No." The word comes out strangled, broken. He's staring at his hand like it's betrayed him, then at your face with something that looks like pure horror. "No, not—not like this. Not now—"
The loss of his touch hits worse than the bullet did. Your body convulses, a sob ripping from your throat that you can't control, can't stop. The bond—new and raw and screaming—feels like someone's reached into your chest and started pulling things out. Every nerve ending is firing wrong, confused, desperate for the contact that just got ripped away.
"Steve." Your voice breaks on his name, barely human. The world is going fuzzy at the edges but this—this burning absence where his hand was—this is crystalline. "Steve, please—you're—we're—"
"Don't." He's pressing against the wound with just fabric between you now, using torn pieces of his uniform to maintain pressure without skin contact. His whole body is shaking, violent tremors that make his hands unsteady. "This can't—I can't—"
"Please." The word comes out slurred, desperate, all your walls crumbling with your blood pressure. Your body moves without permission, trying to arch toward him, and the movement sends agony through your hip but you don't care, can't care, not when every cell is screaming for him. "Need—need you t'touch me. Please. Hurts—hurts so much without—"
A whimper escapes, high and broken, and you're crying now—real tears mixing with blood from where you've bitten through your lip trying not to beg.
"I can't." He's sobbing openly, pressing harder against the wound as your blood soaks through the fabric barriers he's maintaining. His face is wrecked, destroyed, tears cutting tracks through dirt and blood. "I can't do this to you. I can't—everyone I touch—everyone I—"
"'M dying." It's matter-of-fact, clear even through the growing fog. Your body knows it, feels it in the way everything's going cold and distant.
Your hand lifts, trembling so hard it's more spasm than movement, reaching for his face. He catches your wrist with fabric-covered fingers, holding you back, and the sound you make—wounded, animal, barely human—seems to physically hurt him.
"You're not dying." Fierce, desperate, a lie that cracks in his throat. "You're not. Med evac's thirty seconds out. You're going to be fine, you're going to—"
"Hurts." The word is pure anguish. Not just the wound but the rejection, the bond screaming, tearing, dying in your chest. Your body's shutting down but somehow the ache of his denial cuts deeper. "Steve, please—am I—did I do something wrong? Am I not—not what you wanted—?"
"No." The word rips from him with enough force to echo off the warehouse walls. He's shaking so hard the fabric between you vibrates with it. "No, you're perfect. You're everything. You're—Christ, you're everything I never let myself want. That's why I can't—"
"Don' understand." Your vision is tunneling fast now, darkness eating the edges. Your body won't stop shaking, violent tremors that make your teeth chatter. "'S supposed to—soulmates supposed to—to help. To make it better. Why won't you—why won't you just—"
Another sob tears from your chest, weaker this time. Your reaching hand falls, fingers still twitching toward him.
"Because I'll destroy you." Raw, bleeding, the words torn from somewhere deep and wounded. "Because everyone I've ever—because I'm not meant for this. For you. You deserve someone who—someone whole. Someone who isn't—"
"Jus' wanted—" Your voice is fading, each word a monumental effort. Your body feels like it's floating and sinking at once. "Jus' wanted to know what it felt like. To be yours. Steve—'m so cold—”
Your eyes are sliding shut, but you force them open one more time, finding his face. He looks shattered. Broken. Like watching you die is killing him too.
"'M sorry," you whisper, and you don't know what you're apologizing for. For dying? For being his soulmate? For not being enough to make him want to hold you? "Sorry I'm not—not worth—"
"Stop." His voice breaks completely. "You're worth everything. You're worth—"
But you're already going under, the last sensation being the phantom burn of where his palm touched your cheek for those thirty-seven seconds. The bond screams and screams and screams, and then—
The med evac arrives in a thunder of sound and motion, but you can't process it anymore. Hands are moving you, lifting you, but all you can focus on is Steve's face, the way he's looking at you like you're taking his soul with you.
"I'm sorry," he's saying, over and over, his voice following you into the darkness. "I'm so fucking sorry. You deserve better. You deserve everything."
The last thing you see is him standing there, your blood painting his bare hands red, looking like a man who's just given up the one thing he wanted most in the world.
The last thing you feel is the phantom burn where his palm touched your cheek, the bond screaming for a connection that's been severed, your body trying to reach for something that's already gone.
The last thing you think, with the last conscious part of your mind, is that you would have been good to him. You would have been so good to him, if he'd let you.
But maybe that's why he pulled away.
Maybe he knows something you don't—that good things don't last, that soulmates are just another pretty lie the universe tells to make the dying easier.
Your hand falls limp, still reaching for him, and the darkness takes you under.
The medbay ceiling has exactly 247 tiles. You know because you've counted them approximately forty-three times since waking up, which was—what? Two weeks ago? Three? Time moves differently when your body is trying to rebuild itself from the inside out and your soul is trying to tear itself apart looking for someone who won't come.
The gunshot wound is healing. Slowly, methodically, with the kind of grinding precision that modern medicine excels at. They'd had to do surgery twice—once to stop the bleeding, once to repair the mess the bullet made of your intestines. The scar will be ugly, they tell you with professional sympathy, as if that's what you're worried about. As if the external scarring could possibly compare to whatever the fuck is happening inside your chest where the bond lives.
Or dies. You're not really sure which anymore.
Your nights follow a pattern now, predictable as clockwork. At 10 PM, the ward goes quiet, lights dimming to that particular hospital twilight that never quite achieves darkness. At 11:47 PM—always 11:47, like he's calculated the exact time the night nurse finishes rounds—you hear it.
Footsteps in the hallway. Careful, measured, but with that particular weight that only belongs to him. Your body recognizes them before your mind does, skin prickling with awareness, the bond flaring to life like struck kindling.
The first night, you'd opened your eyes.
He'd frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by hallway fluorescents, and for thirteen seconds (you counted), you just stared at each other. His face was—God, his face was something you'd never seen before. Raw. Destroyed. Like someone had reached inside him and rearranged everything until it no longer fit right.
"I—" he'd started.
You'd waited, heart hammering so hard the monitors had started alarming, bringing nurses running.
By the time they'd cleared out, satisfied you weren't dying, he was gone.
Now you know better. You keep your eyes closed, breathing deep and even, and let him have whatever this is. Whatever he needs.
He sits in the chair by the window—always the same chair, the one that creaks slightly when he shifts his weight. For the first ten minutes, he just sits there, breathing. You match your inhales to his, careful to keep them sleep-slow even though your heart is racing, even though every cell in your body is screaming to reach for him.
Sometimes he talks.
"They're releasing you tomorrow," he says tonight, voice barely above a whisper. "Fury told me. Said you're healing well. That you'll be able to—that you'll be fine."
Fine. The word sits between you like a lie neither of you believes.
"I know you're awake."
Your breath doesn't catch. You've gotten very good at this game.
"I know you're awake," he repeats, softer. "Your heartbeat changes when I'm here. Just a little, but—" A pause. The chair creaks. "I memorized it. Before. The sound of your heartbeat. Didn't mean to, it just—happened. Enhanced hearing and all."
You want to open your eyes so badly it's physical pain, but you don't. Can't. Because if you do, he'll leave, and even this—this careful distance, this monitored proximity—is better than nothing.
"I'm being reassigned."
Now your breath does catch, just slightly. You hear him shift forward.
"Fury thinks it's best. For both of us. Different divisions, different missions. Clean break." His voice cracks on 'clean' like the word itself is cutting him. "It's better this way. You can—you can find someone else. Someone who isn't—"
Broken, you want to finish. Scared. Frozen in a past that no longer exists.
But you keep your eyes closed, keep your breathing even, keep pretending that your chest isn't caving in with every word.
"I watched Bucky with his soulmate," he continues, and you've never heard him sound like this. Lost. "Watched how easy it was for them. How she touched him and suddenly he was whole again, was himself again. How the bond just—fixed things. Made sense of them."
The chair creaks again. Closer now. You can feel the heat of him, smell that cedar-sharp scent that makes your body ache with want.
"I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "I thought if I didn't have a soulmate, I could pretend I didn't belong here. Could keep one foot in the past, you know? Keep waiting to go home to a time that doesn't exist anymore. But then you—"
Silence. Long enough that you almost open your eyes, almost give up the pretense.
"You make me want to stay," he whispers, and it sounds like a confession. Like something torn from him against his will. "You make me want to belong here. In this century. In this life. And that fucking terrifies me."
Your eyes burn behind closed lids. Your throat aches with words you can't say.
"So I'm leaving. Because you deserve someone who isn't terrified of wanting you. Someone who can touch you without feeling like the universe is ending. Someone who—" His voice breaks completely. "Someone who didn't let you bleed out rather than accept a bond."
You hear him stand, the chair scraping slightly against linoleum. Feel him hesitate, that particular stillness that means he's fighting himself.
Then warmth. Just for a second. The ghost of fingers near your hand where it rests on the blanket, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, the way the air shifts between you.
"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Then he's gone, and you finally let yourself cry—silent, body-shaking sobs that you muffle in the pillow so the night nurse won't come. The bond aches like a severed limb, phantom pain for something you had for exactly thirty-seven seconds in a warehouse in Brussels.
Tomorrow, they release you.
Tomorrow, you go back to a life where Steve Rogers is just someone you pass in hallways, someone who looks through you like you're a ghost, someone who touched your face once while you were dying and then decided you weren't worth the risk.
Tonight, though. Tonight you lie in a hospital bed and count ceiling tiles and pretend you don't know that he stands outside your door for another twenty-three minutes before he finally makes himself leave.
Your apartment feels like a crime scene you're returning to.
Everything is exactly as you left it three weeks ago—coffee mug still in the sink, laptop still open on the counter, the ghost of your normal life preserved in amber. Except you're different now. Hollowed out and reconstructed wrong, like someone took you apart and lost a few crucial pieces in the reassembly.
The first night is the worst.
You'd thought the hospital was bad, with its antiseptic smell and endless fluorescent twilight. But at least there, you could pretend Steve might appear. Could lie to yourself that the footsteps in the hallway might be his.
Here, in your own space, there's no such illusion.
The bond aches constantly. Not the sharp, immediate pain of the first few days, but a bone-deep throb that makes everything feel wrong. Food tastes like ash. Sleep comes in fragments, always interrupted by dreams of warehouse floors and the phantom warmth of a palm against your cheek. Your skin feels too tight, like your body is rejecting itself in the absence of touch it's only had once.
You try to go back to work after a week.
Fury takes one look at you—hollow eyes, hands that won't stop shaking, the way you flinch when anyone gets too close—and sends you home.
"Medical leave," he says, not unkindly. "Take the time you need."
You want to tell him that time won't fix this. That you could take a year, a decade, and you'd still be searching every room for a ghost who won't appear. But you just nod, gather your things, and pretend you don't see the pity in his eye.
The second week is when the anger arrives.
It starts small—irritation at the barista who makes your coffee wrong, frustration with the TV remote that won't work properly. But it builds, feeds on itself, until you're standing in your kitchen at 2 AM, hurling the mug Steve never saw you drink from against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces that still somehow hold more cohesion than you do.
How dare he.
How fucking dare he.
To touch you, to activate a bond you didn't even know existed, and then rip himself away like you're something toxic. To visit you every night but never when you're awake to actually see him. To make decisions about your life, your future, your soul without even asking what you want.
You track his missions through the internal SHIELD networks you're not supposed to have access to anymore. London. Moscow. Cairo. Always moving, always running, like distance could somehow break what's already broken. Your clearance hasn't been revoked yet—an oversight, probably—so you read his reports, clinical and detached descriptions of operations that tell you nothing about whether he's eating. Whether he's sleeping. Whether his soul feels as flayed as yours.
Probably not. He chose this, after all.
The third week is when you see him.
You're not prepared. How could you be? You're just buying groceries, standing in the cereal aisle like a normal person pretending to care about fiber content, when you feel it—that familiar prickle of awareness, the bond flaring to life like muscle memory.
You turn, and there he is at the end of the aisle. Frozen, like he's been caught. He looks—
He looks like shit.
Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones like he hasn't been eating, a carefulness to his movements that speaks of bone-deep exhaustion. His hands are shoved in his pockets, probably to stop himself from reaching for you. Or maybe just to hide how they're shaking.
For a moment, you both just stand there, two people separated by twenty feet of fluorescent lighting and an unbridgeable chasm of his making.
You watch his mouth form your name. Not quite speaking it, just shaping it, like even that much is more than he's allowed himself.
Your body moves without permission, taking one step toward him, and he takes a step back.
Right.
The message is clear. Crystal fucking clear.
You turn around, leave your half-full cart in the middle of the aisle, and walk out of the store with as much dignity as you can muster. Make it all the way to your car before the shaking starts, before you have to grip the steering wheel just to keep yourself anchored.
Twenty feet.
He couldn't even stand to be within twenty feet of you.
That night, you draft seven different resignation letters. Because fuck this. Fuck playing this game where you pretend you're okay, where you pretend that seeing him doesn't make you want to scream or cry or claw your own skin off just to escape the constant ache of the bond.
You don't send any of them.
But you keep them, just in case.
Week four is when Natasha shows up at your door.
"You look like hell," she says without preamble, pushing past you into your apartment.
"Thanks. Great pep talk. You can go now."
She ignores you, taking in the disaster you've let your living space become—dishes piled in the sink, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the general apocalyptic ambiance of someone who's given up.
"He's not doing any better, you know."
You laugh, bitter and sharp. "Good."
"He sits outside your building sometimes." She says it casually, like it's nothing, like it doesn't make your heart stutter and race. "At night. When he thinks no one will notice. Just sits in his car and stares up at your window like a fucking Victorian ghost."
"He made his choice."
"He made a stupid choice," she corrects. "Because he's a stupid, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he's protecting you."
"From what?" The words explode out of you, months of frustration and hurt finally finding voice. "From having a soulmate? From being loved? From fucking touching another human being?"
"From him." Her voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than when she's being cutting. "From what he thinks he is. What he thinks he'll do to you."
"That's not his choice to make."
"No," she agrees. "It's not."
She leaves after that, but not before placing a small piece of paper on your counter. An address. A time. Tomorrow, 3 PM.
"He won't be there," she says. "But you should go anyway."
You stare at the paper for a long time after she's gone, memorizing numbers you'll probably never use.
But when tomorrow comes, you go anyway.
Because maybe you're just as much of a self-sacrificing idiot as he is.
Or maybe you're just tired of being angry.
Maybe you're just tired, period.
The address leads to a small gym in Brooklyn, the kind that smells like old leather and determination. You expect it to be empty—Natasha said he wouldn't be there—but there's someone in the ring.
Barnes.
He's working the heavy bag with mechanical precision, each punch measured and brutal. The sound echoes in the empty space—thud, thud, thud—rhythmic as a heartbeat. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his shoulders tense slightly, that particular stillness of someone who's hyperaware of their surroundings but pretending not to be.
Your stomach does something complicated. You've seen him around the Tower these past couple months since Steve brought him in, but always at a distance. Always with her—his soulmate, the one who somehow reached through seven decades of programming to find the man underneath. The one who touches him like it's breathing, casual and constant and necessary.
"Natasha send you?" His voice is flat, careful.
"Yeah."
He stops punching, turns to face you. Takes you in with those winter-gray eyes that see too much, catalog too much. There's still something unfinished about him, like he's a sketch someone's only halfway through shading. Two months of freedom haven't quite erased seventy years of being someone else's weapon.
"You look like shit," he says, which isn't what you expected.
"Thanks. Everyone keeps telling me that."
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "Steve looks worse, if it helps."
"It does, actually."
This time he does almost smile, just a flash before his face settles back into its usual brooding. He unwraps his hands slowly, methodically, like he's buying time to figure out what to say. The motion is practiced, automatic—muscle memory that belongs to James Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. You wonder how many things like that he's had to relearn. How many small, human gestures he's had to excavate from under decades of conditioning.
"This is..." He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. The gesture is so remarkably normal it makes your chest tight. "I don't usually do this. The talking thing. That's more—" A pause, like he's trying to remember who handles these things now, in this new life where he has friends instead of handlers. "That's not really my thing."
"Then why—"
"Because Steve's an idiot," he says bluntly. "And someone needs to explain why he's being an idiot, and apparently that someone is me." He tosses you a pair of wraps. "You know how to use these?"
"I'm on medical leave."
"Not asking you to fight. Just asking if you know how to wrap your hands. Gives you something to do while I..." He makes a vague gesture that somehow encompasses the awkwardness of the entire situation.
You do know how to wrap your hands. The familiar ritual of it—loop around the wrist, between the fingers, across the knuckles—gives your body something to focus on besides the constant ache under your ribs where the bond lives. He watches you do it, noting the slight tremor in your fingers that hasn't gone away since Brussels.
"He ever tell you about Peggy?" Barnes asks suddenly, like ripping off a bandaid.
You pause, stomach twisting into something complicated. "No."
"Course not." He leans against the ropes, and for a moment looks older than whatever age he's supposed to be. "From what I remember—and my memory's not exactly..." He taps his temple with his metal finger, the soft whir of recalibrating plates filling the silence. "But from what I remember, and what I've been able to piece together since, he loved her. Real love, not just wartime desperation. Had her picture in his compass, carried it everywhere. Used to moon over her like she hung the goddamn stars."
Your chest tightens, ribs suddenly too small for your lungs. You focus on wrapping your hands, but the fabric keeps slipping because your palms have gone sweaty.
"But he knew they weren’t soulmates."
"Yeah. And it didn't matter to him. He chose her anyway." Barnes's jaw ticks, and you can see him working through memories that might be his or might be stories he's been told—the confusion of it flickers across his face. "I was already gone when he went into the ice. But from what I've learned, when he woke up, she'd lived a whole life without him. Found her actual soulmate. Got married. Had kids. The whole American dream he thought he was fighting for."
The words land like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last.
Steve chose Peggy. Chose her without destiny, without the universe's intervention, without biological imperatives. Just looked at her and decided she was worth defying fate for.
And you?
You're just what the universe assigned him. The consolation prize. The participation trophy for surviving into a century he never wanted to see.
Your hands still on the wraps. "That's not—she couldn't have known he'd survive—"
"Doesn't matter. Logic doesn't factor into it." His metal hand flexes, a nervous tic you've noticed before. "I think—and look, this is just my theory, thrown together from bits and pieces—but I think Steve maybe saw it as proof. That the universe was right all along. That choosing her was just him being stubborn, going against what was meant to be."
The words settle heavy in your stomach like you've swallowed cement. "So when he found out I was his soulmate..."
"Proof he's supposed to be here. In this century he's never felt like he belongs in." Barnes's voice goes quiet, almost careful. You can see him choosing his words, this man who's spent two months relearning how to have opinions. "Look, I've only been... back... for a couple months. I'm still figuring out who Steve is now versus who he was then. Half my memories of him are probably more fantasy than fact at this point. But from what I can see, if he accepts you, then he has to accept that this is where he's meant to be. That this is home."
"And he doesn't want that."
"He wants it so much it terrifies him."
Barnes moves to the speed bag, starts a rhythm that's almost meditative. His metal arm moves differently than the flesh one—more precise, less natural, like he's still learning to inhabit it.
"When they brought me in, when I was still more Winter Soldier than anything else, my soulmate—she didn't give me a choice." The rhythm falters for a moment. "Just kept showing up. Kept touching me even when I tried to—" He stops. Restarts. The sound fills the gym like a heartbeat. "Even when I was dangerous. Even when I couldn't remember her name five minutes after she said it."
You know this story, or pieces of it. Everyone at SHIELD does. But the way he tells it—halting, like he's still surprised by it—makes it feel different. Raw. Like he still can't quite believe someone chose to love him through the worst of it.
"I could have killed her. Almost did, more than once those first few weeks. But she kept coming back." The speed bag stills. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment he looks lost, like he's forgotten what to do with them when they're not fighting. "I didn't get to push her away. Didn't get to decide I was too broken or too dangerous. She made that choice for both of us."
"And it worked out."
"Yeah." His voice does something strange here—goes soft in a way you didn't think it could. Like even after decades of violence, there's still something in him capable of gentleness. "Yeah, it did. But Steve—Steve's got this idea that he's protecting you. From disappointment. From loss. From him."
"That's not his choice to make."
"No. It's not." Barnes looks at you directly, and there's something almost sympathetic in his expression. "But he's gonna make it anyway unless someone stops him. And I'm too fucked up myself to be giving relationship advice, but—"
The gym door opens, cutting him off, and Barnes's entire demeanor changes instantly. It's like watching winter thaw in fast-forward—his shoulders drop, his face loses that careful blankness, even his breathing seems to ease. You turn to see a young woman entering, all bright eyes and gentle energy that seems to fill the space with warmth.
"Hey," she says, and Barnes is already moving toward her like she's got her own gravitational pull, like his body just naturally orbits hers. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah, doll. Just—" He gestures vaguely at you, and she turns that warm attention your way.
"Oh! You must be the one Nat mentioned." She extends her hand, and her smile is so genuine it makes your chest hurt. There's something knowing in her eyes, something that says she understands what it's like to love someone who thinks they're unlovable. "I've heard about you."
"Hopefully not all bad."
"Never." She squeezes your hand gently before releasing it. "How are you holding up?"
The question is so earnest, so carefully kind, that you almost start crying right there in the gym. Your throat goes tight, eyes burning with tears you refuse to shed.
"I'm—" You stop, unable to lie to this person who radiates the kind of empathy that makes dishonesty impossible. "Managing."
She nods like she understands, and somehow you think she does. Then she turns back to Barnes, and it's like watching a completely different person emerge. He leans into her space without seeming to realize it, his hand finding the small of her back with the kind of casual intimacy that speaks of constant touch, constant contact. The metal hand, you notice. The one that's caused so much damage. She doesn't flinch from it.
"You eat today?" she asks him quietly, reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. The gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.
"Yeah, sweetheart." His voice is impossibly soft, private.
"What did you eat?"
A pause. His mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of whoever James Barnes was before the war, before the fall, before everything. "You."
She smacks his chest. "That doesn't count as food, James."
"Seemed pretty filling to me."
"Oh my god." She turns to you, cheeks pink but biting back a smile. "Six decades as an international assassin and he thinks he's a comedian now."
"I'm hilarious," Barnes says, completely deadpan, but his hand is rubbing small circles on her back, and the look she gives him—fond and exasperated and completely besotted—makes something crack in your chest.
Because this is what choosing looks like. This is what wanting looks like when it's not forced by biology or destiny or the universe's sick sense of humor.
Steve chose Peggy like this. Without destiny. Without force. Just looked at her and knew she was worth everything.
And you? You're just the assignment. The universe's way of telling him he can't go home. The anchor keeping him in a century he never asked for.
Your hands curl into fists inside the wraps, nails digging into your palms hard enough to hurt.
"We're gonna grab dinner," Barnes's soulmate says to you, still tucked against his side like she belongs there. "Real food," she adds with a pointed look at him. "You should come."
"I—no, thank you. I should—" You gesture vaguely at nothing, at the door, at escape.
