evergone

18+ only DO NOT RE-USE, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK. IF YOU HAVE SEEN THIS ELSEWHERE I HAVE NOT CONSENTED.

[evergone]

due to someone translating and reposting my works without my permission, i shall be taking a hiatus from writing.

i am considering removing my works from tumblr in the event that this continues.

you will find the person responsible on godforsaken wattpad of all places @mel_potter_black . please feel free to spread the word and check that your works have not been appropriated.

as a professional writer outside of the fanfiction space, i find this act of complete unoriginality disgraceful. regardless of whether or not this person has “tagged” me (simply put my username at the top of the chapter), this is a disgrace to art and to writing. i am paid for my writing most of the time and write fanfic for fun, and to spread my craft to others in a casual manner, but this has completely turned me away from this form of writing.

thank you @yuunarii-arii for bringing this to my attention.

[danysdaughter]

Wild Things: Bayou Heat

pairing | drifter!bucky x fem!reader x drifter!steve word count | 23.3k words (sorry yall, save this for bed) summary | two drifters take refuge on a sun-blistered louisiana farm, but the real heat comes from the farmer’s enigmatic daughter who draws them in with slow, honey-thick temptation. tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, porn w plot (and i really think the plot is good), farmers!daughter!reader, multiple smut scenes (yeah i went overboard), southern gothic vibes, lots of erotica, sexual tension, STUCKY ANGST,mutual pining (heavy denial), lots of unprotected sex, piv, oral (m&f!receiving), secret sex, lying, seduction, threesome (m/m/f), sensory overload, horny!reader (unapologetically), reader is a freak, love triangle (and best believe this is a triangle with all three ends), voyeurism (self righteous steve), double penetration, first time stucky (reader is their main cheerleader), shameless!reader, manipulative!reader, knows exactly what she's doing, enjoys instigating and stirring the pot, steve rogers is repressed and in denial, bucky barnes has a dirty mouth and is easily jealous, pride vs desire, lotsssss of religious imagery, sin vs purity imagery, they all need therapy but instead they have sex, (there's probably more i should add, but i dont remember) a/n | this has been sitting in ellipses for the last month, finally im free! jumping on the stucky train, and i have no shame abt it. and i really tried to edit and cut, but everything is important to the plot

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

MASTERLIST

divider by @omi-resources

The two-tone ’78 Chevy sat wheezing on the shoulder, its hood punched open like a yawn in the late-afternoon heat. Beyond the ribbon of cracked asphalt, cane fields lay flat and humming, cicadas sawing at the silence. Bucky leaned both forearms on the grill, hair sticking to the sweat on his neck, and offered a lopsided grin that only made things worse.

“Relax, Stevie. Tank’s empty, not the end of the world.”

Steve slammed the driver’s door harder than he meant to; the truck shuddered like it might expire altogether. “Not the end of the world? We’re forty miles from a town anyone’s heard of, it’s a hundred degrees, we got eight dollars between us, and you didn’t think to check the gauge?”

Bucky shrugged, easy as a breeze. “Gauge is busted, remember? Besides, you were the one drivin’ last—”

“Because you were too busy sweet-talking that waitress to keep your eyes on the road.”

“Tyra?” Bucky’s smile widened. “She gave us pie for free.”

“Great. Maybe we can burn it for fuel.” Steve dragged a hand through his hair and squinted up the road; nothing but heat rippling off the tarmac. “We need a plan.”

“We got one,” Bucky said, straightening. He rapped the hood twice, like patting a tired mule. “We walk. Someone around here’s gotta sell gas. Maybe even trade a couple hours’ work for a full can.”

“Or they’ll run us off with an axe.” Steve’s voice softened despite himself; frustration never stuck to Bucky for long. “This was supposed to be different, Buck. Thought we’d find steady work in New Orleans—”

“And we did, for a minute. Things change.” Bucky’s gaze drifted past Steve to the hazy edge where pasture met cypress and moss. “Look, the road forks up ahead—left’s more fields, right’s water. Bayou country. People out here always need strong backs.” He slung their one duffel over his shoulder. “C’mon. Sun’s not gettin’ any kinder.”

Steve glanced at the truck and sighed. “You really think we’ll ‘figure it out’?”