"Think about what I said," Barnes interjects, not unkindly. His eyes are serious, understanding in a way that makes you want to run. "And..." He pauses, seems to wrestle with something. "Steve's an idiot. But he's an idiot who's been looking at you like you hung the moon since before Brussels. That's not the bond. That's just him."
They leave together, her hand in his, talking quietly about dinner plans and everyday things. You watch them go, Barnes letting her guide him toward something as simple as a meal, and the comparison burns in your throat like acid.
He never pushed her away. Even when he was dangerous, even when he was broken, even when he couldn't remember her name. He let her choose him.
But Steve? Steve took one look at the bond between you and ran.
Because with Peggy, he had a choice. He chose to love her.
With you, he doesn't. You're just what he's stuck with.
Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
He has a mission briefing tomorrow at 0900. Conference room C. Just saying.
You delete the text, but the information burns in your brain.
Maybe it's time to stop letting Steve Rogers make all the choices.
Even if you're just the consolation prize.
Even if you'll never be Peggy Carter.
Maybe especially then.
Conference Room C is empty.
You stand in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the polished table and empty chairs, at the blank whiteboard that mocks you with its pristine surface. The digital clock on the wall reads 09:07. You've been lurking in the hallway since 08:45, watching people filter in and out of different rooms, none of them Steve.
Of course.
Of course Natasha's intel was wrong, or maybe it was right and he changed locations when he realized you might—
Fuck this.
Fuck all of this.
The anger that's been simmering for weeks boils over, hot and sudden.
You're done.
Done waiting, done hoping, done letting Steve Rogers dictate the terms of your existence with his absence. Your hands shake as you turn to leave, the bond aching with fresh disappointment, and you're so focused on not crying that you don't hear the footsteps until—
A hand wraps around your elbow.
Even through the fabric of your shirt, you know it's him. Your body recognizes his touch like a key in a lock, every nerve ending suddenly alive, suddenly screaming. You're yanked sideways—not roughly, but with desperate efficiency—into a supply closet that smells like printer toner and industrial cleaner.
The door clicks shut, and you're plunged into darkness cut only by the thin strip of light under the door.
Your eyes adjust slowly, and when they do—
Jesus Christ.
Steve looks destroyed.
No, destroyed doesn't cover it.
He looks like someone reached inside him and hollowed him out with a rusted spoon. His uniform is torn—actually torn, with what looks suspiciously like blood staining the blue fabric black. There's a cut on his cheekbone that's already healing, but slowly, like even his enhanced body is too exhausted to properly function. His hair is matted with ash and something darker. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide in the darkness, and he's breathing like he can't get enough air, like his lungs have forgotten how to work properly.
"Steve?" Your voice comes out tentative, barely a whisper.
He makes a sound—broken, animal, completely unintelligible. His hand is still on your elbow, grip tight enough that it should hurt but doesn't, and you can feel him trembling. Not just his hand. All of him. Vibrating with something that looks like shock but feels like barely contained devastation.
For a moment, you just stare at each other in the dim light. His chest heaves with each breath, and you can smell the mission on him—gunpowder and smoke and something else, something that makes your stomach turn. Death. He smells like death.
"Steve, what—"
He breaks.
With a deep, shuddering breath that sounds like it's being torn from the very center of him, Steve pulls you against him. It's not gentle. It's desperate, consuming, like a drowning man finding solid ground. One hand tangles in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to make your scalp sing with that perfect edge of pain-pleasure. The other arm bands around your waist, and then—
His hand slides up under your shirt, fingers splaying wide against the bare skin of your back, and you both gasp.
The bond roars to life.
It's not the gentle warmth you'd imagined soulbonds to feel like. It's a flood, a tidal wave, every point of contact sending liquid heat through your veins like you're mainlining pure sensation. Your knees buckle, but he's got you, holding you up with desperate strength as he buries his face in the crook of your shoulder.
The noise he makes then—God, you'll hear it forever. Half sob, half relief, muffled against your neck as he breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His body curves around yours, too tall, too broad, trying to eliminate every millimeter of space between you.
"Had to—" His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable, words pressed hot against your throat. "Had to find you. Couldn't—fuck, I couldn't breathe—"
His hand on your back moves restlessly, seeking more skin, and when his fingertips brush the edge of your bra, you shiver so hard he groans. The sound vibrates through your chest where you're pressed together, and you can feel his control fracturing, feel the way his hands shake with the effort of not taking more.
But he does take more.
His hand in your hair tightens, tilts your head back to expose your throat, and his mouth presses to your pulse point—not kissing, just resting there, feeling your heartbeat against his lips. The hand under your shirt spreads wider, slides higher, until his thumb brushes your ribs and you make a sound you've never made before.
"The mission," he says against your skin, and you feel more than hear it. "There was—Christ, there was this couple. Shopping for groceries when the building came down."
His whole body shudders, and he presses closer, pins you against the door with his weight like he needs the contact to stay upright. You can feel every line of him through the torn uniform—the hard planes of his chest, the way his stomach muscles clench with each ragged breath, the thick press of his thighs against yours.
"She died instantly." The words come out broken, wet. "But he—he lived long enough to feel the bond break. Have you ever—" His voice cracks. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. Like his soul was being ripped out through his chest."
"Steve—"
"All I could think about was you." His confession comes with another full-body shudder, and suddenly his mouth is moving against your throat, not kissing but talking, like he needs the contact to get the words out. "What it would feel like if—if I lost you before I ever—"
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are wet, devastated, completely without walls. "I can't lose you. I can't. I'll die. I'll actually fucking die."
"You won't lose me," you breathe, but he's already shaking his head, already pulling you impossibly closer.
"You don't understand." His hand slides from your hair to cup your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheekbone with reverent desperation. "The bond—it's not—for normal people it's intense, but for me—" He makes a sound like he's in physical pain. "The serum amplifies everything. Every sensation, every emotion, every—"
He cuts himself off by pressing his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Steve."
"I need—" His hand at your back shifts, slides around to span your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra, and you both freeze. The touch is electric, sends sparks racing down your spine, pooling low in your belly. "Fuck, I need to touch you. Need to—please. Please, just let me—"
"Yeah." The word comes out embarrassingly breathy, but you don't care because his hands are already moving, already taking.
He spins you suddenly, presses your back against the door, and then his hands are everywhere. One slides up to cradle your throat—not squeezing, just holding, feeling your pulse flutter against his palm. The other pushes your shirt up, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's memorizing you through touch alone.
"So soft," he murmurs, and it sounds like prayer. "How are you so fucking soft?"
His thumb finds the hollow of your throat, presses gently, and your head falls back against the door. He makes a sound like you've killed him, and then his mouth is on your neck, open and hot and desperate. Still not kissing exactly—more like tasting, like he needs to experience you with every sense.
Your hands come up to clutch at his shoulders, and he crowds closer, presses you harder against the door. His thigh slides between yours, and the pressure makes you gasp, makes your hips cant forward involuntarily.
"That's it," he breathes against your throat. "Let me feel you. Let me—"
His hand at your throat slides down, palms the curve of your breast through your bra, and the sound you make is embarrassing and needy and you don't care because he echoes it, his hips pressing forward to pin you completely.
"Been dying," he confesses against your collarbone, words muffled by skin and want. "Every day, dying by inches. Watching you walk past, smelling your shampoo in the hallways, hearing your laugh and knowing I couldn't—"
"You could have." Your hands find his hair, tangle in the sweat-damp strands, and he groans. "This whole time, you could have—"
"No." He pulls back to look at you, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. "Would've destroyed you. Consumed you. The bond, the way I need you—it's not normal. It's not healthy."
"I don't care."
"You should." But even as he says it, his hand is sliding up your ribs again, fingertips tracing patterns that make you shiver. "You should be terrified of how much I want you. How much I need to—"
He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, but his body betrays him. His hips press forward, and you can feel him hard against your hip, can feel the way he's shaking with want.
"Show me," you breathe, and he makes a sound like you've shot him.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then show me."
His control snaps like a rubber band stretched past its limit.
His mouth finds yours with the kind of desperation that makes your knees buckle, and it's nothing like you imagined during those long, empty nights. Nothing soft or careful or sweet. This is drowning. This is Steve Rogers trying to climb inside your skin through your mouth, one hand fisted in your hair to angle your head exactly how he needs it, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades like he's trying to fuse your chest to his.
His tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you taste copper—blood from where he's bitten his lip raw—mixed with something that's just fundamentally him. Something that makes your brain short-circuit, makes you grab at his shoulders just to stay upright. The bond roars to life under your skin, weeks of rejection suddenly reversed, and the whimper that escapes you would be embarrassing if you could think past the electricity racing through your veins.
"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, not really pulling back, just speaking the word into you like he needs you to swallow it. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tug just hard enough to make you gasp, and he uses the opportunity to lick deeper into your mouth, thorough and filthy and completely at odds with Captain America's public persona.
Your back hits the door harder as he presses closer, and you can feel how affected he is—the way his chest heaves against yours, the tremor in his hands, the hard length of him pressed against your hip. It's overwhelming and not enough, too much and not nearly—
"Perfect," he growls, breaking away just long enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping in a way that's definitely going to leave marks. "You're so fucking perfect. Do you have any idea—" His hand slides under your shirt, fingertips tracing your ribs like he's mapping you for memory, "—what you do to me? How many meetings I've had to leave because you walked by and I could smell you?"
"Steve." Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. Your hands are in his hair now, tugging probably too hard, but he groans like you've given him a gift.
"I know, sweetheart. I know." His mouth finds your pulse point and sucks, and your vision whites out for a second. "I've got you. Let me—just let me—"
His hands shift with purpose now, one sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise, the other pushing your shirt up, up, until cool air hits your stomach. And then—Jesus Christ—he's dropping to his knees with a fluidity that shouldn't be possible for someone his size, pressing his mouth to the skin above your waistband like communion.
You look down and nearly combust. Captain America—Steve—on his knees in a supply closet, eyes closed like he's praying, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your stomach that are somehow both worshipful and obscene. His tongue traces the line where your pants sit low on your hips, and your hands fly to his shoulders because your legs have forgotten how to work.
"Should've been doing this for months," he murmurs against your hipbone, and you feel the words more than hear them, vibrating through skin and muscle and straight to your core. "Should've been worshipping you. Should've—" His voice cracks, and suddenly his arms are banded around your waist, his forehead pressed to your stomach like he's hiding. "That man today, when his bond broke—the sound he made—"
"Steve." You card your fingers through his hair, gentle this time, trying to soothe whatever demon is riding him. He shudders against you, full-body, and presses closer.
"I can't lose you." The words come out muffled by your skin, but the desperation in them is crystal clear. "I can't. I won't survive it."
"You won't lose me."
It's probably a lie. You're both in a dangerous line of work. People die. Bonds break. But right now, with him on his knees looking like you're the answer to every prayer he's never let himself voice, you'd promise him anything.
"Promise." His hands tighten on your waist, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are wild, desperate, nothing like the composed soldier the world knows. "Promise me."
"I promise."
He surges up and kisses you again, different this time. Still desperate but searching, like he's trying to memorize you—the shape of your mouth, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours, the way you shake when his thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your bra. It's overwhelming in a different way, intensity without hurry, and you're dizzy with it, drunk on the sensation of being wanted this badly by someone who's spent months pretending you don't exist.
When he finally pulls back, you're both wrecked. His lips are swollen, slick, and his pupils are blown so wide there's barely any blue left. You probably look worse—you can feel your hair sticking to your face with sweat, your mouth tender and used.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. "For Brussels. For after. For being such a fucking coward."
"I know." You do. It doesn't fix anything, not yet, but you know.
"I'll make it up to you." His thumb traces your lower lip, and you can't help the way your tongue darts out to taste it, salt and skin and Steve. His breath hitches. "However long it takes."
"You can start now." It comes out more breathless than the sultry suggestion you were aiming for, but something about your desperation makes his eyes go dark again.
He laughs, rough and ruined, and presses one more kiss to your mouth—this one soft, almost chaste, if not for the way his hand tightens possessively in your hair.
"Tonight," he says, and it sounds like a prayer. "Let me—let me shower, change, become human again. And then dinner. Real dinner. Where I pick you up and we go somewhere and I don't run when the bond makes me feel everything."
"And if you run?" You're trying for threatening but it comes out vulnerable, scared. Because he's run before. He's so good at running.
His hand slides to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb pressed to where your pulse hammers against your skin. "You have my full permission to hunt me down and make my life hell."
"I will." And you mean it. You're done being the one left behind, the one reaching for someone who's already gone.
"I'm counting on it."
He steps back, and the loss of contact hits like cold water. Your skin feels too tight, too sensitive, nerve endings firing confused signals—where is he, why isn't he touching us, bring him back. You can see him feeling it too, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides, the way his body sways toward you like you've got your own gravitational pull.
"Tonight. Eight o'clock."
"Steve?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you have a bad mission, come find me. Don't wait. Don't hide. Just—come find me."
Something in his expression cracks open, vulnerable and raw and so un-Captain America it makes your heart skip. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you one more time—quick, fierce, a brand, a promise—and then he's gone, leaving you slumped against the door on legs that feel like jello. Your mouth is swollen, your skin still burning everywhere he touched, and you're pretty sure you've soaked through your underwear, but the bond...
For the first time in months, the bond doesn't ache.
It purrs.
It fucking purrs.
Tonight. Eight o'clock.
You're going to need a very long shower. And possibly a new pair of pants.
And maybe—just maybe—you're going to get what the universe has been trying to give you all along.
Even if you're not Peggy Carter. Even if you're just the consolation prize.
Right now, with the taste of him still on your tongue and bruises already forming on your hips in the shape of his fingers, you can't bring yourself to care.
"Tell me about Peggy," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly breathy because Steve's just shifted his hips in a way that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.
"Fuck." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into soft flesh with bruising intensity. The pressure sends heat pooling low in your belly, makes your inner muscles flutter around him. "Can we... not?"
It's not the most unreasonable request in the world. He's inside you, after all, thick and perfect and stretching you in ways that make coherent thought impossible. You're straddling him on the couch, and he's maneuvering you exactly how he wants—one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, the other splayed possessively across your lower back, controlling your rhythm with casual strength that makes you dizzy. Like you weigh nothing. Like you're his to position and please and wreck completely.
"Bucky says—"
A growl rumbles through his chest at the name, vibrating through your body where you're joined. His hand slides from your back to your throat in one fluid motion. Just resting there, feeling your pulse race beneath his palm. A reminder. A warning.
"Another man's name?" His voice is dark, edged with something primal that makes your stomach flip. "While I'm inside you?"
You gasp as he lifts you slightly, changes the angle, and your thighs shake with the effort of holding yourself up. "S-says she's the reason you stopped believing in soulmates."
Steve goes still. Not completely—he's still buried deep, still hard, still breathing like he's barely holding onto control—but his hands stop their restless movement, and his eyes snap to yours with something like exasperation mixed with disbelief.
"Are we really doing this?" His thumb presses against your pulse point, and you feel your heartbeat stutter. "You want to talk about someone else while I'm trying to fuck you through this couch?"
"I just—oh god—" Your train of thought derails as he rolls his hips up, deliberate and punishing, hitting that spot that makes your vision white out.
"What you need," he says, voice dropping to that Captain-giving-orders tone that should not work in this context but absolutely does, "is to stop overthinking and let me take care of you."
One hand slides up your spine to tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your neck arch, exposing your throat to his mouth. The other grips your hip, holding you still as he rolls his hips again, controlled and devastating.
"She wasn't my soulmate." The words are pressed hot against your throat between open-mouthed kisses that feel more like claims. "Loved her, yes. A long time ago. Thought I'd marry her if I survived the war. But she wasn't mine."
His teeth graze your collarbone, and your whole body shudders, nerve endings singing. The bond between you pulses with each heartbeat, amplifying every sensation until you can't tell if the pleasure is yours or his or some perfect fusion of both.
"Not the way you are." His hand in your hair tightens, forces you to meet his eyes. They're blown dark, barely any blue remaining. "Not even close to the way you are."
"But—"
"Sweetheart." He stops moving entirely, and you make a sound of protest that would mortify you if you could think past the need coiling tight in your belly. "Listen very carefully, because I'm only saying this once."
His hand leaves your throat to frame your face, thumb stroking across your cheekbone with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the possessive grip in your hair.
"She chose someone else. Her actual soulmate. And yeah, it messed me up. Made me think the universe was laughing at me." His hips flex slightly, involuntarily, and you both gasp. "But you know what I realized?"
"What?" The word comes out wrecked, barely audible.
"The universe wasn't wrong. I was." He releases your hair only to grip the back of your neck, holding you steady as he starts to move again, slow and deep and deliberate and exquisite. "I wasn't meant for that time. If she'd been my soulmate, I'd have stayed in the forties. Lived a quiet life. Had the house and the kids and the picket fence."
"That sounds—"
"Like everything I thought I wanted," he agrees, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that has you seeing stars. "Until I woke up here. Until you walked into that briefing room two years ago, looking so goddamn competent and untouchable, and my body knew you were mine before my brain could catch up."
Your nails dig into his shoulders as he picks up the pace, and you feel his pleasure spike through the bond, mixing with yours until you can't separate them.
"I fought belonging here for so long," he continues, voice getting rougher, more breathless. "But you—Christ, you make me want to stay. Make me grateful the ice gave me you instead of her."
"Steve—"
"That’s it, sweetheart. No more names but mine," he commands, and then he's kissing you, deep and claiming and filthy. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste desperation and possession and something that feels dangerously close to devotion. When he pulls back, you're both panting. "And I want to keep hearing it. Preferably screamed."
You nod, words beyond you, and something dark and satisfied flashes across his face.
"Good girl."
The praise shoots straight through you, makes your cunt clench around him. He groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder, and his control finally, blessedly shatters.
He fucks up into you with purpose now, each thrust deliberate and devastating. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, palming your breasts with possessive familiarity. Every touch feels magnified, the soul bond amplifying sensation until you're drowning in it. You can feel his pleasure mixing with yours, feeding back on itself in an endless loop that has you both gasping, clutching at each other like you might dissolve without the anchor of skin on skin.
"This is what I think about," he confesses against your throat, words punctuated by the snap of his hips. "Not the past. Not her. You. Always you. How you feel around me, how you taste, the sounds you make when you're close."
Your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks, and he hisses, the pain-pleasure bleeding through the bond making you both groan.
"The serum," he pants, rhythm getting erratic. "Fuck, the goddamn serum makes everything more intense. Every touch, every—I can feel you everywhere. In my blood, in my bones. Under my skin where I couldn't get you out even if I wanted to."
"Don't want you to," you manage, chasing your release, that coil in your belly wound so tight you might shatter.
"Never." It's a vow pressed into your skin with teeth and tongue. "Never letting you go. Mine. My soulmate, my—fuck, I'm close—"
His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, and you're gone. The orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, pleasure so intense it borders on transcendent. You do scream his name, just like he wanted, and he follows you over, your name on his lips like a prayer, his hands holding you against him like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip.
You collapse against his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. The bond hums between you, satisfied and warm, and for the first time in months, you feel whole.
"So," you say once you can form words again, unable to help yourself, "just to be clear—"
He flips you suddenly, pressing your back into the couch cushions, and the predatory look in his eyes makes your breath catch. He's still hard, still inside you, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, you both groan.
"You want clarity?" His voice is dark, promising. He hitches your leg higher around his waist, slides deeper, and your head falls back. "Let me be very, very clear."
He pulls almost all the way out, then slides back in with devastating slowness, making you feel every inch.
"You are the only person I think about," he says, setting a rhythm that's slow and deep and intentional. "The only person I want. The only person who's ever made me grateful to be exactly where I am, when I am."
His hand slides up your thigh, grips behind your knee to open you wider, and the new angle has you gasping, clutching at his shoulders.
"The past is the past," he continues, voice steady despite the way his control is visibly fraying, tendons standing out in his neck. "And I plan to spend my future making up for lost time. Starting now."
"Steve—"
"That's it," he praises when you say his name, and rewards you with a particularly deep thrust that has your back arching off the couch. "Just like that. Let me show you exactly how not hung up on the past I am."
And he does.
Thoroughly.
By the time he's finally satisfied you understand, you've forgotten not just her name, but your own. The only thing that exists is him, the bond between you singing with contentment, and the absolute certainty that the universe knew exactly what it was doing.
Even if it took Steve Rogers seven decades to appreciate the gift.
Logan Howlett/Wolverine x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).
Explicit content (18+)
Word count: 15.2k never let me near him again
Tags/warnings: age-gap due to logan’s mutation (reader’s age not specified), mutant!reader, unprotected sex, teasing, friends to lovers, explicit language, dry humping, storm cameos, fluff, domesticity, the claws come out when he’s close (👁️👁️), detailed descriptions & scenes of nightmares/trauma/PTSD/panic attacks, one (1) ass smack, alcohol consumption, vomiting, biting/marking, angst, soft!logan, creampie, groping/touching, use of “baby” once, aftercare, yearning (kindly let me know if anything was missed!).
Summary: 4 times you end up in Logan’s bed, and the 1 time he does something about it.
Notes: this falls somewhere in between “which could mean nothing” and “we can fix each other” 🫡 (written with a mix of X1 & X2 logan!)
Your heart, despite always being alive and beating, sometimes wakes up before you.
You can feel it before your eyes even have a chance to open. It jolts your sleep-ridden body and collapses your lungs without giving your brain a chance to fight against it. Muscles and limbs feel lifeless and detached from your body, shaking from the sleep that your heart knows wasn’t completely dreamless.
You kick the blankets off of yourself and sit up in a panic, trying to regain some control of your sudden erratic breaths while bringing a lethargic hand to your heaving chest in hopes to ground yourself. It never works.
Maybe your ribs are shrinking and squeezing your lungs, making you delirious from the lack of oxygen, but you know that’s not the case. Your heart feels like it’s being squeezed and broken into a million tiny pieces.
No part of your body feels real, yet you keep your hand on your chest as firmly as you can, trying to focus on controlling the pounding of your heart that’s working so hard with each beat that it hurts.
“Fuck. Fuck,” you choke out, feeling the tears finally breach and roll down your cheeks as your nervous system catches up to what’s happening.
Panic. It’s all panic.
You can’t do anything but sit there and let the tears hit the freshly-washed fitted sheet on your bed. So you let it happen. Nothing can stop it.
Trauma is such a fickle thing. One moment you’re fine, and then the next, your heart is screaming at you and forcing your body to process something at 4 a.m. on a random Friday when all you wanted was some goddamn sleep.
There is no choice. Your mind doesn’t give you one.
The tremors subside slowly after a few minutes, giving you the feeling back to your arms and legs, albeit minimal.
You slide to sit at the edge of your bed, resting an elbow on your thigh and setting your chin into your palm with a defeated, yet shaky, huff.
You look to your window and see that the sun hasn’t even started to rise yet. You’ll be up for the rest of the foreseeable morning, but there’s not much to do so early besides wander aimlessly and think…then think some more.
You’re confident the professor isn’t even awake at this hour, which says enough about your state. You would typically go visit Storm for some comfort, but she’s been gone fuck-knows-where with Hank and Scott until Sunday at the latest. Thanks, Charles.
A questionable, and probably manic, decision comes to mind. One that’s only two doors down, one over from Storm.
Your impulsive feet make up your mind for you. The cold hardwood floor shocking you further into consciousness as if your heart didn’t do a good enough job.
You tiptoe a couple steps down the hall, forcing yourself to turn and face the large wooden door when you reach it. You just stand there staring at it, unknocking, analyzing the wood grains, suddenly very interested in what type of wood it is and what stain was used to—
“Uh. Are you okay?”
You refocus your eyes onto the man now standing in front of you in the doorway, adorning a barely-zipped school hoodie and black sweats.
“Huh?” You blink a few times, disoriented.
Logan quirks a brow, looking you up and down cautiously. “Are you okay?” He asks again, offering a look of concern—or maybe confusion—that you haven’t seen often. A look that’s never needed to be directed towards you.
You come back to yourself. “But—I…didn’t knock,” you respond, looking equally as confused as him as you point to the door.
He leans against the edge of the door, face softening. “I could smell you before you passed Storm’s room,” he clarifies, a hint of reluctance in his tone. Oh.
You feel like a child who has just gained awareness, all too conscious of your situation.
“You’re…awake?” Is all you manage despite probably needing to say much more than that to explain just why exactly you’re standing outside Logan’s room at 4 a.m.
“So are you,” he counters with a curious look. “So let me ask again. Are you okay?” He locks his eyes on yours, probably in hopes to understand why the fuck you’re outside his room at 4 a.m.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” you say, and it’s the truth.
You should probably be embarrassed. You show up at Logan’s door unannounced, dressed in a flimsy shirt and matching sweats—thanks, Charles—that can’t fully hide the remaining quivers throughout your body.
Logan pulls his lips together at your admission. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head trying to figure you out.
“Can’t sleep?” He questions, but he knows he’s right.
“Yeah.” You don’t know why you’re making it Logan’s problem, though. Sure, he happens to be awake, but maybe this is all too personal to push on the guy who’s seemingly all pride and no solicitude most of the time.
It’s not that he’s not a good, nice guy, but you don’t know how you would define your relationship, or lack of.
You know each other well enough from existing in the same space over the past couple months, being part of the same “team”, but it’s nothing to call a close friendship like you and Storm. He’s a bit of a rare species in the mansion, not really lingering around.
He cocks his head in a half shrug, the soft points in his hair broken by sleep shake gently with the movement.
“I don’t think I can help you,” he says wearily. “I’m no better. Clearly.” He gestures between you, drawing attention to the fact that you’re both awake. The helpless cannot help the helpless.
“Oh—no, I’m not looking for help. I think I’m beyond that at this point,” you laugh but stop yourself short when Logan doesn’t follow. Tough crowd.
“I, uh, don’t actually know what I’m looking for,” you offer.
You knit your brows together in thought, still wondering why the fuck you’re here. Comfort? Entertainment? Some other unknown third thing?
“I’m not really used to Storm being gone for so long,” you admit. “I just feel…all over the place, I guess.”
Logan considers your vulnerability for a beat, eyes flicking to yours. “I can hear you sometimes,” he says, a knowing—almost sympathetic—look on his face. “We have the same problem.”
You go cold, any expression you had on your face sliding away. You wish the floor could swallow you right now. You know things have been getting worse recently, but you didn’t think anyone could hear that fact. Maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise from someone who could smell you from down the hallway.
He steps back, pulling his door open further. An invitation.
You don’t move right away. Could this be a false awakening? You’re not sure what you expected when you came to his door, but you also didn’t expect him to open it without you knocking, so you have to suspend disbelief for now. You figured he’d offer a few words of advice and dismiss you, or maybe even tell you to fuck off, but he opened his door wider for you. But you didn’t exactly think any of it through in the first place anyway.
You force your feet to carry you into Logan’s room. It’s not much different from yours; scarce belongings, minimal decor, a small work desk, brown curtains that are drawn back, and a bed.
“Were you, uh…sleeping before I came?” You sit on the unmade bed, nothing noticeably different from it compared to yours.
He shuts the door quietly, moving to the small desk across the room and filing some scattered papers together neatly.
“Trying to,” he says, keeping his gaze on the desk.
Fucking duh. “Sorry if I disturbed you,” you wince to yourself.
You see him briefly shake his head at your unnecessary apology. “I had to get up anyway.” His voice is still gravelly from sleep.
It feels like you’re invading his space. But he invited you in. How many others have had the opportunity to be in here? Probably too many. There’s nothing to make this special.
“I’m fucking exhausted,” you sigh, flopping back on his bed defeated. Simply overwhelmed with the uncontrollable repercussions of your mutation.
“Try to sleep. If you want,” he offers, moving to the edge of the bed. “It’s easier said than done, but I have to meet with Charles in an hour.” It’s gruff, but he’s sincere.
Maybe the professor is awake after all.
You roll your head to the side to look at him. Was he really offering for you to stay in his bed?
“Oh, wow…uh, sure.” It comes off as more of a question, but he quirks his brows in acknowledgment, turning back to the desk and collecting a handful of other miscellaneous papers.
“I have to head downstairs and take care of some things. Stay as long as you need,” he says, zipping his sweater the rest of the way up. Thank God in heaven.
A shy “thanks” is all you manage as you situate yourself on the bed.
Is this fucking weird? You could name a handful of others in the mansion right this second that would kill without hesitation to be where you are. They’d probably kill you specifically to get it. It’s not much of a secret that Logan is the subject of almost all students’ desires. He knows it, too.
“See you later,” he adds, his lips forming the slightest hint of a caring smile as he sees himself out. You throw one back before the door clicks shut.
Should you be offended that he didn’t stay? That he left so quickly? No, no, he can’t. He couldn’t. Charles is expecting him. The timing is just horrid. But now you’re just…alone…in Logan’s room, expected to sleep because of a random act of kindness in his heart.
Lying in his bed instead of yours is an odd sensation. The sheets and mattress are exactly the same, the pillows are just as fluffy, yet it feels unalike.
You flop your head on his pillow, tugging the blankets up to your chin. Your fingers graze something by your hip as you settle in, making you push the blanket back down. Leaning over, you see three puncture marks in the mattress, fraying the bedsheet material into feather-soft strands around the deep holes.
Your eyes widen, remembering his words before he invited you in: “We have the same problem.”
Part of your heart fractures for the second time today. Your eyes cross over to the other side of you, seeing a matching set of holes just below the pillow. It’s suddenly easy to understand why no one besides him has been seen coming and going from this room in a while. One day, things just seemed to change.
Maybe his act of kindness was an act of mercy. Trauma will always find you, and it will make sure you feel it until you either destroy it or it destroys you.
Even the Wolverine isn’t an exception.
━━━━ ● ━━━━
The gold liquid is gone from the glass as quickly as it was poured.
Your throat clenches and protests the swallow as you try to suppress the urge to gag. You gently set the shot glass back on the counter, watching Storm chase with a piece of lime that does nothing to help the puckered face she makes from the tequila.
“No more, no more. I can’t.” Your arms anchor you to the counter to stop yourself from swaying too much.
Storm nods, still fighting off the sourness with furrowed brows and a scrunched nose. You giggle at her when she quickly screws the cap back on the bottle, sliding it out of reach.
“You’re a bad influence,” she scolds as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“No—I’m under the influence,” you counter, a playful smile on your lips. “There’s a difference. You still have your own free will.”
Storm rolls her eyes so hard you only see the whites of them. “We have training tomorrow,” she slurs. “Charles will not be happy if we show up half-conscious.” She rounds the counter to you, grabbing your shoulders for stability, and you do the same.
“He’ll be lucky if we show up at all,” you mumble.
The dim kitchen lighting embraces the two of you, the rest of the mansion blanketed in darkness with everyone fast asleep—like you both should be.
You close your eyes with a roll of your neck, more giggles falling through your lips as you clumsily grab onto Storm and rock and sway together for a moment, the alcohol quickly catching up to your motor skills. It feels like you’re spinning through time and space, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel fucking euphoric. At this rate, neither of you will be able to make it back to your rooms.
“Am I interrupting something?”
You lose a bit of your balance as you try to find the resonant voice, eyes shooting open. Storm unintentionally startles and stumbles away from you, white hair also jumping from the excitement.
You grab onto the counter again, sucking in a deep breath. “Fuck, don’t do that,” you growl through your teeth, a hand on your chest as you try to calm yourself.
“Don’t do what? Come to the shared kitchen to grab a drink?” Logan huffs a laugh, an amused smile creeps to his lips as he takes in your drunk and shaken state from the entryway.
“Doesn’t anyone sleep in this place?” He mumbles to himself.
“And with that, I’m done for the night,” Storm chuckles, fixing her hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Her eyes lock intensely on yours, index finger firmly poking the middle of your chest to make her point for you to show up to training very clear.
“See you, Logan,” she dismisses, stumbling as she passes him.
Logan shakes his head, still smiling. He steps to the fridge, opening the double doors and plucking a bottle of soda from the bottom shelf. No alcohol is readily available in the communal fridge because, after all, you’re all in a school full of kids, so Storm had to get creative; Scott will be missing a rather large bottle from the now not-so-secret stash in his room.
As the alcohol continues to settle in you, you feel more and more lightheaded as it brings you to a new level of euphoria again. You only know this because watching Logan pop the cap of his drink with mindless ease feels a little more exciting than it would be if you were sober. But you’re not sober, and that’s the problem.
“Not gonna follow Storm?” He asks, taking a generous sip from the bottle as he casually places his free hand on the counter to lean on across from you.
A tight smile forms, mostly to yourself. “I don’t think I can make it down the hall,” you laugh in embarrassment. Maybe that last shot was one too many, and it’s not even fully done working its magic yet.
Logan raises a brow. “Want some help?” There’s no judgement in his tone like you expect. Then again, you don’t know what the fuck to expect from him.
Your already half-closed eyes, blurry and unfocused, meet his hazel ones in interest. Another favour?
It’s been two weeks since he let you sleep off the nightmares in his bed. Two weeks since you learned he’s burdened with them, too. You traced the holes in the mattress over and over before you eventually fell asleep, wondering what—or who—could have hurt him so badly. He plays it off cool; you wouldn’t suspect anything from talking to him. The same could probably be said about you.
“I didn’t know wolverine’s were chivalrous,” you tease.
The yellow hue of the lights dance over the quaffed points in his hair, making them appear sharper than usual. You would never admit it, especially to him, but you adore them. They give him an absurd amount of character that you’d expect a guy like him to not care about.
You’re not exactly complaining about the fitting grey tank-top he has on either.
“Not overly,” he plays along, taking another mouthful of the fizzy drink. “I like to think I’m special,” he says quieter.
“Maybe you are,” you say as you try and straighten yourself to see if you can stand unassisted.
The world tilts as you stand to your full height, eyes rolling into your head from the wave of dizziness. “Wow, okay,” you say to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut to stop the spinning. How many shots did you have again?
A warm hand presses between your shoulders. “Woah, nice and easy. Nice and easy.” Logan appears by your side to steady you, other hand grabbing your elbow to pull you straight. You wobble in his grip, letting him guide your useless, alcohol-ridden body.
His hand on your back rubs a few small, comforting circles as you work to regain your bearings. He watches your expressions intently, looking for the right moment to get you moving back to your room safe and sound.
Your arm crosses over your body out of instinct to grab the hand he has on your elbow for extra support.
“Are you okay?” He asks. He seems to ask you that a lot.
You lean into him, your shoulder to his chest, and you can feel the blackout creeping up on you like humidity from a thunderstorm—it’s usually too late to do anything once you notice it.
“I drank a lot,” you laugh deeply, rolling your head onto his shoulder to look up at him.
He looks so much more delicate under the ambient lights—his usual defined features have shifted and melted him into someone that doesn’t look like they should be a feared animal out in the world.
Logan all but cradles you, that same look of concern crossing his features from the night you went to his door. The only difference is that you’ve had a generous amount of tequila—and are currently being kept alert by the hot touch of his hands. That’s new.
“Can you walk?” He holds your squinty eye contact, probably searching for any signs of a coherent thought behind the blissful expression on your face. “Or will I have to carry you?” He muses, a hint of a smile crosses his lips as his hand moves up to gently rub over your shoulders.
Drunk you likes the sound of anything relating to Logan keeping his hands on you right now. You wonder what sober you would think.
“I’m not gonna tell you no, but it feels like I’m floating in a bubble that won’t stop spinning,” you hum as you let the sensation consume your senses. “I might fly away.” You dip your head back off of his shoulder in amusement as you laugh again.
“Yeah, you’re fucked up,” he mumbles lovingly. Just like anyone else who’s concerned for your well-being would.
“Hey, kitty cat—I’m perfectly buzzed,” you emphasize the teasing nickname, narrowing your eyes at him sternly as you bring your gaze back to his in defence.
“‘Kitty cat’? Really?” He snorts. “I think you’re past your bedtime by three drinks,” he remarks back with equal levity.
“Then take me to bed if you’re so concerned,” you sigh dramatically, going limp in his arms to make your point.
Truthfully, you’re probably past your bedtime by five shots. But he doesn’t need to know that. You just know that you can’t control your limbs like you were able to ten minutes ago.
“Maybe I will.” You don’t see it, but he does his quick little eye roll that you’ve seen pointed towards Scott too many times.
He slides the hand on your elbow down to the backs of your knees, pulling you up off the floor and into his chest as you fall into the arm that was rubbing your back.
Oh, so it’s gonna be like that.
An excited—or maybe shocked—noise escapes your mouth as he adjusts you in his arms. You extend your right arm up and over his shoulder to hug his neck and keep yourself stable.
The trip to your room isn’t one that should take long, but each sway from Logan’s steps goes straight to your stomach in waves of queasiness. It feels like forever before you feel him bend awkwardly to turn your doorknob.
You’re fighting to keep yourself conscious the entire time, not wanting to regret missing the feeling of being in his arms.
The room is only lit by the silver moonlight creeping through the window. It’s hard to distinguish anything through your bleary eyes besides Logan’s look of determination to get you in your bed.
He leans down, shuffling you out of his arms and onto the mattress as swiftly as possible. The care of it all pokes at your heart.
He silently goes around each corner of the bed adjusting the blankets. It may be dark, but the moonlight highlights the peaks of his shoulders as he moves. Your eyes might be involuntarily half-shut, but that doesn’t stop you from staring.
You’re now probably no better than every other mutant in this school.
“Logan,” you start before you can fully process the foolish thing you’re about to say next.
He rounds the bed back to the side you’re huddled on, looking down on you. “Yeah?” The subtle jingle of his dog tag pierces the quiet that’s lingering in the room.
You part your lips to speak but the words die in your throat. They’re replaced by a flood of saliva that has you sitting up at a speed that shouldn’t be possible for someone as intoxicated as you. You cover your mouth with your hand, feeling your stomach churning and finally rejecting the tequila.
You suddenly feel very awake.
“Hey, hey.” Logan squats down in front of you with his already permanently-furrowed brows pinched closer together than you’ve ever seen before, a hand coming to your shoulder in concern. “What—”
“Bathroom,” you mumble through your palm, eyes rolling shut at the nausea.
He doesn’t say another word. He pulls you to your feet by your arms, walking behind you fiercely with his hands gripping your shoulders to guide you to the small bathroom across the room.
You push the door open, falling to your knees in the darkness over the toilet as the mistakes from the night expel themselves from your body through rounds of coughing and gagging. He lingers in the doorway, keeping an eye on you but still giving you privacy.
“Fuck,” you cough, resting your warm forehead on your hand as you slump against the toilet. That definitely sobered you up fast.
Exhaustion hits you like a truck. “Logan…” you croak from your crumpled position on the tile floor.
He steps in, bending down again to reach your height. You can barely make out the shadow of him in the fading moonlight.
“Just…help me back to bed,” you groan, reaching for his arm as you use the toilet seat to push yourself the rest of the way up. You stumble against him as you try to make it back through the doorway.
He guides you to the bed the same way he did to the bathroom—steering you from behind.
“I’m gonna get you some water,” he says as you settle back into bed, head hitting the pillow with a quiet thud. “Even though you did this to yourself.”
“Fuck off,” you groan.
You close your eyes, hearing his footsteps fade back toward the bathroom. You hear the tap run for a couple seconds before he’s next to you again, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Drink. All of it,” he says firmly, holding the cup out to you.
You sit back up slowly, no doubt lethargic, an unimpressed look on your face that earns you a raised brow that tells you there’s no room to object.
You finish the cup in four mouthfuls, handing it back to him. “Thanks.”
You fall back onto the pillow, no longer feeling like you’re travelling through space and time.
The clothes you’re in are close enough to pyjamas. There’s no sense in undressing in front of Logan, especially with what you were about to say to him before you were rudely interrupted by the consequences of your own actions.
He returns the cup to the bathroom and you pull the blanket over your waist as you hopefully settle in for the rest of the night. You owe him big time for this. The thought of just how exactly you’ll manage that fills you with anxiety.
You turn on your side, fingers sliding over the mattress with the movement. They graze familiar strands of feather-soft fabric by the pillow.
This is Logan’s room. Are you just that drunk that you couldn’t tell the difference when he brought you in? Or are your rooms just that similar to each other?
You dip a finger in one of the three holes, hearing the bathroom door click shut as Logan makes his way back.
“Why am I in your bed?” You see him rustling through some drawers of clothing by the small desk, but he stops when you finish your question.
“You can’t take care of yourself tonight,” he says. “You’re too drunk.” He pulls the grey tank-top off, stuffing it in one of the drawers and shutting it.
You sit up at that, head still foggy and tipsy, watching him move to the foot of the bed across from you. You try to focus your eyes on anything but his bare chest and the dark hair that adorns it and trails down past the waistband of his sweats. His hair is somehow even more wild from mindlessly pulling the tank-top over his head.
“Ah. I was gonna ask you to stay anyway,” you reveal, almost whispering the bold confession.
You were planning to ask before the tequila decided to make another appearance, but maybe doing it this way isn’t so bad either. He did all the heavy-lifting.
A modest, tight-lipped smile graces his lips. “I think you still have some tequila to sleep off.”
Whether or not you still have some shots in your system, what you feel and want right now is real. It’s not influenced by anything besides some mild andronitis created by the fact that you share a common struggle.
“Is it…safe? To share a bed?” The most coherent thought you’ve had all night makes him stiffen from your sudden nervous tone. Your body could easily replace the mattress and become a new home for the deep punctures.
Your eyelids have been fighting against being pulled shut by alcohol-induced drowsiness, yet your eyes are wider than they’ve been all night in this moment.
You’re sat right in the middle of the bed and Logan comes around to the right, sitting on the edge of the mattress to come down to your level.
“You’re just gonna have to trust me.” His eyes are imploring and apologetic all at once. He understands the prospect of even having you here in the first place.
You nod, sliding over to the left to give him more room.
Logan wouldn’t put you in harms way, you reason with yourself. He wouldn’t risk potentially killing someone, especially a fellow mutant, if he wasn’t absolutely sure of his mental state. But you also don’t really know his demons.
You roll onto your right side, tugging the blanket up to your chin in comfort. “Why haven’t you been given a new mattress?” You ask as he turns to face you in the same position, his half of the blanket resting at his hip.
The bed dips significantly on his side, almost encouraging you to roll over against him.
“Forgot to ask,” he says quietly, running his right hand through his hair to push the shorter strands off his forehead.
From his tone you can decipher that he actually means “can’t be bothered.” It’s a devastating thing to imagine just how many he goes through, anyway. He probably doesn’t see the point in replacing something that will inevitably have the same fate as the others.
There has to be less than an arms length between you two. It’s a surreal situation to be in considering what you thought you knew about him. A recluse. Standoffish. Maybe it’s all a fluke and the alcohol is severely fucking with your perception of what’s actually happening.
“Thanks for everything,” you whisper as if someone else will overhear.
“Get some sleep,” he insists, rolling onto his back. You do the same.
You stare at the blank ceiling for a while, noticing the exact moment Logan falls asleep; his breathing grows slow and his body runs even hotter than before.
You think about how he could wake at any moment, claws accidentally sliding right through your stomach from a nightmare or two. You imagine all the others that have been in your position—if they felt scared, if they even knew.
He asked you to trust him, and that should be enough.
There is a body full of secrets and hurt sleeping undisturbed next to you with the ability to withstand and regenerate from any physical injury, yet there’s something that hasn’t allowed the same to be done for his mind.
━━━━
The bright amber sun hits your closed eyes through the window, making you roll your head away onto the other side of the cool pillow.
You want more sleep. Your head feels like a bag of bricks and your body feels like it got beat with them.
You stretch a leg out, gently grazing something solid with your foot. Your eyes shoot open, the night coming back to you as you drift into consciousness. Logan.
You shoot up, bouncing a little from the momentum.
Logan startles next to you, clearly interrupted from a deep sleep. “What the fuck…” he groans, rubbing a hand over his face, not seeming interested in making a move to sit up with you.
“What time is it?” Your eyes bounce around the room looking for a clock.
He grunts, reaching for a watch on the nightstand. “Seven-forty.”
You needed to be in the Danger Room for 7 o’clock.
“Fuck!” You rip the blanket off, almost tripping as you run to the bathroom.
Logan also wants to roll back over and go back to sleep, but he knows he won’t be able to. He doesn’t work like that. So he just lays there, listening to you swear and make a mess of his bathroom as the clattering of fuck-knows-what fills the room.
The surprise of how well he slept makes him feel uneasy. Although it definitely wasn’t eight hours, it was uninterrupted. He doesn’t want to credit that to you, though. He wants to believe that he’s getting better overall, and maybe he is, so he can’t offer you any flattery in his mind.
Another distant “fuck” escapes the bathroom, pulling him out of his thoughts. You exit a few minutes later, as refreshed and presentable as you could get yourself, and the sight of Logan still in bed makes something in you ache for another moment of feeling him care and tend to you. Maybe that’s your hangover talking.
“Thanks again. I’ll see you around,” you say hurriedly, offering an apologetic smile as you turn the doorknob to leave.
“Good luck with Charles.” It’s a genuine advisory. Fuck. You’ll be so incredibly lucky if he doesn’t give you more than a stern lecture in front of everyone.
You take a deep breath in and slip out of Logan’s room. There’s not a single cut, mark, or scratch on you, just like he promised.
━━━━ ● ━━━━
“I was told it’ll take a day to fix,” Storm explains with a shrug. “You’ll have to find somewhere or someone to room with until tomorrow. Jean already offered to have me stay with her.” A contrite look passes over her face.
You stand outside your rooms, staring in at the remnants of the mess caused by two terrakinetic kids fucking around in the courtyard when they weren’t supposed to be. They somehow managed to throw, or launch, sizeable tree branches right through each of your windows. Of course it wasn’t on purpose, but the Danger Room exists for a reason—to avoid mishaps like this.
Shards of glass and fragments of wood splatter your floors. The branches are hanging half-way out both of your windows, caught on the window sills and bobbing in the evening summer wind. The kids are extremely fortunate that neither of you were in your rooms when it happened.
“It’s fine. It’s just one night,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes in frustration. You don’t love how quickly your mind picks out who to go to. It’s already nearing 11 p.m., so you have to work fast.