“We always do.” Bucky’s grin turned conspiratorial, the one that had gotten them into brawls and out of worse. “Besides, you love savin’ my ass. Gives you purpose.”

“One of these days,” Steve muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth, “your luck’s gonna run out.”

“Then I’ll borrow yours.” Bucky tipped an imaginary hat and started down the asphalt, boots crunching gravel. After a beat, Steve fell in beside him.

The sun slid lower, painting the sky blood-orange. Somewhere to the east, a smear of water reflected the light. The air smelled of cane juice and distant brackish rot.

Eventually dusk bled over the cane fields in long bruised stripes, the sky turning molasses-thick and purple. For close to an hour, the only sounds had been boot soles on gravel and Bucky’s running commentary; little jokes about gator crossings, predictions of cold beer “just past the next bend,” memories of music drifting out of French Quarter bars.

He talked as if words could keep the darkness from settling on their shoulders.

Steve let most of it wash past. Sweat glued the back of his shirt to his spine; the sun had scalded the bridge of his nose raw. Every mile without a plan felt heavier than the duffel bumping against his hip. When Bucky announced, for the fourth time, that “things always work out,” Steve only answered with a quiet grunt and kept walking.

Then the road took a shallow dip and opened onto a low rise of pasture, and there it was—a farmhouse half-hidden behind live oaks, porch lights already flickering on like fireflies. Off to the right, a tin-roofed barn crouched at the edge of a bayou inlet, its stilts mirrored in dark water. Smoke drifted from a chimney in a lazy ribbon; somewhere close, a cow lowed.

Bucky stopped dead and threw out an arm as if presenting a miracle. “Told you, pal. Luck’s a lady tonight.”

Steve studied the place; fencing mended in patches, tractor parked beneath a tarp, rows of tomatoes staked with twine. Not prosperous, but lived-in, cared for. “Or it’s someone’s home, and we’re about to get run off for trespassing.”

“Won’t know ’til we ask.” Bucky’s grin caught the last shred of light, turning his eyes almost silver. “Guy like you knocks on a door, says ‘Sir, evening, we’re lookin’ for some shelter for the night,’ who’s gonna say no?”

“Plenty of people,” Steve muttered, but the fight had drained out of his voice. He glanced back the way they’d come, miles of empty asphalt slowly disappearing into night, and exhaled. “All right. We try.”

They left the road, boots whispering through knee-high grass that smelled of sun-baked sugarcane and river mud. A chorus of frogs started up, rhythmic and lewd, as if cheering them on. When they reached the split-rail fence, Bucky vaulted it in one easy swing; Steve followed, slower, feeling the rail creak beneath his weight.

Closer now, Steve noticed the details Bucky’s optimism had missed; shutters needing paint, porch boards warping at the ends, the faint uneven beat of a generator somewhere out back. A place run by sweat and necessity, not spare cash.

Bucky rolled his shoulders like a man warming up for a dance. “Let me talk first. I’ll soften ’em up.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “And if sweet talk doesn’t cover room and board?”

“Then you flex those big-boy muscles and show ’em we’re worth feeding.” He winked.

Steve looked past him to the porch. A screen door stood ajar, warm lamplight spilling through, and inside he caught a glimpse of movement—someone crossing a threshold.

“Yeah,” Steve said finally. “Could be worse.”

Behind them the sun sank, and the bayou lapped soft against the stilts, as if tasting something new in the twilight air.

The screen door slapped once against its frame and stayed half-open, lamplight spilling across warped porch boards. A man stepped out. A raw-boned figure in dungarees and a sweat-stained work shirt, the brim of his straw hat casting his face in shadow. The pump shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm said everything his tight mouth didn’t.

Bucky lifted one hand, palm out, easy smile already in place. “Evenin’, sir. Hate to trouble you—”

“You’re already doin’ it,” the man cut in, voice dry as crushed shell. His eyes flicked from Bucky’s scuffed boots to the duffel on Steve’s shoulder, then back. “Road’s that way if you’re passin’ through.”

Bucky chuckled like they were all sharing a joke. “Wish we were. Truck ran dry few miles back. Just lookin’ for a spot of ground to lay our heads, maybe point us toward gas come mornin’.”