Storm squeezes your shoulder in comfort. “The living room is always free,” she suggests with a remorseful smile.
But you don’t want the living room. Stiff couches mixed with students clamouring and passing by at the crack of dawn isn’t exactly a recipe for a good nights rest. As if you usually get one, anyway.
“Not a fucking chance,” you laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you say again, dismissing her worries. You wish her goodnight when she steps by you to head towards Jean’s room at the very end of the hall.
You glare at the mess in your room, not daring to step in. The amount of shattered glass everywhere makes the floor look like a body of water from the reflections of the pale moonlight bouncing and refracting off of the jagged shards.
“Fuck,” you spit through your teeth, solely to yourself.
Not even a full week after Logan saw you at your worst, you’re going to go back and ask for the left side of his bed. Shameless.
You don’t have much of a choice; you’re not comfortable having it be anyone else. It’s only because Logan saw you at your worst that you feel he’s the most logical choice. Already having shared a bed with him this week may also have some weight in your decision.
You take the few self-assured steps to his room, once again standing in front of his door. This time you feel more confident in approaching the Wolverine in his den.
You knock three times, the piercing sound echoing through the hall.
“You start to miss me or what?” A bare chest enters your view. You note the dog tag hanging from his neck again before you find his unyielding gaze full of ambiguity, wondering why you’re here. Again.
You blink at him slowly in hilarity. “Ha, funny. Can I stay with you tonight?” You ask flatly, not thrilled with the situation, but not completely displeased with being here now. “My window—”
“I know what happened,” he interrupts. “Figured you’d go for the couch in the living room.” He looks at you more pointedly with teasing suspicion.
“I think you know no one would ever willingly choose to sleep out there,” you reason, running a hand over your face in both shame and defeat.
He makes a face that tells you “touché” and you smirk in satisfaction. “If you don’t mind giving up half of your bed again, I would really appreciate it. I promise I’m not trying to make this a habit,” you sigh. Spending the night in Logan’s bed three times in the past month has to be a record for anyone recently.
“I don’t think it would be a bad habit,” he argues. Oh. “C’mon.” He gives a jerk of his head to allow you in, his tufts of his hair bristling with the quick movement.
“Thanks,” you squeak. He wants you here?
He shuts the door behind you, following you to the bed that’s clearly already had him in it. The blanket rests in waves on the mattress that remind you of just how human Logan is despite his reputation and image.
“Do you have an early morning?” You ask, slipping under the blanket.
“No. Charles was feeling nice for once,” he raises his tone sarcastically to rag on Charles’ judgement, which has clearly been a much needed one before now.
“Not an early bird?” You roll onto your right side like last time, facing him as he settles on his back with a deep breath. The bed sinks in again where he lays, your body wanting to give in to the laws of gravity and fall into him.
“Fuck no,” he laughs lightly, eyes crinkling around the corners. It’s self-deprecating, but it’s still a genuine laugh. The condescension from it lingers in the air, all directed at himself in a way that tells you he’s thinking about how inconceivably fucked up he is.
The last time he had a decent sleep was when you were drunk in his bed a few days ago.
“People like us don’t usually get the pleasure of a full eight hours,” he notes, sliding his gaze to yours for a fraction of a second.
He props an arm behind his head, the other resting on his chest and idly twisting the dog tag between his fingers. You watch the thin piece of steel slide and flip easily, the chain tinkling with every movement.
People like us.
“You mean mutants,” you state. You see his jaw tense in what little light there is from the half-moon tonight.
You see his brows pull together. “Yeah.” He has a point.
You think about the mutants you know, how they all have some horrific story about their gifts or family, or both. How they either were shamed by society or experimented on like rats.
The scenarios are endless. If you can think of it, some mutant has probably lived it.
Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach. You and Logan are not isolated or special cases, but you’ve already shared a moment of vulnerability with him when you came to his door all those weeks ago seeking solace for the same thing he fights with: the inescapable ability of remembering.
You pull the blanket tighter against you. “I don’t think you’ll hurt me.”
He turns his head to you, confusion written on his face. “What?” He stops toying with the dog tag.
“Your claws. I trust you.” You didn’t feel like you were in immediate danger that first night, but you want to reassure him anyway. Or maybe you’re reassuring yourself.
He hasn’t had to say a single word for you to know his nightmares trigger something instinctive and combative that’s been hardwired into his DNA. In this case, it’s his claws needing to find a home in his mattresses, where another body could potentially lay one night. Like yours is right now.
You noticed the lack of holes in this mattress when you first got to the bed. Maybe you mentioning them last time was enough for him to finally request a new one.
Logan knows he shouldn’t make promises he doesn’t know he’ll be able to keep, but he wants to keep you here tonight, so he improvises. He abandons the dog tag between his fingers completely, turning onto his side and reaching to find your hand under the blanket. You meet him halfway, sliding your fingers between his as your palms lay flat on the bed.
A smile tugs at your lips for a moment. He watches your interlinked fingers, observing the size difference, wondering if he really just did that—and why.
You assume it’s his way of saying “thank you” for your trust when you probably shouldn’t be putting that much into him.
“Does it hurt?” You whisper, pulling your fingers out from his just enough to caress the divets between his knuckles that conceal the claws.
He knows what you’re asking. “Every time.” He softly pushes his fingers back into yours, squeezing a little.
There’s a deadly stillness in the room despite his window being cracked. You both know you’re one in the same in a way, and that’s a connection that Logan hasn’t let himself experience. Not everyone likes looking in a mirror.
To be truly seen by someone, wholly, without judgement or fear, is what he deserves.
“What are you?” He asks, rubbing his index finger back and forth along the top of your hand. “Telekinetic? Psychic?” His curious voice grows quiet, hazel eyes fascinated with you and your lack of a physical mutation, at least nothing that he can see.
It never occurred to you that he didn’t know your mutation, or that you’ve never told him. It was never needed, but it seems unfair that you know about his when he wasn’t the one who told you.
“Ha, close.” Your eyes twinkle as you notice how intently he’s listening. “Psychometric,” you correct, watching his forehead crease.
“Sounds like math,” he quips, readjusting his head on the pillow. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat he’s putting off.
You laugh quietly. “No, it’s extrasensory perception. It lets me see the history of any object or person I touch, but only if I accept the energy,” you explain.
You watch his eyes narrow and you know what he’s thinking, so you quickly interject as he begins to pull his hand out from yours. “I need to touch a pulse point to be able to see anything,” you reassure, feeling his fingers slide back against yours. “The heart remembers everything,” you clarify.
The catch? The person’s memories and past stay with you after you see them. It’s become hard to distinguish what memories are yours or someone else’s. They all become intertwined. Good or bad, violent or gentle. You see it all, and then it’s part of you. Forever.
“I haven’t looked. I promise.”
“Good. You don’t need to see that shit,” he huffs, eyes wandering over your face. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but he’s a little startled for the first time in a while.
“I’m sure I’ve seen it all,” you state. It’s probably not far off from the truth. Your gift came when you were all too young, and plenty of time has passed since then for you to rack up this amount of damage from near-strangers and their lives.
“No, you haven’t.” A sure expression passes over him, shaking his head as best as he can against the pillow.
“Then I’ll count myself lucky,” you say softly. You have no idea what Logan has experienced, but his demeanor makes you want to stay curious. Not everything needs to be known, and you’re definitely not entitled to it.
A faint smile appears on his lips, then it’s gone just as quick. “Get some sleep,” he rasps. He turns onto his back and his hand abandons yours.
It’s a complete repeat of last time.
Something twinges in your heart, and you don’t like it. What exactly had you expected from Logan? He’s just doing you a courtesy by letting you stay here for the night. Nothing more. And that’s what you should expect: nothing.
The hum of crickets outside eventually lulls you into a dead sleep. It’s heavy and deep, not a single muscle twitching in your body. Logan breathes steadily next to you, a hand on his chest as the occasional snore fills the air.
From above you two might look like you’re transient, only here in this moment for a short time. And, realistically, you are.
━━━━
Logan was no where to be seen by the time you woke up, and you made quick work to get out of his room. It always feel wrong to be in someone’s space when they aren’t there.
Just like Storm said, the windows in your rooms were fixed the next day. It looks as though nothing even happened.
“Thank fuck,” you mumble to yourself as you step back into your room.
If you ever have to spend another night in Logan’s bed, you might as well wear a shirt that says “yes, we’re fucking!”, even if it isn’t true. You could deny it all you want, but it won’t stop what students would say. Nothing gets past them, even if it’s behind a closed door.
━━━━ ● ━━━━
“Are you fucking Logan?”
You almost swallow your tongue. “Sorry?” Your brows shoot up in surprise, eyes round in disbelief.
“Are you guys sleeping together?” Storm casually asks as she flicks through the T.V. channels, glancing over to you from her spot on the couch.
You’re sat comfortably in an arm chair, suddenly no longer caring what channel she decides on. “Why would you think that?” Technically you were sleeping together, but not like that. It may never happen again, no matter how badly you want it to.
“Things travel fast around here,” she deflects with a cheeky smile. “And, you know, Logan is…Logan.” She shrugs.
You don’t even know what to say to that. Is there a right or wrong answer?
“It wasn’t like that,” you grumble. “He was doing me a favour. As a friend.” It hasn’t even been a full day since he let you stay with him while pieces of your window laid on your floor, and people are already convinced you’re fucking.
You haven’t even managed a chaste kiss, despite how much as you want to, never mind his dick being balls deep in you.
“Right.” She emphasizes the word, not convinced. Or just pushing your buttons because she can.
You roll your eyes. “If anything was happening, you’d be the first to know,” you point out.
She looks back over to you. “I know,” she says with another, more sincere, smile. “You two would be cute, though.”
You give her some side-eye, not quite sure if you disagree entirely with that statement. Whatever happens, happens. Logan is not something you can control or influence. He does what—and who—he wants, when he wants.
━━━━
A bolt of lightening strikes you. You gasp, then release a choked cry, eyes flying open as you claw at your chest in terror.
Your throat tightens and you break out in a cold sweat as you sit up. The soft blanket around you feels constricting. Sporadic and short breaths make you heave as your body registers the horrors in your subconscious.
There was never any lighting. That’s just what the pain feels like.
The muscles in your shoulders and neck tense from your panicked state as your heart struggles to keep a normal rhythm. You yank the blanket off, feeling weak from fear and the onset of tremors. Your whole body gives up on itself as you sob through broken exhales. Your legs have gone cold, lungs shrinking inch by inch with every passing minute.
You crawl to the edge of your bed, wanting to just get out and leave—the blanket. The bed. The room. Most of all, you want to escape your own mind.
You sink onto the floor when a foot touches the ground, and you realize walking isn’t in the cards right now. You’re shaking too badly to be able to physically move. All your strength is gone, robbed by your memories.
Balmy tears paint your face in determination, making sure no part of you is left untouched by this spell.
You screw your eyes shut, tears still slipping out with ease anyway. Leaning your back against the bed-frame, you curl into yourself and wrap your arms around your knees on the chilled hardwood.
You try to focus on your breathing to at least slow your heart down to a pace that doesn’t hurt.
Wounded cries rip their way out of you, interrupting the breaths you try to steady. A hand touches your arm and you yelp like an injured dog, flailing at the contact as your arms swing out from around your knees in shock.
“Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s me.” Strong hands quickly wrap around each of your wrists to stop your arms from thrashing.
You try to focus your eyes, blurred and stinging from tears, on the person kneeling closely in front of you.
“L-Logan…” you whisper, balling your fists to try and expel the shakes.
He looks like someone who shouldn’t be able to be concerned about another person, yet the look on his face scares you. Brows pinched together in worry, eyes frantic, lips parted from heavy breaths. All because of you.
“It’s just me,” he hushes your cries. His thumbs stroke the undersides of your wrists tenderly, no doubt feeling your racing pulse.
You feel disoriented. “Wh…how…”
“I heard you,” he explains, watching you process everything. He drops your wrists when some recognition passes over your face.
“What do you need?” He follows your gaze as it wanders around the room, trying to keep you from spiralling further.
You look at him for a moment. He’s got his white tank-top on, the black sweats, and an intense need to help you written all over him. Fresh tears burn your cheeks as you come back into reality.
“I want it to fucking stop,” you weep, head falling into your hands in shame.
You don’t want him to see you like this, even though it’s a commonality between you two. It’s too intimate. You’d take him seeing you blackout drunk everyday of the year over this.
Then you do remember that it has stopped. Each time in Logan’s bed. There was silence. Peace. For the whole night. For both of you.
“Tell me what you need,” he says firmly, angling his head down to keep your eyes on him, desperately wanting an answer.
“You.” You suck in an agonizing breath to try and collect yourself.
He doesn’t flinch like you expect him to. If anything, his eyes become more pensive, clearly considering something. Then he shakes his head in wariness.
“C’mon. Let’s get you out of here,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. The only sound echoing in the room is your wobbly breathes, your body jerking with each one as you enter the aftermath and begin to go slack.
An arm slides behind your back, his hand grabbing ahold of your side while he pulls your legs over his other arm, picking you up off the floor.
He cradles you against him just like he did when you were drunk, carrying you out of your room.
He left your door open when he came in, and you hope no students heard or saw anything. He tilts to grab the doorknob, shutting it without a sound.
You wipe and rub at your eyes as Logan takes a few steps down the hall, quickly getting to where he needs to go when you feel him lean for his doorknob.
You’re sure a few rogue, leftover tears fall onto his shirt before he manages to sit on his bed lightly, you still curled tightly in his arms.
His hand pushes on your back for you to sit upright on his lap. “Face me,” he encourages, holding onto your sides as you twist around, bending your legs to slide over his thighs and straddle him loosely.
You look down at him, he looks up at you, feeling the quivers in your body dissipate as you melt further into his lap. A fondness crosses over both of your tired faces. He rests his arms over your thighs, warm hands linking behind your back as you do the same around his neck.
It’s nothing provocative or seductive. All you can feel is the care and concern rolling off of him in suffocating waves. He wants you to feel safe, and if that means overrunning your senses with his presence, then that’s what he’ll do.
“Got anything to say?” He murmurs, the fallen strands of hair around the edges of his forehead bristle with each move of his head. The rest of his hair fails to fully resemble the cat-like ears he had earlier in the day.
What does he want to hear?
You let your head hang a little, your nose almost brushing his. “I have nothing to say,” you assert, fidgeting with the chain of his dog tag at the nape of his neck.
You don’t necessarily feel embarrassed about him seeing you in such a helpless state, but you don’t want to simply unload your shit on him. So, in turn, you have nothing to say.
“Bullshit.” He almost rolls his eyes. There’s no real threat of him forcing you to say anything behind it. He won’t pry, but he doesn’t believe you.
An offended look overcomes your face, and you almost pull away. You don’t want to feel the humiliation of elaborating on just why exactly you said you needed him in this moment out of everything else.
“I just…” You roll your lips together in thought, measuring the words you could say but won’t. “Want to sleep. Here,” you sigh. “I don’t wanna go back.” You deflate in his arms, voice wobbly.
It’s already who-knows what time, and you need to pacify your wired nervous system; Logan simply holding you has already helped with that more than you want to admit.
His mouth quirks up briefly at that. “What happened to not wanting to make that a habit?” His eyes soften as his arms retract from around your sides, letting you slip easily onto his bed from his lap in a moment of calm, or relief.
Habit, if not resisted, soon becomes necessity.
“Special circumstances,” you reason, already pulling the blanket over you while he keeps his place at the edge of the bed, observing you with amusement.
“Seems like you get into those a lot,” he notes, pushing himself off the mattress.
He steps around to the other side—his designated spot—and slips the tank-top off, letting it drop to the floor. You’re not trying to be a freak, but you watch the whole thing.
The flex of his arms and shoulders are out of your mind as fast as they entered as you watch him hook his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats and pull them downright in front of you, not even turning around or to the side to try and conceal himself.
Your eyes widen, then you reel in your thoughts before they get lost at sea. No one who is sane fucking sleeps in sweatpants. Duh.
But didn’t he the last two times? It’s hard for you to remember, but you’d certainly recall if you were face-to-face with the outline of his di—
“It’s rude to stare, y’know.” Logan pulls his lips together, interrupting your thoughts. You try to not eyeball the bulge too hard, but it basically looked at you first.
The snug briefs do little to hide anything. They hide nothing, actually.
You almost scoff, but the playfulness in his tone tells you he couldn’t give a shit. He probably likes it anyway. From what you know, he definitely does.
“Oh, yeah, like you’ve ever cared about modesty,” you throw back, averting your gaze to the ceiling anyway.
It’s not that he runs around the mansion naked, but he definitely isn’t shy about what he looks like or against showing some skin. You’ve seen and heard enough over the past few months.
You hear a stifled chuckle as he joins you under the blanket without a retort. He knows you’re right. He’s just glad you’re a little lively and alert.
“Will you be okay for the rest of the night?” He brings both hands behind his head on the pillow, propping himself up a little.
“I should be fine,” you say confidently. “The challenge will be getting back to sleep.” You laugh in exasperation.
It’s always hard to calm down and get back to a place of tranquility after everything has settled with your mind. You’re pumped full of adrenaline and there’s not much that can curb something that persistent flowing through your body.
You haven’t found anything to help with it. Yet.
“There’s not many people that’ll understand what you go through,” he starts, voice rough with fatigue. “But I do.”
You look to him, sliding an arm under your pillow as you turn on your side. “How do you…help it.” You’re not sure if you phrased that right. It feels crude to reduce something so complex to the likes of a common cold that has an array of over-the-counter solutions.
“You don’t. It just has to run its course.” He looks to you, wanting to see your reaction.
It wasn’t meant to be hurtful or insensitive, but he’s not going to lie to you and say that things can only get better and that the worst is over. Especially for mutants, that’s not always true.
Although you don’t know what Logan lives with every day and sleeps with every night, you do know that his capacity for empathy is still intact. Here you are in his bed after all, seeing and indulging in a side of him that many never will.
You sigh lightly. “We’re quite the pair.”
A comfortable half-smirk slips over his lips. “I think we’re just fucked up insomniacs,” he suggests with a breathy exhale that’s close enough to a laugh.
You wish you could slide a thumb over the pulse in his wrist and see what’s haunting him, just to understand what happened to the Wolverine, but you’ve learned that doing so usually isn’t worth the price you’ll pay after. If what’s in his head is horrific enough to cause him to go through a couple mattresses a month, then it won’t do you any good either.
“I sleep pretty good with you,” you offer, seeing how he raises a brow in doubt almost instantly.
He sleeps well with you, too. It kind of rattled him when he noticed a pattern of uninterrupted nights and you being by his side. Not a single mattress ruined on those nights.
“Try not to knee me in the stomach tonight,” he deflects with ease. He takes his hands out from behind his head, sliding his left arm under the pillow as he turns over onto his side and closes his eyes. Facing you.
You mentally smack yourself. Multiple times. You didn’t think you drifted that much when you slept.
“No promises,” you mutter. You catch a small shake of his head before you let yourself join him in unconsciousness as you mirror each others lonely bodies.
━━━━
Your eyes ache—to open, to move, to touch. Enough crying will do that to you.Your eyelids are heavy, but there’s something else weighing down on you.
A tired groan crawls from your throat as you try to place yourself for a moment. The morning sun is just beginning to shine too brightly for your liking, and you squish your face deeper into the pillow.
You’re still tipsy with sleep, lying flat on your stomach, but there’s something dense and hot resting over your back.
You prop yourself up on your forearms, giving yourself a minute to wake up. You twist your hips around to sit yourself up, feeling the thing on your back slide down to your waist.
The blanket pools around your hips, and you feel a hand reflexively squeeze over the meat of your hip in disapproval of your moving. Something in you clenches at the sensation of something invading the area with ease. A spot reserved for intimacy.
Your head quirks to your right, seeing Logan on his stomach with his right arm thrown over your midsection.
You blink in surprise, staring at his sleeping body. His hair is sticking up every which way, his head half-off the pillow, his side of the blanket not even covering the curve of his ass anymore. It’s endearing to see the Wolverine in such a normal, human state.
But if someone were to walk in, it would look like you two spent the whole night fucking. A lot. That wakes you up a little more.
You peek over at the nightstand behind him and see the time blinking on his watch. It’s already 8 a.m.
You rest a hand over his shoulder to gently guide his arm off of you, but you stop yourself. Instead, you lightly trace your fingers down his shoulders and upper back a couple times, occasionally scratching softly over the ridges of muscle.
A shiver quickly rolls through his upper body, but your touch doesn’t fully wake him. He knows it’s just you.
It’s the least you can do for him as a thanks for recovering your broken body from the floor of your room and bringing you here when he didn’t necessarily have to.
It almost feels like instinct to offer comforting gestures to him. There’s something inside you that just pulls to him. You want to be the one that can give him comfort and help him put himself back together.
You want to be the only one.
━━━━ ● ━━━━
There’s a shadow that’s been following you around the mansion.
As soon as you stepped out of Logan’s room that morning a few days ago, it started.
This shadow likes to be nosy about what you’re doing. This shadow likes to be in your space. This shadow wants to be in your space. And he is.
No one has seen Logan out around the mansion this much, including you, and that’s how you noticed he’s basically been attached to your hip ever since he decided your back was a comfortable armrest.
He’s always just there, like a stray cat begging for food or affection. There to entertain you, banter with you, indulge you, in any way he can, including now as you trail back inside the mansion well behind Storm from an evening walkabout in the garden.
“No smoking in the courtyard,” you sing as you pass him carelessly, not even offering a glance to him in interest.
You like playing this game. Whatever it is. Constantly poking and prodding at each other to see what you can do to get the other to break in some way, no matter how slight.
Your heart flutters and flips every time; maybe from the thrill of it all, maybe from the arousal you get from the tension. You hope he feels everything, too.
He turns his head to watch you cross into the entryway. “Blow me,” he throws back playfully through a thick puff of smoke, leaning against the brick wall with a cigar pinched between two fingers.
You suppress a chuckle, keeping your unwavering pace. “Yeah, you wish!” You yell over your shoulder. You know he hears you. He wouldn’t let himself miss it.
Logan smirks and shakes his head in amusement, always impressed with your quick rebuttals that occasionally tent his jeans. He takes one last drag out of spite before following your footsteps inside.
You have become, by definition, friends…in a way. Even if you sorely cross the line into other territory more often than not. Sexual innuendos and friendly flirting can only go on for so long before the underlying intentions and meaning reflects real desires.
It’s evolved into more than just borrowing his bed a couple times or helping each other out. It’s surpassed the fear of whatever habit you were afraid of forming from doing so. It’s become a dependency to get that adrenaline high from simply riling each other up.
You have an assumption that if you were to end up in Logan’s bed again, somehow, there will be a point of no return that you’ll be faced with. There aren’t many more excuses that can be used for explaining to yourselves why you’re together in bed before you have to recognize the truth.
That platonic line is being stretched too thin, and you’re not sure how much farther it can go.
━━━━ ● ━━━━
“How’ve you been sleeping?”
“Fine. You?”
“Could be better.” Logan hides his smirk, but you can hear it in his voice.
You narrow your eyes skeptically as he fishes around in the fruit bowl sitting in the middle of the kitchen island.
“How so?” You ask. Your legs swing leisurely as you sit upon the chilled countertop on his left, idly waiting for Storm to show up and go with you to training.
A smug, tight-lipped grin flashes across his face, a green apple rolling around in his palms before he puts it back. “You could be there,” he provokes, his eyes bright.
It’s your turn to raise a brow at him, but you can’t stop your smile. “Oh?”
He turns to you, tenderly grabbing the tops of your thighs and parting them slightly to stand between your legs.
This isn’t the first time he’s done this, and he knows it rouses you in all the right ways. But, neither of you will do anything about it. Not even a brief kiss.
“Come on,” he goads, planting his hands down next to your hips, bringing himself in closer as he bears his weight on his arms. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” He sways his head side to side to emphasize his point.
Fuck. That’s good.
That may be exactly what you did for him, but it’s now a figure of speech for something else entirely. It’s almost impossible to argue against either way, as if you want to. This is what you’ve been patiently waiting for.
You put your hands over his as you lean back a little to put some distance between you. “How sweet,” you hum.
His eyes flick from yours to your lips one too many times before you continue. “You start to miss me?” You tease as you lean forward again, echoing what he said to you the night your window got smashed in.
“Smart-ass,” he mutters as you laugh quietly. The tips of your noses barely graze each other as he steps in closer again. You’re almost at the same height like this.
“Save me the left side,” you advise, bringing your hands to his shoulders as you fondle his white t-shirt between your fingers. You’re so close, and he’s already so warm against you just like this.
“Always do.”
━━━━
You want to rip your heart out of your chest from how hard it’s pounding against your ribs. It’s almost throwing you forward with each heavy beat.
Three resounding knocks fill the hallway as you shuffle on your feet, waiting for Logan to open the door.
It feels like you’re doing something bad. Something parents would warn their kids against. Something greatly envied.
Everything inside you feels on fire. Your thoughts, desires, anxiety, all jumbling together into one distorted state of mind and body.
“Ah, welcome back.” His sarcastic tone makes your face go hot. A satisfied smirk crosses his lips as he runs a hand through his shaggy, unstyled hair.
You shake your head, pursing your lips. “Knock it off.” You gently shove at his bare chest. Misbehaviour already. But are you really surprised?
Logan grabs your wrist, delicately guiding you into his room. “You enjoy it,” he says lowly, quickly shutting the door as soon as you’re in.
“Maybe,” you hum in response, pulling away from his grasp and seeking out your side of the bed. Logan follows closely behind, giving your ass a light smack in encouragement before he cuts away to his side while you jolt in shock, a stunned look on your face as you whip your head around to him across the bed.
“Oh, really?” You scoff. He’s biting back a smile, not moving until he knows what you’ll do next. He’s never gone that far before.
“I’m sorry, that was rude—how can I make it up to you?” He almost chokes on a laugh, pulling his dog tag back and forth along the chain while he considers you.
This Logan is very different from the one you were met with the first night he let you in his space. This one is attentive and exuberant, yet he hasn’t given you much up until this point right now. You’ve gotten way too comfortable with him without even doing anything to you.
In this moment, he isn’t the brooding, animalistic Wolverine many see him as. He’s just Logan—for you.
You watch him carefully, easing yourself onto the bed. “Get in the fucking bed,” you slap his side of the mattress with a thump of your palm. “And do what you promised earlier,” you stare pointedly at him.
He owes you that “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours” favour he decided to pull out to get you here.
“Mm, alright, alright,” he surrenders, a look of amusement still on his face as he kneels onto the bed. “I thought of a pretty good idea for it,” he says softly, crawling to sit next to you on top of the blanket as the bed-frame creaks with the added weight.
Your shoulders almost brush against each other. You shift, turning your body fully toward him. “Oh? Wh—woah!”
You squeal when his strong hands latch onto your sides, lifting you just enough to pull you over his legs to plant you on his lap. He leans back against the headboard, pulling on your thighs so you straddle him tightly.
He looks devilish when you catch his gaze again, and you know what’s coming. What’s been coming. Your hands find their places on his shoulders, warm and taut, as his hands hold your hips.
The bond between you will culminate tonight. It will be wrapped in a blanket and trapped between two alike souls that lie heart-to-heart in the dead of night. It will be perpetual.
The heat of him between your legs makes you restless. It’s just you, him, and the darkness in the quiet room you’ve become too familiar with.
“Logan…” you trail off bashfully when you feel something firm through his sweats poke against your cunt. It clearly doesn’t take much to excite him.
“Hm?” He takes you in for a split second, hands running from your hips up to your chest leisurely with a sharp inhale, not yet completely bothered by the fact that you have a shirt on.
You suck in a shaky breath when your hips accidentally shift over his bulge from his hands pushing and pulling over you.
“What’s the idea?” Your voice wavers.
You know what it is. He knows that. You just want to hear him say it and fill the silence.
“Something I’ve wanted for a while,” he murmurs, eyes hyper-focused on you.
Your fingers dance their way to the sides of his neck, brushing along the supple skin while you feel muscles and tendons flex with every slight movement. You subtly press the pad of your index finger against the pulse point right under his jaw, just to ground yourself and truly feel that Logan is there in front of you.
His pulse is steady but hard, much like yours, and the prickle of energy festering against the finger almost makes it go numb from not accepting it into your body.
“Show me, then.” You smile sweetly, leaning in closer while you tilt his head up with the hand under his jaw, your finger slipping from his pulse and caressing over the dense, coarse hair along his cheek.
Your noses bump while your lips part in anticipation. His eyes flutter as he falls into you and frantically claims your mouth in an unbreakable kiss.
The first kiss. Nothing could tear him from you in this moment.
Your hands cradle his cheeks, keeping him from pulling off too far. His hands scratch and paw at your back, trying to find a way to somehow get you closer against him.
It’s all a little messy, your lips mostly just mashing together without any rhyme or reason, but neither of you care. You only care about how electrifying it feels to finally have Logan and feel how perfectly connected you are together after all these nights. You go together like a key and its lock.
“Logan,” you pant when his mouth releases yours for a fraction of a breath. The seconds between kisses dwindle the more you take from each other.
Your thighs tense as he pulls half an inch away just to reconnect more crazed as his lips lock over your bottom one aimlessly. Something deep inside you trembles and aches.
He grunts, accidentally sucking the tip of your tongue briefly before slotting his lips back over yours in an apology. “Hold on,” he mumbles in a rush against your parted lips. He knows what you’re asking—or trying to ask. He snakes an arm up along your spine and wraps the other around your waist.
Then the world is tilting.
He drops you on your back on the bed from his lap, hovering over you as he distracts you with harsh but pleasing kisses and wet bites along your neck, settling his hips heavily between your thighs. You squirm and feel how bolts of arousal are making your cunt pulse involuntarily.
Logan groans. “Fuck—I can smell it. I smell you.” He slowly grinds his hips into yours almost reflexively. He squeezes his eyes shut, and you tip your chin up to press a chaste kiss to his slick lips.
“Taste…if you want to,” you propose, lightly scratching up and down his shoulders and arms, only enough to leave faint red lines for a couple seconds.
Logan’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head before he gives it a small shake, a conflicted look overtaking his face. “Of course I fucking want to, but—fuck—next time. I promise.” He swallows whatever you were going to say with a deep kiss that has you nearly shaking when he sucks on your bottom lip.
“Let’s just take things easy,” he says roughly, bearing his weight on his left arm while he tries to get your sleep shorts and underwear off.
A promise of a next time makes your brain go fuzzy like static.
“I’ll hold you to it, then,” you resolve, lifting your hips as much as you can for him to lean back and pull away to wrestle your clothes the rest of the way down your legs, discarding them just as quickly.
“I hope you will,” he breathes through a small laugh as he shuffles on his knees. He doesn’t want to completely overwhelm you and scare you off, he just wants to enjoy you in a simple way that won’t entirely ruin you for tomorrow.
He doesn’t know what you can or cannot handle, but he’s going to find out.
The fresh air in the room brushes cooly against your wet cunt. It’s a nice contrast to how fiery your whole body feels, but Logan feels even warmer than you somehow. Maybe wolverine’s just run hot.
His sweats have ridden down his hips from his desperate grinding against you, and the dangerous cut of his v-line grows more and more narrow as the waistband teases the reveal of what’s underneath.
You watch him—palming his dick once as your knees sway side-to-side in waiting. His thumbs hook under the stretchy fabric, working what remains of his clothes down his sturdy thighs.
“It’s rude to stare.” He pops a brow, a smug, arrogant grin quirking his lips.
You push yourself to sit up, considerably shorter than him in this position as he stands on his knees, and walk two fingers up his toned stomach to his chest, avoiding the hard cock between you.
He looks at you with curiosity until your hand grabs his dog tag in a fist, pulling it towards you. “Then stop showing me your dick,” you say as he leans in to your pulling a little to not have the chain break away.
You knew the night Logan dropped his pants in front of you and let you eye-up his bulge would come back to haunt you. But it’s alluring. Big. Curves a little to the left, barely noticeable. A respectable amount of hair decorates the space between his bellybutton and the base of his cock.
He gives in to the tension on the chain, falling back to the mattress with you and trapping you between his arms as his cock rests heavy on your clit.
“How about I find somewhere to put it?” His smile pushes a whole new wave of arousal from you.
“It would be a damn shame if you didn’t,” you say against his mouth, giving your hips a roll just to tease him before hugging his waist tightly with your knees.
“Good.” He gives you a strong kiss with a small grunt, running his hands over your sides under your shirt. The movement pushes it up, up, up, until you have no choice but to stretch your arms out above you and let him slide it off between more thoughtless kisses, leaving you entirely bare.
He lets you breathe for a moment, dipping his head to bite and suck marks along your collarbones messily. You squeeze around his hips harder, trying to get him to give you something other than his scratchy cheeks rubbing against your skin and the chilled steel of the dog tag dragging over your chest.
The tip of his cock falls and catches over your clit when he moves lower, licking and sucking over your chest like a starved animal finding food for the first time in a week. You gasp from the mixed sensations.
“C’mon, kitty cat, you can do all this while inside m-me,” you say breathily, fingers digging into his shoulders to stop yourself from trembling too much.
Logan bites over a nipple before pulling himself back up to look at you. “Is that a promise?” He says lowly, that stupid smirk gracing his face again.
“Try it and find out,” you demand, enjoying the sting of the deeper bites blooming on your torso.
He purses his lips, shifting his weight back onto his knees to grab ahold of his cock to angle and guide it in.
“Hm, guess no lube is needed,” he muses when he gets a look at your cunt, sparing you a glance through his lashes.
You roll your eyes shut when your whole body lights up red-hot. “Jesus fucking Christ, Logan,” you slap a hand over your eyes as you grimace. You don’t want to be that aware of your naked self right now.
He suppresses whatever expression was about to cross his face when his cock notches itself between your soaked folds, teasing your hole with the blunt tip. His brows pinch together and you forget the embarrassment from his crude remark.
But he leaves his cock like that, on the precipice of sliding the rest of the way in with a snap of his hips. Instead, he carefully uncurls his upper body to crawl his way back up to you while holding his hips deathly still.
“Alright, stay with me,” he whispers against your neck when you moan, pressing a tender kiss to your rabid pulse in reassurance.
“O-okay,” you sigh, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the roots while the other squeezes around his arm as best as it can. You’re not even really sure what he’s saying.
He kisses up your cheek and over to your lips again. You try to keep up with his quick mouth, licking and sucking whatever part you can get ahold of, but you’ve become lost in the feeling of him all over you.
He’s in your mouth, on your chest, against your stomach, nudging your cunt. Everywhere.
He slips his tongue over yours, securing your lips together at the same time he pushes his cock in halfway. Now you understand what he was saying.
The lightheadedness from being filled, even just a bit, almost makes you lose yourself. The stretch makes your stomach drop, your legs shake, and your mouth fall open with a whine.
“A-ah—fuck. Fuck, Logan,” you whimper, fisting his hair with both hands to stop yourself from falling apart.
He groans, either at the grip you have on his hair or how good your cunt feels already, and runs a hand up your left thigh in comfort as you squeeze around his hips tighter to draw him in.
“Just a bit more,” he soothes, trying to resist the urge to slide into you in one fell swoop. It would be so easy to just let his hips fall into yours and fill your cunt.
Another heated kiss, another few inches. He works his cock into you the rest of the way with ease. You guess the lube thing wasn’t really a joke. His hungry, needy kisses may have also helped with that.
You choke on your gasps, not wanting to get too loud, and Logan does the same. He tries to muffle both of your moans with his mouth, attempting to form complete kisses, but it just turns into you panting against each other as he finally bottoms out, hitting his end.
Your legs relax around his waist as he deftly rocks his hips in small thrusts to get you familiar with his size, his small grunts filling the air each time you swallow him whole.
You let out a deep breath, dropping your hands back to his tense shoulders. He lines your jaw with soft kisses, fisting the blanket in his hands beside your head.
“Fuck. Already feels too good,” he moans, pressing into you harder and unintentionally rubbing himself over your tender clit.
You smile, squirming while he works down your neck again. “Best of luck,” you huff, amused at the fact that he might not last as long as he wants to.
He brings his face back to yours, a completely blissful expression controlling his features, but there’s still some mischief in his hazel eyes. “Oh? Yeah?”
You hold each other’s gaze, both equally dazed and overwhelmed, and he draws his hips back and pushes into your wet cunt with a complete, strong thrust. The sound of his pelvis hitting against the backs of your thighs makes him laugh in pleasure and satisfaction when you instantly roll your eyes and head back.
Your cunt quivers, gripping him tight, and then it’s Logan’s turn to lose composure. He drops his head to your chest, managing a few deep breaths as he slowly pulls out halfway just to push right back into you, over and over.
It’s a pace that isn’t quite pure, mindless fucking, but it’s also not somewhere near earnest love-making. It’s something that feels specifically curated for you. Something that feels measured and sincere.
The strength of his thighs hitting against yours pushes you up the mattress a few inches, and you don’t know whether to gasp or moan. He reaches somewhere deep inside you, and you know he can feel that, too.
A helpless groan slips through Logan’s lips. “Where have you fucking been, huh?” He muses through shaky breaths, the determined plunge of his cock hitting something that makes your muscles tense throughout your body.
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, keeping him close. “Two doors down,” you giggle, understanding that’s not quite what he was asking.
“Fucking smart-ass,” he grumbles, silencing any further rebuttals with a wet kiss. You don’t think you could manage much more of a conversation even if you wanted to.
The silence is quickly filled with obscene sounds that only seem to leave you wetter and Logan throbbing. You can hear your bodies connecting through your gasping for air and his choked moans, and you can feel the mess you’re making all over him. It’s smeared along the inside of your thighs from how deep he’s been hitting. The squelching only seems to make him fuck into you harder.
Something inside you starts to grow tight and wind up in your core, making you repeatedly clench around him while his cock strokes all the right spots inside you as he makes sure he’s fucking himself in to the base. He doesn’t deprive you of anything.
He drops his head to your neck, wedging his face in to latch onto the spot right where your neck starts to slope into your shoulder. The dense muscle there gives him something to basically chew on, sinking his teeth in as deep as he can without drawing blood.
“H-hah, Logan,” you whine, tilting your head into the side of his and squirming from the pleasant sting.
You feel his arm move beside you, then you hear the sound of tearing fabric as he gives a particularly brutal snap of his hips, followed by a deep groan against your skin.
You can barely form any thoughts, but you can guess what just happened. If he pulled his hand back, three long, slim holes would probably be where his knuckles are right now.
“Fu-uck, Logan, you just got t-this mattress,” you laugh a little, your words choppy from how hard he’s driving into you now.
He draws back from your neck, seeing your half-lidded eyes trying to focus on him. “Can’t always control it,” he reasons, giving you two short, fleeting kisses as you hear his claws retract from the innocent mattress.
You see the double-edged sword. You can guess that that’s the same explanation he would probably use for the nightmares. It can go either way, and now you’ve seen both sides.
“It’s okay,” you say in a hushed tone. You cradle his face, and he rests his forehead against yours. “Keep going…keep going,” you coax, face scrunching from your nearing orgasm.
You can feel it in your toes, your stomach, your shoulders—you’re tightening up everywhere, and he can undoubtedly feel it in your cunt as you pulse around him. It grips him just right for a couple seconds before relaxing completely and leaving him to chase for more.
“Keep squeezing me like that and you’ll get whatever you want,” he offers, fighting to maintain his steady pace for both your sakes.
You almost whine, knowing whatever your body does is beyond your control at this point.
“Just—inside.” You can’t even string together a full sentence anymore, but the urgency and stress on the last word makes Logan’s ears perk up.
He presses a soft kiss to your clammy forehead in acknowledgment, the muscles in his arms straining and flexing as he grabs ahold of his own orgasm after a particularly inviting flutter of your walls.
You’re both walking the line, teetering on the edge of utter euphoria, and you know nothing will be the same after. You don’t want it to be. You hope it isn’t.
He reaches an arm back, sliding his hand up your thigh again and slotting it behind the bend in your knee. He pushes forward—only slightly—bringing your leg closer to your stomach to stretch you open for him.
His cock brushes over something new. Something that makes you bite your tongue. The angle lets him fit perfectly against you, not hindered by the flesh of your thigh stopping his hips.
You want to cry from how good it all feels. You want to be suspended in this feeling forever. You want Logan to—
“Focus, baby. Focus on me,” he coos, bringing you back to reality. He holds the side of your head with his other hand affectionately. “Come on…come on, I know you’re almost there,” he encourages with a quick kiss that goes straight to your stomach.
The burn in your thigh from the stretch can’t overpower the sparks of your orgasm, and Logan just fanned the flames with a few little words.
You come with a broken sob, convulsing around his cock while he fucks you through it, submitting to his own orgasm only seconds after with deep, shaky breaths as he empties himself inside your cunt.
He doesn’t pull out or pull away. He relaxes on top of you, sweaty and sticky with cum, and he places the barest whisper of a kiss on your chin, your parted lips, your nose, and then your forehead.
Your ears ring from your orgasm, eyes still slightly out of focus. Your body trembles from your muscles finally releasing the tension they’ve been caught up in.
You desperately suck in air, trying to calm your pounding heart, and you just lie there and let Logan walk your body through a cool-down. Soft kisses. Soft touches. Soft looks. Between sweat, cum, and whatever else.
He rocks a little on his knees, weak from his release, and carefully pulls out of you with a huff as he caresses your stomach and thighs appreciatively to wind you down. You get a good look at him. Not a scratch. His hair tells a story, though—one where he’s completely possessed by bliss.
You probably look like you survived an animal attack.
“Are we even?” Logan says through a kiss against your stomach.
A mindless laugh crawls from your throat, caught up in the feeling of his hands rubbing circles over your hips. “I think I still owe you,” you argue, resting your hands over his as they travel smoothly up your side.
You’ll find a way to make everything up to him. Including the sex. The scale is now tipping to his side too much. All the nights spent in his bed, what he’s done for you, what you’ve done for each other, may just be immeasurable, but that won’t stop you from finding a way to get him back for it all.
“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, snaking back up your body and pressing himself against you. Face-to-face. Chest-to-chest.
You mindfully run your hands over the sides of his head, trying to tame his hair and style it back to how it was earlier in the night. It doesn’t work. He enjoys it anyway.
“Do I have the pleasure of staying here tonight?” You ask rhetorically, enjoying the warmth of him on top of you against the brisk air creeping in from the cracked window.
Logan blinks. “You can stay every night.”
A loving smile springs over your face. This may be the beginning of the end to your troubles and worries.
You—maybe foolishly—trust him. You trust that he won’t accidentally bury his claws in your side during the night, but you’ve had impressive luck with that up until this point. The only thing you can do now is continue to push that luck.
Healing isn’t linear, and you can’t expect someone to fix you, but everyone finds their thing at some point.
You slither your hand down to his neck, index finger grazing over his pulse again. You feel the energy biting against you.
Your lips graze over his, tempting him to give you a slow, deep kiss. “Can I have the left side?” Rhetorical, again.
summary: joel has sworn to protect you and keep you safe—but when the line between care and desire blurs, both of you are forced to confront what you really want.
based on this request
cw: smut (mdni), loss of virginity, unprotected p in v, use of nicknames (kiddo ‘cause I like it icky, sweet girl, baby, pretty girl, darlin’, sweetpea), oral (f rec), breathplay (not previously talked about, heat of the moment, be better in real life), implied legal age difference, girly!reader, but the girl can shoot, too
wc: 5k
a/n: if lana releases a new song, I write a joel fic! that’s just how it works
now playing: White Feather Hawk Tail Deer Hunter – Lana Del Rey
It’s the bow in your hair that gets Joel thinking. Dark red satin adorns the crown of your head, beckoning him in.
He watches as you read your book, the sun warming your skin. It’s the first truly nice day of the year—warm enough that you can sit on the porch of Joel’s cabin, only wearing one of his flannels over your cotton dress. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, and a slight crease forms between your brows as your eyes scan the pages.
The sight alone is enough to send Joel’s blood further south than it should be.
He knows it’s wrong—all of it is. The two of you, tucked away in a cabin just a few miles west of Jackson, together from dusk until dawn and dusk again. Joel tells himself it’s to keep you safe. Right by his side, where nothing can happen to you. The only bad man that might get you is himself, and he’s sworn to God that he’d never let it get that far.
But then you started sleeping in his bed. Nightmares used to plague your rest, causing you to wake up with sweat drenching your hairline and tears staining your cheeks. You didn’t find peace again until his arms held you tight against his chest, his soft mutters reaching your ears.
I’ll take care of you, kiddo. Don’t you worry. Go back to sleep, I got you.
And he took care of you. Kept you fed, clothed, and safe. Made sure you were happy, eager, and bright-eyed.
You were no fool either. A smart girl, more than willing to learn. He taught you to shoot, even though it made his heart race when he saw you holding a shotgun for the first time. The longer you stayed with him, the more he realized that you were far from helpless. While you hesitated to even point your gun at a deer, you were more than capable of shooting an infected from a good fifty yards away.
The more sunrises you saw together, the more Joel grew to think of you as an equal. He didn’t keep you like a miniature housewife, destined to press his shirts and keep his shoes by the fire—no, you were every bit as tough as he was.
Still, seeing you sitting in the sun reminds him of your innocence and how much he hates that you had to sacrifice it at times for your survival.
He would do anything to keep the light in your eyes lit for as long as possible. Even treat you like a kid from time to time when you’re so much more.
By the time the moon had taken the sun’s spot, Joel had been left with his own thoughts for too long.
You’re sitting opposite him at the dinner table, picking up four peas with your fork, one on each prong, and telling him about the ladybugs you found today.
“They were much more orange than red,” you recall eagerly, “And I don’t think they were the seven-spot kind—I counted at least nine.”
“Mhm,” he mumbles some kind of acknowledgement while his eyes find the ribbon in your hair again.
“Like, I mean, of course they were still ladybugs,” you go on, oblivious to his feeble attention, “But, like, they looked real different than the ones we had last summer.”
He’s noticed before that his way of speaking has bled into your vocabulary. You never used to say those kinds of things back when the walls of Jackson still surrounded you. It makes his teeth hurt to see the influence he has over you.
“They were pretty, right?” he grumbles.
You roll your eyes, a half-grin tugging at your mouth corners.
“’Course they were,” you reply.
“Then it don’t matter, kiddo.”
Dismay turns your face sour, and you huff softly.
“Guess it don’t.”
“Doesn’t,” he corrects.
“You just said ‘don’t!”
He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but he does anyway. “Yeah, well, I’m grown, I can say whatever I want.”
Your eyebrows furrow angrily. “What’s with you today?” you mutter.
His eyes snap to yours.
“Nothin’,” he replies gruffly, “Now, eat your peas. And quit playin’ with ‘em.”
You stare at him for a few seconds before you grab your fork and go back to piercing your peas one by one.
“Christ,” he mumbles to himself, then rubs a hand across his face.
The dinner continues in silence, lingering uncomfortably thick. When he’s in a bad mood, you can usually cheer him up, but once you start sulking, the day might as well be over.
He knows it’s his fault—he approached the whole thing wrong.
It takes you forever to finish your plate—you’re too busy frowning—so Joel is half tempted to send you to bed to sleep it off. Knowing that it would only make things worse, and frankly, it’s not his place, he holds off on that.
Your chair squeaks loudly as you push it back, empty plate in hand, and make your way to the sink. Your footsteps fall heavily when you walk to your room without saying goodnight.
Joel knows you want him to follow you—you’re waiting for an apology, one that you deserve but won’t get. Instead of indulging you, he starts rinsing the dishes, then wipes the counters clean. He hears the sink in the bathroom run, then two doors shut within seconds of each other. At least, you’re not slamming them. He takes that as a good sign.
Once there’s nothing left for him to clean, he sighs to himself, then leaves the kitchen. He stands in front of your door longer than he likes. You painted it a couple of weeks ago, colorful flowers and berries decorating the frame. He had worked his ass off to find you paint that was still somewhat usable, then even managed to find some thinner so that the acrylic wouldn’t be so thick.
He traces one of the flowers for a few seconds, following the delicate line that you had drawn, before he rolls his hand into a fist and knocks.
There’s a soft shuffle behind the door, then your voice follows. “What?”
Sometimes, Joel has to admit to himself that he misses the shy you. The one that didn’t talk back.
“It’s me,” he calls out.
“Yeah, I figured.”
You and your sass.
He rubs his eye once, twice, then sighs.
“Can I come in?”
Silence stretches for a few moments, and his heart drops. You couldn’t be that mad. Could you?
But then your reply echoes through the oak wood. “Yeah.”
His fingers press against the door handle, and it swings open with ease. You’re sitting on your bed, bedsheets pulled up to your navel. The shirt you’re sporting belongs to him—old and worn, but soft to the touch. Its neckline is so stretched that he catches a glimpse of your collarbones. It’s a comfort to him that you’re at least still wearing that, despite the disgruntled expression etched into your face as you look at him.
The red piece of silk is still tied in your hair, sitting there like a warning sign. He ignores it.
Joel flicks his hand, signaling you to scoot over, and you do. When he sinks down on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaks softly.
It’s quiet as neither one of you speaks for a moment. Then Joel clears his throat.
“So…” he mumbles, “Ladybugs, hm?”
He can tell that you don’t want to smile, but the corners of your mouth twitch.
“Tell me ‘bout ‘em,” he encourages quietly.
“Thought it don’t—doesn’t matter,” you argue. The disappointment in your voice makes his old heart ache.
“It does,” he murmurs. His hand rests on your knee, the blanket disconnecting you. “If it matters to you, it matters to me.”
He tilts his head to catch your eyes and sees them softening in real time.
“A whole bunch of ‘em were down by the creek,” you say, “On that one tree stump, you know?”
He nods. You continue.
“Do ladybugs have families?”
The question is so tender—so you—he has to close his eyes for a few seconds.
“Mhm,” he muses, “Dunno much about bugs, but I figure they do. They all gotta come from somewhere, and where you come from, that’s your family, right?”
You shrug softly.
“Then I guess I don’t have one,” you say blankly.
Joel shakes his head instantly.
“That ain’t true, darlin’,” he disagrees, then rubs his jaw.
“Guess I didn’t explain that one right,” he mutters to himself, then goes on, “There ain’t just one type of family. Sometimes, it’s the place and people where ya come from, and then other times, it’s the people who wish ya came from the same place as them, you know? The ones who wish they had known ya all your life.”
“So you wish you’d known me all my life?” you ask tentatively.
He winces.
“Sometimes,” he replies cautiously, “But it’s good that I didn’t.”
“Why?”
He should’ve expected this. This is why he never explained the heavy stuff.
“You know, sweetpea, it’s real late, don’t you think?” he states, looking out the window. His joints groan as he stands up, but he doesn’t get far. Your hand finds his biceps and holds him back.
“Wait,” you plead, “You can’t just… please, what do you mean? Why only sometimes?”
Joel feels himself growing grayer by the second. As the words get stuck in his throat, he gestures vaguely between him and you.
“This whole thing… it’d be—it’d be bad if I’d known ya since you were a little girl.”
“Because…?” you prompt quietly.
“’Cause I’d be—people would think…,” he drifts off, muttering under his breath, “Goddammit.”
Joel struggles to meet your eyes; he grabs your hands, both of them, and slowly brings them up to his lips. The kiss on your knuckles is soft as a feather, like a butterfly’s wings.
He doesn’t look up as he continues, “Knowin’ you back then would mean I wouldn’t be allowed to like ya the way I do now.”
The sweet look of confusion on your face makes space for realization.
“Oh,” you say softly.
He nods, still not reciprocating your gaze.
“Yeah.”
“Well, then I’m glad you didn’t know me then. ‘Cause I like that you like me that way now.”
Finally, he drags his eyes up to meet yours. Honesty twists your expression into one he’d love to bottle up and keep for bad days—tenderness.
“What am I doin’ here?” Joel asks quietly, then brushes his knuckles across your cheek. You can’t help but melt into his touch, lashes fluttering shut.
It’s always like this. One of you pushes, the other pulls away, then you find your way back into the shadows of that grey area neither one of you wants to leave. No one’s done anything wrong yet.
Joel’s hand moves to smooth down your headband.
“Shouldn’t be wearin’ that when ya go to sleep,” he mumbles, “Don’t want ya chokin’ on it if it slips down.”
“I’d wake up before that,” you reason.
He disagrees quietly, then undoes the bow and knot until it slips from your hair. The flimsy material stands out against his sun-kissed hands—his skin freckled and wrinkled, the silk smooth.
“You don’t know anything,” he says. It’s not intended as critique, so you don’t take it that way.
“I know enough.”
Joel wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until you understand just how wrong you are. Instead, he lets the piece of fabric dance around his fingers, wrapping and unravelling it consistently.
“You should be runnin’ for the hills,” he remarks, “And I should be cuttin’ my hands off for thinkin’ ‘bout the things I wanna do to ya with ‘em.”
There it is—your breath hitches, and Joel is left to wonder whether that was one step too far, the one that just secured his place in hell.
But you’re moving before he has time to take it back. You push away your blanket, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs, before you sit back on your heels in front of him. He forces himself to look you in the eye.
“Is it that bad that I want you to do whatever you’re imagining?” you ask.
“Yes.” His voice trembles with restraint. He knows he should leave before he does something he can’t undo. But he stays—frozen in place, your knee almost touching his.
Your bottom lip quivers.
“Then I don’t care about being good,” you reply.
Joel has been holding back the flood for months now—and you just cracked the dam with one sentence. The ribbon slips from his fingers and falls to the floor.
His hands cup your face and pull you in before his lips crash against yours. The soft give of your lips beneath his own draws him in deeper, chasing your tongue with his own. He tastes the remnants of toothpaste on your teeth, then something that is just you.
The guilt lingers deep in his chest as he kisses you, but something about the way your breath changes drowns out his doubts long enough.
He’s the one to pull away first. With his chest heaving and his pupils blown, his gaze finds yours. He expects to see regret, or worse, disgust on your face. Instead, he sees pure, quiet, unfiltered adoration.
“Goddammit,” he grumbles.
A flustered grin lights up your face.
“Again?” you whisper.
“God, no,” he mutters, “You kiss me like that again, and I ain’t stoppin’.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking you to stop.”
Before he knows it, your mouth finds his again. The vibration of your giggle against his lips sends shivers down his spine, and he should know better—but he doesn’t—when his hands come to rest on your waist.
It starts with the slip of his fingers—brushing against your knee, then higher. Joel curses himself for continuing until you rock your hips, just a couple of inches, but it’s enough to snap away the last of his restraint.
He leans forward, slowly guiding you back until your head hits the pillows, without your lips ever leaving his.
Situated between your thighs, he peppers soft pecks down your neck, then drops his forehead against your collarbone.
“Tell me to stop,” he pleads, “Now.”
You shake your head. “I want to keep going.”
A sliver of awareness spreads across Joel’s face. “Sweetheart,” he starts, “This is a big thing. Like… a really big thing. And we’re—I’m already doin’ enough damage just by kissin’ ya.”
Joel has spent more than enough time thinking about it: you undressed in his sheets, him kneeling between your thighs—the slow ruin of the thing either one of you called familiarity.
Everything feels as wrong as it feels right.
“I want this, Joel,” you insist quietly. His frown lines deepen.
“You shouldn’t—”
“But I do.”
Joel wonders if this is a test from God Himself—he hadn’t paid that much attention to the man in the sky in the last few years.
“You don’t understand how hard you’re making it f’me, darlin’.”
You sit up slightly, then reach for him. Your fingers interlock on the back of his neck, your grip tight and determined.
“Do you want me?” you ask.
“You know that’s not the issue,” he responds.
“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you want me.”
He takes a deep breath, then nods. “You know I do.”
“Then trust me when I say you can have me.”
“You’ll be the death of me.”
Joel curses himself before he kisses you again. This time, he lets his hands dip under your shirt. His calloused fingers trace your smooth skin until they reach your ribcage, settling there. The kiss is clumsy; you grin as your teeth hit his, wild fervor evaporating from your every pore.
Goosebumps spread across your body when Joel pulls away to meet your eyes.
“I’ll do it right,” he declares, “I promise.”
Then his fingers find the hem of your shirt and pull it off of you. He discards the piece of clothing carelessly, too hypnotized by the sight in front of him. You hold your breath as his eyes wander, taking in every inch of skin laid bare.
“Got the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen beggin’ for some old man right in front of me,” he murmurs. The nerves in your chest ease a little, and you shake your head at him.
“Not just some old man,” you correct, then cup his cheek. His weathered skin is rough against your touch.
He doesn’t reply, and you know he disagrees; instead, he presses his lips to your forehead before they wander further down. As he trails kisses from your breasts down to your belly button, his fingers find your nipples. He tugs and twists gently, eliciting gasps from you as warmth spreads through your body.
You bite the inside of your cheek to stifle the noises, embarrassment flushing your cheeks. Joel notices and kisses your stiffened bud, then looks up at you.
“Don’t hide those sounds, sweet girl,” he rumbles, “Wanna hear ya. If ya want me to fuck you, ya gotta meet my demands. First one is: You don’t get to hide.”
“What are the others?” Your voice grows more breathless as Joel’s fingers dig into the waistband of your panties.
“Second one,” he begins, simultaneously tugging at the fabric that covers your core, “You tell me what you want me to do. And that’s all I’ll do.”
As soon as your panties meet the floor, he sits back on his heels. His eyes wander, taking in every bit of you. You look away, trying to escape his stare.
“And the third one,” he says, then catches your chin to tilt your face upwards, “Your eyes stay on me.”
With that, he settles between your legs, breathing in the scent of your arousal. His lips brush against your inner thigh, slowly inching towards where you want him.
You grip the sheets like your life depends on it and force yourself to watch. When he kisses the space where your thigh meets your hips, it makes you shiver.
Your hands find their way into his curls, just tugging softly, hoping that it will lead him right where you want him. But Joel takes his time—his tongue drags over your sensitive skin, kissing one lip, then the other. He looks up at you and nods in approval when he finds your gaze already on him.
“Don’t look away,” he reminds you before he spreads your legs even further and licks a broad stripe across your clit. Your grip on his hair tightens as pleasure sparks throughout your body.
He is gentle at first, spending time exploring your body. Joel listens to the kind of movements that make your breath hitch, watches for the ones that make your thighs shake. When his lips encircle your clit, sucking slightly, and your entire body jerks, he chuckles in satisfaction. The vibration travels up your spine, causing you to tilt your hips.
Joel’s hands rest on your hips, encouraging you to lock him in between your legs.
Soft gasps tumble from you, growing more and more desperate as he laps at your core, his spit and your slick mixing.
You feel your chest heaving as his tongue draws figure eights on your throbbing clit.
Lost in pleasure and the promise of him, you dip your head back into the pillows, moaning freely. You pull a little harder on his hair until he groans into your cunt.
You feel yourself stumbling closer to the edge, a second heartbeat coming to life between your legs. Warmth pools in your lower belly, and you almost taste the sweetness of relief until Joel pulls away suddenly.
“Hey—” his voice echoes through the room, “Where are those eyes, darlin’?”
You almost complain—your entire body is on fire when you force your gaze to snap back to him. The corners of his mouth twitch, and his tongue parts your folds again.
“Joel,” you moan, so close to tasting the letters that make up his name. His grip on your hips tighten, firm enough that it’ll surely leave you a reminder in the morning.
“I got you, baby,” he whispers before he goes back to circling your clit with the tip of his tongue. The sounds that filled the room were downright sacrilegious—his deep growls and your breathless whines mixing.
Stars explode behind your eyes as you come on his lips, your arousal slickening his chin. He laps relentlessly, working you through your release until he’s drawn out every aftershock he can get.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praises softly, “Lookin’ so pretty f’me when you cum.” Every part of you still pulses, oxytocin traveling through your bloodstream, as Joel pulls away.
His hands travel up to your stomach, holding you down gently before he leans in to kiss you. You taste yourself on his lips, the sweetly tangy flavor blooming across your tongue.
Joel lets you catch your breath and tenderly kneads the flesh on your hip as you come down. Seeing you rendered speechless, Joel prompts, “How’re ya feelin’, sweetpea?”
You look for words to describe the cocktail of emotions coursing through your mind and end up with the weak recollection, “Great.”
He chuckles, rather smug about himself. “Yeah?”
You nod, then blink through the heavy haze of release still clouding your mind. “Yeah,” you reply.
“Good,” he mumbles.
The mattress squeaks underneath you as he shifts his weight, and this time around, it’s your turn to stare. The bulge in Joel’s pants causes the saliva to collect in your mouth.
You reach blindly, fingers finding the edge of his jeans, but he stops you before you can pop the button.
“Hey, easy does it,” he says, “We don’t gotta do any more today if you don’t want to.”
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. “I wouldn’t be trying to get your pants off if I didn’t want to keep going, would I?”
“Smartass.”
“Rule number two, I tell you what I want, and you do it, right?” you tease, looking up at him hopefully.
“Well, I haven’t heard you say what you want yet,” he counters.
You bite your bottom lip.
“I… I want you,” you stammer.
Joel raises his eyebrows, then cups your face between his rough hands. “You got me, don’t you?”
You glance at him pleadingly, but he shakes his head.
“Words, sweetpea. If you can’t say it, you don’t want it enough.”
You swallow your embarrassment and sit up. Slowly, your eyes find his before you say, “I want you to- to fuck me.”
He chuckles self-contentedly, then nods. “There you go, darlin’. If that’s what you truly want, I’ll do it.”
Then he starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one. You feel the nerves prickling in your stomach, and you grow more restless with every sliver of skin he exposes. His jeans follow his shirt to the floor. Your mouth goes dry when his boxers drop—Joel is more than well-endowed.
He feels your stare and meets your eyes, the cockiness on his face making space for a much gentler expression.
“You’ll be fine,” he promises, “We’ll go slow.”
When your back hits the mattress, and you spread your legs to make space for Joel, he doesn’t immediately follow. Instead, his eyes drift to the cherry-colored ribbon on the floor. A mischievous sparkle in his eyes, so unlike Joel, makes the butterflies in your stomach jump.
He reaches for it, then holds it up for you to see.
“You got any idea how pretty this looked in your hair today?” he asks. “Drove me damn near insane.”
A bashful smile steals itself onto your face. “I found it in the sewing kit.”
“You don’t say,” he mutters. His eyes dart between you and the ribbon until his face grows almost apologetic. “Would ya wanna wear it? Now? It’s been like a damn light signal, calling me in all day. Might as well have it with ya at the finish line.”
You nod slowly. As you lean forward, you expect Joel to fasten it at your hairline, but instead, he threads the headband under the lengths of your hair and then ties it around your neck. Not too tight—you can breathe easily. You almost feel like a present wrapped to be unpacked.
Joel nods approvingly, his fingers resting at your collarbone, while he admires his handiwork. “Real pretty,” he murmurs.
With light pressure, he guides you back into the pillows, then chases your lips with his own. The kiss steals the breath right from your lungs, and you barely even notice it when his palm finds its place on your upper thigh. With his other hand, he fists his aching cock and guides himself through your soft folds, collecting your arousal. The pressure makes you squeal slightly, but Joel swallows any sound instantly, his lips never leaving yours. Then his bulbous tip nudges against your hole.
“Deep breath,” he instructs, right against your mouth, “And big stretch.”
You feel as if you’re being impaled—in a good way. The unfamiliar sensation of him splitting you open has your eyes rolling back, your fingers snapping up to wrap around his biceps tightly. Joel feels your breath ghost over his face as you gasp.
“Easy, kid,” he mumbles, “That’s it. You’re okay. Want me to rip off the band-aid?”
You shake your head instantaneously and say, “You said we’d go slow. You said—”
“Mhm, yeah, I know, darlin’, I know.”
His jaw ticks with restraint as he rolls his hips just a little, advancing further into your warmth. You feel every vein decorating his cock; you’re sure he’ll mold your walls to his exact shape in no time. The burn aches and stings, but the pressure underneath makes you want more. Your eyes find Joel’s—yours pleading and needy, his cool and collected.
A certain degree of smugness etches itself into his face as the hunger surfaces in your expression.
“Ya ready?” he asks.
“Yes, yes, please, I—”
The first real thrust knocks the air out of your chest. Your fingernails dig into his arms, leaving red, half-moon-shaped marks on his skin as you feel the coarse hairs at Joel’s base meet your pelvis. You’ve never felt so full, stretched, and fed at the same time.
When he pulls back, his cock drags along the gummy spot on your ceiling, making you gasp as pleasure sparks and runs up your spine.
“How’s that, pretty girl?”
Joel holds your chin with his free hand, forcing your eyes to meet his own.
You can only nod, feeling the faint pain dissipate and turn into desire as he pushes back into you.
He chuckles and eases his grip on your chin.
“How ‘bout some words, sweetheart?” he asks.
“It’s good, Joel, it’s… it’s so good. Please, I need more,” you answer, almost frantic in your desperation. Your hips buck up all on their own, pushing to meet his.
“So you don’t want it slow no longer?” he teases, still keeping still even as you writhe and pout.
“Joel,” you whine, “C’mon, please.”
He snorts softly, then nods. “We’ll work on those manners, darlin’. But for now, you’re gettin’ off easy.”
While Joel finds his rhythm, listening for the spots that make your breath catch and your eyebrows knit together in pleasure, you feel the warmth begin to collect in your lower tummy. Even with your lips clamped together, you can’t help the sounds that make their way out of you—soft moans turn wilder, more eager, more uninhibited.
“That’s it,” Joel praises, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, “Wanna hear you, pretty girl. Don’t you dare hide any of those sweet sounds.”
He fucks you deeper, the wet sounds of your cunt echoing sinfully through the room. Joel’s entire body is tight, running on pure adrenaline and need as his cock kisses your cervix. His deep grunts fill your ears, growing darker and more animalistic with every thrust.
He drags his fingers through your folds and finds your clit. The first circle he draws feels like pure energy, pulsing throughout your entire body from your core to your toes. His other hand surprises you. At first, you think he means to cup the back of your neck with his big palm, but instead, he threads his fingers between the red ribbon and your skin. The added pressure on your throat makes your head swim.
“That okay?” he rasps, his eyes searching yours.
You nod almost instantly, feeling your walls flutter around him as the room grows quieter from the lack of oxygen. Joel’s eyes are glued to you—he makes sure not to overdo it. He takes in every micro-expression as his fingers adjust the pressure on the satin—a little more, then a little less. He decides when you breathe and how much. And you love it.
You’re not sure what pushes you over the edge at the end: maybe it’s the constant pressure on your clit, or the way his cock fills you up until you feel him in your guts. Or maybe it’s the delightful sensation of your airway being controlled by him. Or maybe it’s the praise.
“Look so sweet, baby, lettin’ me ruin you like this,” he groans, “God ain’t forgivin’ me for this, but I bet ya will.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
it was a practical decision, you told yourself, scrolling past flashy advertisements for gyms promising overnight transformations, past testosterone-fueled testimonials about “beast mode” and “grindset.”
you'd sworn to yourself that as soon as you had the financial breathing room, as soon as you didn’t have to mentally calculate whether a dinner out would set you back for the week, you’d do it. invest in yourself. not in aesthetics, not in performance metrics, but in survival.
something that made you feel safer so that walking home late at night wouldn’t always feel like a loaded gun pressed to the base of your spine. you wouldn’t keep your keys between your fingers like they were some flimsy excuse for a weapon.
you found a coach who was within budget, someone named könig. a straightforward profile without a profile picture and just a handful of mid-range reviews.
it was genuine in its mediocrity, not glowing in the way bot-generated reviews tended to be, but not riddled with horror stories of scams or half-baked lessons either. people mentioned that he knew what he was doing, that he was patient, that his methods were effective.
but there were a few comments about his communication too. his english, more specifically.
at first, you were more nervous about looking weak than anything else.
logically, you knew that was the point. that was why you were paying for this— to get stronger, to learn. but the thought of stepping into a room filled with people who could probably bench your body weight while you struggled with a 25 kg deadlift made something inside you shrivel. made you feel like you’d be under a microscope, mistakes magnified. the thought of someone watching you fumble through drills, assessing your form— the potential for ridicule made your stomach knot up.
so, you signed up for solo lessons.
before you even met him, könig messaged you. a late-night notification breaking through the dim glow of your phone screen.
“is it ok that my english is not so good?”
you blinked at the screen. read it again. there was something unexpectedly… earnest about it. a self-consciousness that you rhymed with your own.
your thumbs hovered over the keyboard before you replied. “of course! i don’t mind at all.” then, after a second, “i’ll probably learn some phrases from you, haha.”
a long pause. three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. finally— “this is nice. i will try my best.”
something about that, about the fact that he had asked at all, the careful way he phrased it, stuck with you. you didn't know why, but it did.
the first time you met könig, you nearly turned around and walked straight back out the door, convinced your coach still hadn’t arrived.
at first, you genuinely thought you had the wrong room. or maybe there’d been some kind of mix-up, like another instructor using the space before your lesson.
you had walked into the gym expecting— what? some average-looking guy in a compression shirt? maybe a little bulky, maybe with that particular kind of gym-rat energy, all tight smiles and way-too-enthusiastic handshakes.
instead you got könig.
a massive, six-foot something, tank built like something that was meant to withstand damage and then deliver it back tenfold.
his hoodie, loose on his frame and looking a bit worse for wear from too many washes, still did nothing to hide the sheer scale of him. the water bottle he was holding was dwarfed by his hand and his arms, even relaxed at his sides, looked like they could crush a man’s ribs without much effort.
out of place. that was what he looked like. less self-defense coach and more guard stationed at the gates of hell.
you hesitated in the doorway, gripping the strap of your gym bag, suddenly hyperaware of every muscle in your body tensing up.
and then he spoke.
"… my client?” his voice was surprisingly soft. deep, yes, but smoothed down with the lilt of his accent.
you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. jesus christ.
“uh, yeah, i think so,” you shifted on your feet, clearing your throat. “i booked the solo slots.”
he nodded. “good.” a pause. then, “you are… beginner?”
you exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. “you could say that.”
his eyes smiled, something in the creases looking like amusement, before he jerked his head toward the back of the gym. “we start slow then.”
the whole thing went… surprisingly well.
könig was an amazing instructor for self-defense, not afraid to teach you moves that were downright dirty. not just the textbook counters or polished techniques that looked good in demonstrations but the kind of violence that left real damage. moves that could end a fight before it even started. his lessons were brutal in their practicality, built for survival, not sport.
his shrug always came before the skepticism could leave your mouth, as if he already knew the doubts forming behind your eyes. anticipation sat in his expression, waiting for you to question the practicality of a move that involved hitting someone's throat or breaking a wrist. waiting for that flicker of hesitation so he could counter it.
“has no rules, defense,” he simply told you, adjusting his gloves with a nonchalance that felt at odds with the destruction he'd just inflicted on the poor training dummy. his foot still pressed into its broken torso, the material caved inward like a crushed can. “s’long as you're safe, is good tactic.”
it was truth that didn’t need embellishment to him. könig wasn’t just saying it to justify his methods— it was a simple fact.
he made it seem less brutal, more justified. not just an excuse for violence but a reassurance, a lesson in survival.
it had you thinking if maybe you had been seeing things too rigidly, measuring combat in terms of right and wrong instead of what kept you breathing. könig didn’t. his world wasn’t one of fairness, it was of outcomes.
you exhaled, glancing at the poor, ruined dummy before looking back at him. “i think you broke it.”
könig tilted his head, unbothered. “hm. ja.” then, after a pause, he grinned, nudging the dummy’s crumpled remains with his boot like it might suddenly spring back to life. “but was good form, yes?”
the laugh that bubbled up caught you off guard, an unexpected burst of warmth. the corners of his grin lifted just a little higher at that.
texting started out as a necessity. scheduling changes, clarifying techniques, occasional reminders about bringing extra wraps. that was the whole point, really— a way to communicate outside of training.
somehow, though, könig turned out to be a menace over text. sarcasm practically dripped from his messages, sharpened now that he had the time to translate things properly. he was witty, sometimes outright ridiculous, and the sheer absurdity of his jokes caught you off guard more times than you could count.
könig: i think i have unlocked a new level of muscle soreness. my body is rejecting me. i am a broken man.
you: rip. gone and forgotten.
könig: good. don't tell my story. it's kind of pathetic.
“könig,” you typed one evening. “where the hell did you learn english?”
“the internet.”
immediate suspicion flooded your mind. “what part of the internet?”
“…the bad part.”
“be more specific.”
“ah…” there was a long pause, like he was regretting his choices. finally, “weird forums.”
apprehension curled at the base of your spine. “what kind of weird forums, könig?”
“…conspiracy theories.”
sheer, undiluted disbelief clung to you as you stared at your screen.
“WAIT” he backpedaled immediately, as if he could feel your judgment through the phone. “i was a child!!”
“A CHILD IN CONSPIRACY FORUMS?”
“it was not like that!!”
his frantic response only made you laugh harder. “then explain.”
“i was just reading, yes? stories. people told very cool stories. aliens, secret government projects, ghosts”
“oh my god, you were a cryptid kid.”
“nein!!”
amusement bloomed in your chest. “so what i’m hearing is you were, like, deep in the trenches. lizard people? JFK clone theories? the moon isn’t real?”
“…yes.”
“jesus christ.”
“it was fun!! and good english practice!”
“you learned english from paranoid men on the internet.”
“they were very passionate.”
laughter ripped through your chest so violently you nearly dropped your phone. könig sent a series of increasingly exasperated texts, all variations of “stop laughing”, which only made it worse.
every time you thought about it after that, a fresh wave of giggles overtook you. the next training session, you couldn’t even meet his eyes without picturing tiny könig hunched over an old computer, nodding solemnly as someone named TruthSeeker88 explained how the queen of england was actually a reptilian overlord.
he hated you for it. “you are evil,” he muttered when you brought it up again, shoving your shoulder lightly. “this is slander.”
“is it slander if it’s true?”
“YES.”
somewhere along the way, little snapshots of your lives started slipping into the conversation. könig sent blurry photos of his boots kicked up on a table, a war documentary playing in the background. “history lesson,” he’d caption, like he wasn’t watching something unreasonably brutal for fun. you sent the sky from your morning walk, pink bleeding into gold, and he always responded with a simple “pretty.”
you weren’t sure if he meant the sky or something else, but you let yourself wonder.
and then, selfies.
his were always shy, half-obscured, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you see too much despite the fact that you saw each other every week. the lower half of his face, mostly— jawline tucked into the shadows, the soft curve of a grin barely visible.
sometimes it was just his hands: wrapped around a steaming mug, fingers long and scarred, or flexed absentmindedly over his knee, veins shifting beneath pale skin. you never commented on them outright, just sent something casual— “cozy” or “nice gloves, old man”— but you always saved them, tucked away in your camera roll like little guilty pleasures.
yours were much less subtle in comparison.
exhausted post-workout, slumped against your couch with a dead-eyed stare. wrapped up in a hoodie, coffee in hand. the first time you sent one, you didn’t expect much. maybe a quick “good job” or some kind of fitness advice. instead, he sent “cute.”
you stared at the message for a full minute, blinking. your stomach did something stupid.
after that, he started commenting more. when you looked particularly grumpy, he’d send a teasing “you need nap, bird?” or “angry face. very scary.” and when you groaned about soreness, he was smug about it, “should have stretched. tsk tsk.”
it was cute. unbearably cute.
but all good things must come to an end.
one month. that’s how long this was supposed to last. four weeks of training, a neat little package of lessons that would leave you more capable of handling yourself in a fight. somewhere along the way, that timeline stretched, bending under the weight of something neither of you dared acknowledge.
könig should have cut you off weeks ago.
“you are expert already,” he tells you one evening, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. his tone is light, teasing, but there’s a hint of real curiosity beneath it. “i do not think class is needed. why do you keep taking?”
hesitation flickers in your chest. because of you, you want to admit, but the words sit heavy on your tongue, too risky, too exposing. instead, you roll your shoulders back and offer something easier, something safer.
“i need to beat you first.”
amusement dances across his features. könig huffs out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if considering the possibility.
“it will not happen in a million years, i think.”
arrogance suits him. confidence carved into his bones, stitched into the way he moves, the way he fights. you don’t argue because he’s right— he’s bigger, stronger, more experienced. if he wanted to, he could probably break you in half without much effort.
but miracles happen.
it’s a fluke. both of you know it. a momentary lapse, a split second where his guard lowers just enough for you to slip past his defenses. könig lets you try—indulges you, really, humoring your attempts at taking him down like he’s teaching a child to wrestle. that cockiness, that easy amusement, is what costs him.
somehow, impossibly, you get him in a triangle choke.
his body tenses the moment your thighs clamp around his neck, locking him in place. shock flickers in his eyes before it shifts into something unreadable, something quiet and assessing. his breath comes out steady despite the position he’s in, controlled in a way that makes your pulse stutter.
for a moment, you think you have him.
then, with an ease that’s almost insulting, he pries your legs apart, spreading them like it’s nothing.
a gasp hitches in your throat.
his movements don’t stop there— before you can even process what’s happening, he shifts, pressing himself close, kneeling between your thighs, completely caging you beneath him. his grin is wide, pleased, entirely too unbothered for someone who had just been seconds away from losing.
“very good, bird,” he praises. “very good takedown. i like.”
air sticks in your throat. something is wrong.
“k-könig-”
he blinks at you, tilting his head slightly. “ja?”
your bugged-out stare flicks downward, and his follows instinctively.
oh.
his entire body tenses. his pupils shrink.
understanding dawnes, slow and terrible, as he finally feels the press of something very, very apparent against you.
“that was not supposed to happen.”
no shit.
könig’s weight shifts over you, muscles tight as he tries to move away but instead— maybe by accident, maybe not— his cock drags against your core, thick even through the fabric separating you. the pressure is just enough to make your breath hitch, a spark of something warm licking up your spine before a sound slips from your throat.
he freezes, head jerking up like a startled animal, eyes darting around the empty training room, scanning for any sign that someone might’ve heard, his breath uneven as he listens, as you listen, as the silence between you stretches impossibly thin.
nothing. no one.
he exhales. something in his face twitches, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real, that you really just made that sound because of him.
his gaze drops, landing back on you, mouth parting, jaw flexing. then his body moves again, slower this time, cock grinding against you, rubbing you through your clothes, dragging heavy between your thighs, and you swear you see his eyelids flutter just slightly at the friction.
his forehead presses against yours, breath coming faster. “tell me to stop.”
the words hit your skin as more air than voice, warm against your jaw, but you don’t even need to think about it, because stopping is the last thing you want right now, the very last thing your body would allow.
“d-don’t stop.”
he curses, words slipping before he can stop them, and you don’t know what they mean, only that they sound wrecked, like they’ve been dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest.
könig’s forehead presses harder into yours. his hands tighten at your waist. his breath comes out uneven, stumbling over itself, and his voice fumbles through the next words. “i don’t have lube.”
“we don’t nee-”
“we do.” his face twists a little, mouth pressing tight, like the idea of taking you without it is actually painful.
you swallow, shifting slightly under him, feeling just how big he is. slick gathers between your thighs, and before you can stop yourself, the question slips out, barely above a whisper.
“are you big?”
his lips twitch, like he’s fighting back a grin, like he can’t believe you just asked that, and then it spreads into something quintessentially könig, — slow, lazy, and warm.
he presses in harder, dragging over your soaked cunt through the fabric of your underwear. the friction pulls a gasp from your lips, hips rolling up instinctively.
his grin stretches wider, eyes flicking down to watch you grind against him. "i am not small."
heat floods you, pussy fluttering around nothing, aching. your hips move again, searching for more, slick soaking through your underwear. your head tips back, breath catching. the sound that escapes you is closer to a whimper than you’d like to admit.
his lips find your jaw, tongue flicking out, tasting sweat and skin. his voice follows his mouth, words warm against your neck. "pretty little pussy..." he murmurs, dragging the syllables out like he’s savoring them. "bet it’d feel better wrapped around me."
the sound that leaves your throat is humiliating, high-pitched and needy. you don’t mean to make it, but it’s too late.
könig grabs your wrist. pulls you up. your balance falters, and before you can recover, he hauls you toward the showers. boots thud against tile. the door slams, lock clicking into place.
his mouth finds yours before you can speak. lips crash into yours, messy and eager. tongues tangle, breaths mix, heat pouring between you as your fingers twist in his hair. a laugh bubbles up between kisses—yours or his, you can’t tell—and he groans into your mouth, grinning against your lips.
“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. cheeks flush, eyes dark with something feral. “wanted this so long…”
clothes hit the floor in frantic shoves. hands fumble, pulling fabric away until skin meets skin, warmth pressing in on all sides.
his cock, thick, flushed, and dripping with precum, hangs between the two of you, weighed down by its own girth.
he sees your stare and grins. "big, huh?”
words fail you and for a moment you can't do anything but nod dumbly.
könig reaches past you, flicks on the shower. water crashes down, steam rising fast. the air thickens with heat and he wastes no time to pull you under the spray, water slicing over skin.
scarred hands find your face, thumbs brushing your jaw as his mouth returns to yours.
your hand slides down between you and wraps around his cock. konig's hips jerk forward, breath shuddering out against your lips.
“could kill you with this, eh?” his grin tugs lazy at the corners of his mouth. his chest lifts and falls, breaths dragging in deep, water cascading over both of you, hot against skin already burning.
your hand tightens, fingers sliding along the thick length of him, precum slicking your palm. warmth pulses beneath your touch, veins pronounced under your grip. he twitches when you give a slow twist near the tip, hips jolting forward. a groan rips from his throat, echoing off the tiled walls.
“scheiße,” he hisses, jaw working as he fights the urge to thrust. one hand flies to his hair, tugging as if the sting will help. water streaks down his face, lips parted, breaths breaking up his words.
“not helping,” you breathe, voice shaking. you press your mouth to his jaw, pressing a kiss there before your tongue darts out to taste the salt of his skin. his breath catches, eyes squeezing shut.
“oh, fuck-” his hips rock forward again, cock dragging through your fist, smearing more warmth along your stomach. precum drips from the flushed head, glistening in the steam-filled air.
a grin tugs at his lips, strained but there. “you tryna kill me?” the words slide out. "scheiß kleines ding…”
you laugh, kissing down his jaw. “not my fault you’re easy.” your thumb slides over the tip.
his head knocks back against the wall, neck stretching, throat working through a swallowed groan. “you- fuck- you think is easy?” a hand finds your chin, pulling your gaze up. “look at me.”
könig’s eyes catch yours. blown out. a ring of blue against black. then suddenly his lips curl, and his voice slips through his teeth.
“i have touched myself to you.”
you blink. “what?”
his grin widens. “before.” his hips push forward, cock dragging against your belly. “many times.”
your face burns.
“oh my god.”
his head dips, lips brushing yours, his breath hot and amused. “you do too, hm?”
your heart stops. heat shoots through you, cunt clenching. “yeah,” your breath shudders. “me too…”
his eyes widen, like he didn't expect you to admit to it, then narrows, grin pulling crooked. “yeah?” his cock twitches in your hand again. “fuckin’ knew it…” laughter spills out, breathless and warm.
könig’s head dips to press a sloppy kiss to your lips. tongue sliding against yours, messy and eager. laughter rumbles out, hips rolling, giggles slipping between mouths.
“fuckin’ knew it,” he repeats, words slurring together. “think about me late at night? fingers stuffed in that pretty cunt…”
you gasp, half scandalized, half aroused, hips shifting as slick pools between your thighs. “könig-”
“yeah?” another thrust. precum smears across your belly. “tell me.”
“i- fuck- yeah,” you breathe. “think about you all the time.”
he groans like the words alone could undo him. könig’s hands drop to grip your thighs, fingers digging firm into the flesh as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your back meets the cold tile with a dull thud, heat from the shower clashing with the chill seeping through the wall.
your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him close. his cock drags through your folds, thick length sliding slick against your cunt, nudging your entrance but never pushing in.
könig watches your face, chest lifting with every shaky breath. “how much do you take?”
you blink, heat simmering through your skin. “what?”
his cock slides against you again, harder this time, grinding against your clit, making you twitch. “normally. how much?”
a shrug rolls through your shoulders, confidence bubbling up, reckless. “all of it,” you answer without thinking, back arching, rubbing against him, arms looping around his neck. “i can take everything.”
he stills, expression shifting— his lips part, brows lifting just slightly. then he laughs, a low, amused sound, mouth curling into a grin. “nein, you can not.”
challenge flares in your chest. “i can.”
another laugh, softer now, hands adjusting on your thighs. “you are-” he shakes his head, grinning wider, lips brushing your cheek as he exhales, “-so very stupid.”
heat pools in your stomach, thighs clenching around him. “i’ll prove it.”
hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing deep into flesh as könig shifts his weight, cock grinding slow against your entrance, precum smearing where you’re slick and warm. a breath shudders out of him, jaw tight, brows pinching like he’s trying to hold something back. “you say this,” he mutters, “and then you cry.”
“i won’t,” you shoot back.
“hm.” his gaze flicks down to where his cock pushes against you, dragging through your folds. “we’ll see.”
könig’s fingers flex. his grip tightens and your breath hitches. “ready?”
“please,” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders.
he grits his teeth, cock sliding as deep as your walls will allow, head bumping against your cervix. every sob that escapes your lips makes his hips stutter, breath catching like he’s holding on by a thread.
"oh shit," he mutters. "look at you... crying so much."
"feels too good." your hands are weak on his shoulders.
könig grins, breathless, hands squeezing your hips. "ja? but you begged for this, no? say ‘please, könig, fuck me’-" he mocks your voice, low and whiny, then thrusts, ripping a squeak out of you. "and now you cry like a little baby like i said."
you shake your head against his chest, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. you love it—you love his cock so much it hurts—but you just can’t stop the sounds. every thrust drags a new sob from you, body trembling in his grip.
"shh." he squints down at you. "you are too loud-" his hand slides to the back of your head, pressing you close. "fuck... here. suck."
your lips brush his chest, and his nipple is right there, stiff against warm skin. you hesitate, dizzy from pleasure, but then your mouth opens and you latch on, tongue flicking over the peak before you suck soft and slow.
könig’s hips jerk.
"oh, shit- good girl," he breathes, head falling back. his fingers tangle in your hair. "yeah, just like that. little baby needs something to suck on, huh?"
your cheeks burn, whining against his chest, mouth working over his nipple as his cock drags in deep and slow. he groans, low and desperate, fucking you through your cries.
"such a messy baby," he grins, looking far too fucked-out to be as smug as he is. "can’t stop crying, can you? too good, yes? too much?"
you nod, sobbing around him, and könig just laughs, like he can’t believe how fucked you both are.
"keep sucking," he growls. "will fuck you ‘til you’re dumb.”
Like, it could be while he’s away and working on the ship or maybe he’s away for a teaching conference, but I’m imagining the flirty texts up until the phone call and he’s all needy and stuff and you can just hear his breathing and noises over the call 😛
The idea of just over the phone is nice but uhhhhh. Facetime anyone?
Title: In the Airwaves.
Pairing: Established Relationship - Ryland Grace x Fem! Reader.
Rating: M. ( EXTREMELY NSFW, MINORS DNI, 18+. Crude language, sexting, phone sex, camera sex, mutual masturbation etc etc. SOFT DOM RYLAND GRACE FOR US!! This is extremely self-indulgent lmao )
Words: 6.2 K.
Summary: Ryland Grace is away on a teaching conference across the country. He misses you a little too much ( and maybe had one too many drinks at one of the conference functions ).
☆Ryland Grace Masterlist☆
The San Fran fog was a gross, thick and oppressive blanket that muffled the world outside your window, its damp condensation sticking to the glass and seeping a mineral scent into the old apartment. It only seemed to amplify the hollow ache in your chest that had been lingering for three days.
The emptiness of your usually shared apartment had become a physical presence, a heavy weight of absence at every turn when you looked at the pictures on the wall of you and your boyfriend. So, you opted to curl up in bed, under a patch-work blanket that smelled familiar - like him. A comforting trace of his cedarwood shampoo, clean laundry detergent flushed with his body chemistry.
There was something mindless on the TV in the bedroom, the flickering blue light casting shadows on the walls, but your thoughts were hardly on it, tuning in and out as you were tempted to just drift off to sleep early and enjoy the night alone as best you could. As if you weren’t counting down the days, hours, minutes, seconds until your blonde boyfriend came strutting through the door and curing you of the loneliness and helping you feel like a whole person again.
Only two more days. You tried to remind yourself as your phone lit up, a lifeline from the other side of the country, its brightness making your eyes hurt as you lifted it up to read the text.
Ryland: This hotel room is so quiet. :( At least if I were at home we'd be watching that baking show you love so much.
Ryland: I love it too but don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.
Your chest tightened with empathy as your eyes trailed along the words. And along the words and meanings that weren’t explicitly typed out, there was knowledge of how he was feeling because you were feeling the same way.
You: I know, baby.
You: How was the conference today? You should try to get some sleep. You'll be home before you know it.
Ryland: It was a long day of lectures that could have been emails. Went to the bar afterwards with some other science teachers from districts in California.
Ryland: had a few drinks.
You: Don't tell me you're drunk without me.
Ryland: No
Ryland: Maybe. There was a battle of the minds contest and the loser had to drink
Ryland: I got three questions in and had to call it quits when I saw a plant and it reminded me of you :(
You: Sexy plant?
Ryland: Extremely
Ryland: And now I can't sleep. The bed is too big and it feels wrong without you here.
Ryland: It's driving me crazy how much I miss you.
You: I miss you too.
You: I'm currently hugging your pillow. Smells a little like you but the real thing is better.
Ryland: I just put my face in my pillow and it smells like industrial laundry soap and now I'm totally… Pissed off.
Ryland: All I can think about is the way your hair smells right after you shower.
Ryland: It's the only thing that gets me to sleep half the time.
You: You're just saying that to make me feel better about you being all the way in New York.
Ryland: I'm serious.
Ryland: And the sound? I swear to god, it's like I can hear you breathing next to me.
Ryland: Especially that little whistling noise you make when you're deep asleep.
Ryland: I'd give anything to hear that right now instead of the stupid mini-fridge.
You: I make a whistling noise?
Ryland: You do and I think it's the cutest thing.
Ryland: Ah geez now I'm thinking about that.
Ryland: And I'm sitting in this empty bed without you with a problem.
You: You're a scientist. Work through the problem. ;)
The typing bubble appeared for a moment, disappeared before coming back.
Ryland: This is your fault.
Ryland: [ Image Attached ]
The conversation had just taken a sharp, delicious turn that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your stomach to linger and build. Your breath hitched, catching in your throat as your gaze re-adjusted to the image loaded on your screen. Ryland Grace was never one for sending crude messages, and as your eyes leered at the image sent, there was a thought of how much did he have to drink to send something like this?
The picture was slightly blurry, he was never able to hold the camera without shaking a bit, taken in the low, warm light of his lonely hotel room, but the details it held were unmistakable and you felt your fingers twitch in anticipation of getting your hands on the photographed item as soon as possible.
You could see the thick and heavy outline of his cock straining against the simple pair of grey briefs he was wearing. The soft fabric was stretched taut, clinging to the delectable shape and left nothing to the imagination. There was a darker, almost damp appearing patch already forming where you imagined the head of his cock was straining against, desperate for freedom. Pre-cum, a testament to how want-on Ryland was and how much he needed you.
The sight itself made your mouth water, your own body reacting as if he were right there in front of you. You bit at your bottom lip, admiring the messiness of the picture.
You: I don’t see how that’s my fault when I’m 3,000 miles away, Ry.
As if drenched in water, Ryland felt the phone slick in his hands as the message seemed to burn into the back of his eyelids as he let his eyes fall shut for a moment. That nickname, as simple as it was, was something Ryland desired to hear from your lips at that very moment, a desire so strong that his lips parted in anticipation of eating it up as it fell from your lips. He could almost taste it on his tongue as the ache in his cock intensified, a deep and insistent throw that demanded his attention now.
His free hand, moving with a will of its own it seemed, slid down the plane of his bare stomach, letting it seep and grasp in ways that conjured memories of your touch. Not as smooth, but Ryland was willing to take it for what it was. There was the drastic shift of his muscles jumping and tensing beneath his touch, a response to the impending contact that he was drawing himself closer to. He stopped - only at the elastic of his briefs and let his fingers drift along there, coasting around his navel as it felt like the pit in his stomach dropped to his feet despite him laying on the bed.
It was only a moment of hesitation that was quickly overwhelmed by the need he had for you, and within a second, Ryland had his fingers dipping beneath the fabric of his briefs, fingertips brushing against the ridged, heated length of his cock. A sharp, ragged hiss of air was sucked in through the blonde’s teeth at the contact, the ache he had not satiated by just his own self-pitying jerk off. He needed you… God… He needed you so badly. He paused there, letting his fingertips case around the head of his cock and successfully smearing pre-cum as the hand holding his phone swiped words along the keyboard.
Ryland: Your fault because you exist in my orbit.
Ryland: All I can think about is you, the way you taste.
Ryland: The weight of your leg thrown over mine in the middle of the night.
You: It’s only two more days, baby.
Ryland groaned at the words, staring at the last one as another flush of heat rattled down his body and caused the organ he was toying with gently to twitch. God, you knew what you were doing… Ryland swallowed hard, all worry or care out the window with the next messages sent.
Ryland: What are you wearing?
Ryland: I need to know for… Purposes.
The directness of that sent a thrill straight through you, a hot and sharp current that made your toes curl against the bedsheets in anticipation. The tiny, illuminated typing bubble appeared and disappeared on your screen, a frantic, stuttering heartbeat that matched the one hammering against your ribs and you could just see how Ryland was trying to process his own lack of self-control and overstimulation. You drew a breath in and held it without putting much thought behind it as you typed out a response. Plain and simple but enough to get him overthinking in that typical Ryland Grace fashion.
You: Your old UCSF hoodie.
The air in the bedroom suddenly felt thicker, charged with a new potent energy you were drowning in. The hum of the TV faded into a meaningless drone, replaced by the frantic thumbing of your own heart in your ear drums. The cool air on your bare legs seemed to heighten every nerve ending and flush crept up your check and neck, a heat that had nothing to do with the heavy blanket. Your lips parted, a soft, shaky exhale leaving them to dissipate in the air around you. You were no longer just missing him. You were actively, achingly wanting Ryland, the miles between you feeling like a slap in the face, an impossible, cruel joke.
Your free hand, the one not clutching your phone to death, drifted down, over the soft, cozy fabric of the hoodie and there was the strange sensation that your hand was not your own as you imagined it was Ryland’s. Your fingers met the elastic band of your pajama shorts, unfiltered and raw. There was an intense loss at the fact that Ryland’s hands were so much bigger than yours, more capable of bringing pleasure to you that was unparalleled and your mind was forced to imagine it was him. His hand beneath the waistband, his fingers sliding through the curls of your pubic hair before meeting the intense, heated need between your legs.
You were already so wet, your body responding to his words, his absence with a desperate, aching need as you shifted your hips, pressing into your own hand as you began a slow and deliberate motion against your clit. There was nothing about it that was pleasurable in the way that Ryland brought to the table. It felt like a meager attempt to bridge the impossible distance, to feel something, anything.
Then, you sent the catalyst. The second part of your message.
You: And not much else…
The words seemed to hang in the digital space between you, a confession and a challenge wrapped up into a few pixels. A moment of silence passed and then your phone buzzed, a low, insistent hum against your thigh that made you jump like you were caught with your hand in the cookie jar. His reply was equally as simple, but it landed like a match thrown on gasoline.
Ryland: I need to hear your voice to finish.
That’s all your hormone driven brain needed as you re-adjusted yourself enough out of your laying position, heart pounding violently against your ribs. You tapped the video call icon on your phone. There was no wasted time from Ryland either, and within moments, he was showing up on your screen, before the first ring could even finish, the sound of his pick up cutting off any other vibrations immediately.
Ryland’s face filled the screen, lit by the single, warm lamp of his room, dripping his already handsome features in an irresistible glow of gold. You ate him up; the way that he was propped against the headboard, his blonde hair disheveled, still slightly wet at the ends from his shower earlier, a desperate and frantic look in his eyes as he searched the screen for any inclination that you were being intentionally teasing.
“You uh… shouldn’t… Should have said that.” His breath hit the microphone in a sharp exhale but still remained low and raspy, sending a shiver straight through you to linger between your legs.
“Said what?” Ryland swallowed softly at your tone. Yeah, you knew what you were doing and you were having fun with him. Your phone was angled to show the soft hoodie draped over your body, the faded UCSF logo of navy and sky blue nothing but a blur for him to decipher.
“That you’re wearing that. That you’re in our bed. And I’m not there.” He closed his eyes for a second, his jaw tightening and loosening, the stubble on his chin a dark shadow in the crisp of the lamp light and all you wanted at that moment was to feel the coarse hairs under your mouth as you kissed along his sharp jawline. “It’s like I-I can almost feel you. The weight of you on my chest, the way you always tuck your cold feet under my legs to warm them up.”
You let a breathless chuckle leave your parted lips at that. “It’s called survival, Ry.”
That was the undoing he needed to hear. His eyes snapped open and met yours through the screen, a small moan escaping his parted lips. “Call it whatever you want, just… Show me…” He pleaded, “Show me please. Let me see you.”
You exhaled shakily. The phone in your hands was moved around, Ryland feeling a bit dizzy as he felt like he was tossed around the room before it rested on a pillow beside you, your body tilted a bit awkwardly to make sure the angle was good and that it wasn’t going to topple over and ruin the moment. A second later, you were leaning back against the headboard of your shared bed and looked at Ryland.
He was almost flush with the screen, the only thing you could really see was his forehead and you knew right then that he was holding his phone as close to his face, close as physically possible as if that was going to somehow help the distance between you. You took a swallow of air in, reaching down and in one remarkably fluid motion, the hoodie was over your head and tossed over the side of the bed. You weren’t wearing a bra. Ryland’s mind raced at that.
The cool air encapsulated your senses immediately, your nipples perking up in the way that Ryland liked, he could almost feel one of them being played with by his tongue as he felt a rush of heat along his cock. He stroked it guiltily with his free hand, the motion so lewd and recognizable that your eyes widened a bit in shock once your fuzzy mind registered what he was doing on the other side of the line.
The sound Ryland released wasn’t like anything you’d heard before, and maybe, just for a minute, you thought of that phrase ‘distance makes the heart grow fonder’. It was a low, guttural groan, the sound remarkably thick and crackling through your phone’s speaker. “Y-you said ‘not much else’. Wh-what did that mean…?” Well, obviously not a bra. That much was clear as he felt his mouth water at the idea of your skin on his wanting tongue.
“What do you think it means? You’re the scientist, baby… Deduce.” He drew a languid breath in and stroked his cock once again. He knew what it meant. Ryland wasn’t that thick. Well… Maybe sometimes, but in this context? Nah. It was clearer than most things in his life, he just wanted to hear you say it. Or better yet… Show him.
“W-why don’t you show me? Give me some context clues so I can work the pr-problem out better.”
You smiled softly at that, shuffling a bit in front of the camera to get a better angle of yourself. Your hand drifted down, too slowly for Rylands’s liking but there wasn’t much he could do but watch in baited arousal as your fingers scooped into the waistband of your pajama bottoms and tugged downwards. Over the curve of your hips, down the scape of your bare legs and kicked off unceremoniously onto the floor without a sound.
You propped back against the headboard once again, a moment of contemplative silence circling the two of you as Ryland’s hand was making languid motions against his hard cock. Not enough to give him release, but enough to imagine you were right there in front of him stroking instead of the pitiful excuse of his own touch. “O-Oh… I see… That-s uh… wow…”
A sudden thrill shot through your body and it was remarkably intoxicating. Seeing your boyfriend so horned up, hearing the evident awe in his voice were all building the pressure in your lower navel. A slight smile spread across your face, a bit more wrangled in confidence. Ryland saw it, of course he did, and his hand tightened around the base of his cock as a result. You moved slightly, drifting your body just right to give him a better view. You watched him on the screen, his blue eyes widening as the motion of his hand completely stopped so he could grab his phone with both hands and bring it steady, closer to his face than before before resuming jerking himself off. You’d say the fact that all you could see was his forehead was unromantic, but there was just something about the way he was so desperate to get you closer that made you yearn to continue.
“Oh boy…” Ryland’s voice was strained, a breathy whisper when he spoke again, his eyes shell-shocked and glued to his screen. “Y-you’re per-perfect…” He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he was turning to reckless abandonment as a way to cure him of his loneliness. “B-but my hypothesis… It’s incomplete… I-I need more data points…” The scientific facade was cracking, the raw need of a man bleeding through. “C-could you show me a little more? I-I need it. To see your le-legs spread for me. Everything just… Please…” His voice was a pleading whisper through the muffled speaker of your phone.
Without a second thought, you bent your knees and planted your feet on the mattress firmly. Not spread yet, but just enough for him to see the tease of your pussy between them. Ryland’s breath audibly hitched through the speaker, a very desperate sound that made you blush from head to toe, goosebumps rising on your skin. Then, with a languid grace that juxtaposed the rapid nature of Ryland’s heart on the other side of the country, you let your knees prop open. Vulnerable, naked and wanting.
The air that hit the heat of your exposed pussy was extraordinary, a stark contrast to what had been building since Ryland first texted you. You were completely exposed to him, a feast laid out across the screen, and in a lot of ways, Ryland was probably seeing a new angle of you that hadn’t been sought after until now. A soft, shaky sigh escaped your lips, a sound of surrender.
“Oh… Oh my goodness…” That was whispered like a reverent prayer. “T-that’s it… That’s the missing variable…” His hand, which had been paused, began moving again, this time with a new, frantic urgency as Ryland’s eyes admired you splayed out for him.
“G-gosh, I can see… how wet you are for me…” His voice was rough, each word a gravelly caress against your ears that sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. “T-touch yourself? Let me see… Show me how you like it, how I like it. Please baby… I ne-need to see it all…”
Without a moment’s worth of hesitation, your hand moved down and dipped to answer his plea. Your fingers slid across your pussy, a soft gasp escaping your mouth at the simple but overstimulating contact. Carefully, as you kept your eyes on the screen, you circled your clit. Ryland’s movement, the shifting in the phone bouncing with his hand jerking himself off became rapid.
“I wish I could see you…” You whined gently, hitting him like a physical blow. His frantic movements of selfishness stopped, Ryland sputtering a bit as if he had been caught doing something he wasn’t allowed to do. His face, which you hadn’t been able to see clearly due to the proximity of the camera on his end, suddenly came back into view. Hard with a mask of raw need, but softened around the edges.
“O-oh geez…” He breathed out hard, lifting himself a bit against the headboard. “I-I’m sorry… Turnabout is fair play.” Ryland murmured, “Reciporicity of data.”
You bit your bottom lip as your view began to change. The camera was moved back, now carefully against the base of the lamp of his nightstand. Ryland came back into view as he sat himself on the edge of the bed, far enough away that you could see his entire body, his long legs bent at the knees. You could see the landscape of his body, framed by the crisp white hotel sheets. There was no t-shirt, he must have taken that off the moment he began overheating. You could make out the sharp, defined ‘V’ of his hips that tapered down to his hard groin, and the tense and almost quivering muscles of his stomach as he was very much trying to keep himself together. He swallowed hard, finding your eyes through the screen and watched them drop further.
Over the grey fabric of his briefs, stretched over the unmistakable line of his hard-on. It was now or never, Ryland bit at his bottom lip and hooked his thumbs into the waistband, his movement slow as he raised his hips just long enough to pull the thin fabric down. There was a delicacy in watching it catch on the head of his cock before allowing freedom, a small bounce taking place before it rested hard, flushed a deep and urgent pink against the pale skin of his stomach, tilted just a notch to the right.
“God, Ryland…” You almost moaned out and swiveled your fingers along your clit once again, dripping them down to gather more of your juices before repeating. “Baby, you’re so hard…”
“I know.” He sounded like he was about to cry. “This… Is what you do to me… My data.” Carefully, Ryland wrapped his hand around the base, a small inhale heard through the speaker at that. Your fingers twitched against your pussy at the thought of your hand replacing his. It was interesting to see the way that his hand fit, more unsure than your own, larger than your own, able to take more of his length in one foul swoop as he stroked it for your hungry eyes.
You perked up at that, eyes intent on the screen as your fingers began working against yourself again. “Look at that, Ry…” You breathed, your own voice a drifting noise for your boyfriend. “Your hand… It’s so big. It’s so different than when I'm holding it…” Your motions slowed down as you were so absorbed in watching him. Your lover gave another stroke, his thumb swiping over the flushed tip on the upstroke, wiping away the clear beat of pre-cum that had formed.
He moaned, head dropping to his phone as he looked at you, almost for direction and approval. “Did that feel good? D-do it again… The way your thumb…” You trailed off, your own hips shifting restlessly against the mattress as you played with your clit again. “Show me how you like it. Let me learn.”
A deep red color, darker than the head of his over-strained cock, spread up his neck and chest. “Oh… Okay….” He nodded and looked down at the grip he had on himself. He stroked it once again, his mouth parted in ecstasy, “It’s… Hm… Not a precise methodology. It’s more of a… Test.” He cleared his throat and brought his eyes back to the screen to watch as you essentially bucked your hips into your hand. Ryland was trying to hold onto something his scientific mind could process to frame the raw intimacy of the moment. “The variables are… Pressure… And uh… Ah… Speed…”
It was demonstration time! Ryland’s grip tightened, barely perceptible to you but you could see the flex of his knuckles as he stroked upwards, his thick thumb pressing firmly into the sensitive bundle of nerves just beneath the head. He moaned out, uncaring now if someone in the rooms surrounding him could hear. “There…” He breathed shakily, “That’s a strong correlation…” Then, you watched as he loosened his grip for a few languid, teasing pulls up and down his length.
“And this… is the con-control. It uh… Uhm…” Ryland tilted his head back, displaying the straining muscles of his neck for you before he rolled it back forward, “It builds th-the baseline.” He moved a few more times up and down before glancing over at his phone, at you, still stroking your own pink pussy with an eagerness that rivaled his own. “A-are you taking notes?”
You nodded, tilting your head back against the headboard with a small ‘thud’. A soft laugh of pleasure escaped you. “I’m taking no-notes, Dr. Grace.” Your voice was nothing more than a murmur into the night as you became more daring with your own touches. Your fingers drifted lower, gathering hot juices on the tips before circling your entrance, imagination running wild with the idea that Ryland was pressing the head of his cock there instead. Your back arched just slightly as you teased yourself with an experimental stretch. “I-I think my hypothesis requires a more hand-on approach.”
You sought his gaze out as you slowly slid your pointer finger inside yourself, a soft moan leaving your parted lips at the welcome sensation. Ryland’s mouth slacked open as he gawked at the screen. The hand around his cock sped up ever so slightly, missing the sensation that your fingers could to delve into. “I think… I need to test my internal pressure.” Your finger began moving. It was subtle at first, Ryland wasn’t even sure until he caught hold of the spacing when you drew it out and the coarse moan from you when it dove back in.
“Oh… Oh my.” He breathed hard, the word nothing but a pitiful excuse of an exhale. He tightened his grip around the base and let himself play there for a second, drawing his cock away from his body before bringing it back inwards with a hard stroke. “That’s a variable I hadn’t… accounted for, baby.”
Slowly, you added a second finger. The stretch was delicious to your body and mind, a burning welcome that made your back arch slightly off the bed once again, more rigid and more eager. Your eyes drifted over the phone screen just in time to watch as Ryland’s hips jerked in response to your actions. “The data is compelling Do-doctor.” He groaned at that, squeezing the head of his cock at the same moment you decided to find a steady rhythm to pump your fingers at. Faster than Ryland would have chosen, but he liked to take it slow. “I-I wish I had a larger sample size.”
Your eyes were locked on how he was jerking himself off again, a mix of a groan and laugh leaving his mouth as a strangled sort of call to the otherwise silent room. “Y-you’re going to be the death of me…” He choked out, his stroke becoming faster and more erratic. “But, fo-for science. I feel obligated to observe…” He watched with intense focus as your fingers disappeared into your body again, hopefully to find that place that made you see stars. “Does it feel better? Your internal pressure?”
You nodded and licked your lips heatedly, desperate to get some moisture on your tongue. “I miss you…” You whimpered, Ryland feeling the tug in his body at your words. “M-my body misses you. The way you know how to touch me…” You drifted your other hand down to accompany its friend, circling your clit as your thighs began trembling. “R-Ryland… I need you…”
His breath hitched again, this time a bit more painful at the desperation in your voice. “I c-can’t be there to he-help you baby…” He drew a deep breath in and brought his hand down his length to hold onto the base for a second. “I-I can guide you… Okay? L-let me talk you through this…” Ryland shuddered deep in his muscles as he pulled at his cock. “Listen to me. Okay? Be a good girl and listen.”
You could only nod your head in ascension, your fingers slowing down as they came to rest buried deep inside of you, waiting for Ryland’s instruction.
“Keep your fingers right where they are…” The command was soft and breathy. “Now… C-curve them. You know how it feels, find it. C-curl them upwards, towards your st-stomach.” A strangled cry hit you as you obeyed, fingers barely able to brush against the ball of nerves so deep inside your body. Ryland knew you found it right away, your reaction was instant and you were like an open book. “Did you find it? Do you feel it?”
“Yes…” You gasped and brought your hips up. “I-I feel it, Ryland.”
“Good. Good… That’s good.” He panted, trying to keep himself tied together to get you to the finish line first. His hips moved into his fist, the heavy organ twitching in his hands as he rea-adjusted his grip to be a bit more firm. “N-now with your other han… Your thumb. Like I d-did earlier. Press it against your clit, sweetheart. Don’t move it yet… Remember the v-variables… Apply pressure. Firm pressure. Like you-you’re trying to hold it in place.”
You recounted his words for a few moments, the stars bustling behind your vision as you did as Ryland suggested. The dual stimulation was the immediate start to your undoing on camera. A tremor ran down your entire body, Ryland having to keep himself from going over the edge at how your legs clamped your arms into place before you forced them back open so he could grade your performance.
“Now…” He swallowed hard and nodded his head, recollecting experiences from the past. “M-move your fingers inside… Just a lil’... Small, tight circles.” Ryland stimulated the head of his cock with a similar motion with the side of his thumb. “And at-at the same time, move your thumb. Slow circles. Counter-clockwise,” Ryland almost laughed at his ability to remember that he often chose that direction to tease you. No reason, he just chose it that way because you seemed to respond to it. And boy… Were you responding to him, 3,000 miles away.
“That's... that's the protocol. That's how you... how you finish." Ryland's voice was a hush in the background as you tipped your head back, your eyelids fluttering shut. The combination was lethal, Ryland had to know how it was affecting you because it was exactly how he did it in person, his voice a good enough substitute for his physical presence. He watched in arousement as your hips began to move harder, grinding down against your own hand as a spit of jealousy rattled his cage. God… He wanted you against him, your cunt against his palm as he took you right over the edge. But instead, you had to follow his instructions to the letter.
“Are… God…” Ryland drew a painful breath in through his nose. “Are you following the protocol?” His voice was tight with his own impending release, the sensation in the pit of his stomach furling up like his fist that was still working along his thick cock, lubricated yummily by his own pre-cum and desperation.
“Yes.” You writhed and let a moan out. “Ryland, please….” Now it was your turn for your voice to sound stricken like you were on the verge of emotional collapse. “Please, please, please…”
“Look at me.” He demanded but nowhere in his tone was it ever overly commanding. It still held a twinge of affection reserved only for you. Only for this moment, and only for your overlooking orgasm. “Look at…” Ryland’s eyelids fluttered in focus. “Look at the screen, at me… I ne-need to see your face when you…”
You didn't even let him finish as your head snapped up, your gaze finding him on the screen in front of you. Ryland’s face was a twist of desperate concentration, his brow furrowed, his lips parted in heady pants as he worked his hand even faster than before. The sight of him, so lost in his own pleasure and yet so focused on yours was the final push that you needed. You mimicked his pace as best you could, fingers moving faster, deeper, curled as your thumb applied that much more pressure to your clit, the circles there becoming heavily erratic as the tension coiled impossibly tight in your navel.
“Ryland!” You gasped, his name was a broken plea he was going to have to fix when he finally got his hands on you in two days. “God, I-I can’t, N-not with y-you h-here…” You whined like a child.
“Yes, you can…” He urged you, watching as your back arched against the headboard and stack of pillows behind you. “I can te-tell you’re right there, baby. I see if. Let go… Let me see you.”
Those words were your undoing. The tight spring inside of you snapped, and your orgasm came crashing through you with the force of a tidal wave and then some. A cry tore from your throat, raw and uninhibited as your body began doing a convulsing dance in your shared bed. Ryland could only be left with imagination at the way your walls clenched rhythmically around your fingers, waves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain washing over you tediously. When you thought it was over, another would hit you and cause your vision to go white, your mind blissfully empty of everything but the all consuming release you were stuck in.
The sight of you, his girlfriend, coming completely undone on camera - the twist of your face drawn in such ecstasy happened to be Ryland’s breaking point. A very guttural shout that mimed something along the ways of your name was torn from his hoarse throat as his own orgasm hit. Ryland’s body moved unnaturally in the most natural way, his cock heavy and throbbing in his tight grasp as his back arched. In one motion, hot and thick cum spilt from the tip, the evidence of his pent up desire painting onto his pale skin in long, milky streaks that caught your eye as you gawked at the screen. He plopped back against the bed, giving himself a few more overstimulated strokes as his chest heaved, body completely limp and spent.
You both lay there for a long moment, the only sound your combined, ragged breathing crackling through the phone's speaker. The air in the room, and the air three thousand miles away, was thick with the scent of your shared release. You could hear him shuffling around, most likely to grab something to clean himself off with as your eyes rested shut, trying to recollect yourself enough to say something.
You peeped your eyes open as Ryland’s face finally came back into view, the phone being picked up. You could see from the angle he put himself in, unflattering for most, but very perfect for your boyfriend, he was a flushed mess. Utterly wrecked, his hair even more of a damp mess, a lazy, blissed out smile spreading across his face as he looked at you on the screen.
“So…” His voice was a husky whisper, “New protocol established when I go on trips.” You felt a smile spread across your face, already anticipating where this was going. “Video calls are mandatory everyday until I’m home.”
Ryland looked at you, his eyes soft and full of something that made your chest ache again, but this time, for something else entirely. You wanted him here with you, wrapped up in the post-sex bliss. “Now, get some sleep. Two more days and then I’ll be home and we can run that experiment again. In person.”
“Promise?” You hummed.
“Promise.” Ryland reassured. “I love you.”
“I love you more.”