Mr. Moreau, Steve caught the stitched name on a feed-store cap hooked to a nail by the door, didn’t blink. “Folks who show up empty always want more’n a night’s sleep.”

“Not us,” Bucky said, still smooth but softer now, reading the room. “Couple hours on a cot, we’re golden.”

Steve stepped forward, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it. “Sir, we don’t expect charity. We grew up working yards and warehouses in Brooklyn. Let us put in a day’s labour; repair fence, muck stalls, whatever needs doing, in exchange for a meal and a corner of your barn. Tomorrow we’ll walk to town, buy fuel, and be gone.”

The old man studied Steve’s hand like it might bite. Up close Steve could see the lines etched deep around his mouth, the cautious flare of his nostrils, the calculation behind the suspicion. When he finally spoke, he addressed Steve, not Bucky.

“You fix fence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Know your way around a baler?”

“Can learn quick.”

Moreau’s gaze shifted to Bucky. “And you?”

Bucky’s grin turned boyish. “I swing a hammer straight and don’t complain about blisters.”

A long moment of silence stretched, filled only by the bayou’s night chorus and the low thrum of a diesel generator. Then Moreau nodded once, sharp. “Barn’s there.” He jerked his chin past a line of pecan trees toward the weather-silvered structure on stilts. “You’ll sleep in the loft—floor’s solid. I’ll send my girl with sheets, pillows and supper.”

He paused, shotgun still resting easy but present. “Sunup, you start mending the northeast fence line where the posts lean. No smoking, no liquor, no wandering past the pens after dark. Gators like the warm water.”

Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Bucky tipped two fingers from his brow. “Much obliged, Mr. Moreau.”

Steve offered his hand again; Mr. Moreau finally considered the gesture, then shook once. It was firm and testing. “Careful, bayou’s mean at night, and I ain’t friendlier.”

They watched him retreat across the porch, boards groaning under deliberate steps. Inside, a screen door banged and lamplight shifted, framing a second silhouette for half a heartbeat, before it disappeared deeper into the house.

As they crossed the yard the porch lights dimmed, leaving only moon-slivered clouds and the distant lantern glow of the barn.

Bucky exhaled a satisfied breath. “See? Luck.”

Steve shot him a side-eye that was half exhaustion, but reluctant amusement won out. “Your kind of luck usually gets me shot at.”

“Guy didn’t even chamber a round. We’re fine,” Bucky said, swinging the duffel like a lunch pail. “C’mon, punk. We got hay to fluff before the linens arrive. Wouldn’t want the lady of the house thinking we’re ungrateful.”

They crossed the yard toward the barn as cicadas struck up their night chorus, and behind them the bayou breathed thick water-scent into the dark.

The barn’s lower doors groaned shut behind them, sealing in the smell of hay dust, old saddle soap, and the faint sweetness of cane. A thick ladder hugged one beam; Bucky scrambled up first, boots thudding on the rungs. When he pushed through the loft hatch he let out a low whistle that echoed off the rafters.

“Well, hell—thought we’d be beddin’ down with the cows.”

Steve followed, palms rough against the rails. The space wasn’t the raw hayloft he’d pictured. Slanted cedar walls glowed amber in the lamplight, and a faded striped couch sat center stage, its cushions sun-soft. A trunk doubled as a coffee table; books leaned drunkenly on handmade shelves beside a beaten-brass telescope aimed through a cut-out window toward the purpling sky.

Bucky flopped onto the couch, springs sighing. “Damn. Better than half the motels we’ve stayed in.” He stretched, hands locked behind his head, boots still on. “Called it—Barnes luck.”

Steve shot him a look. “Boots off. Don’t wreck the place five minutes in.”

“Boots are fine.” Bucky toed one heel against the other anyway, dropping them beside the trunk. Then he tipped his head back, scanning rafters strung with paper stars and a single model airplane dangling by fishing line. “Knew Moreau wasn’t as mean as he let on.”

“Or this belongs to his daughter, and he’ll tan you for putting your filthy socks on her couch.” Steve drifted to the telescope, brushing a thumb over its brass barrel.

In the corner sat a small writing desk cluttered with jars of dried flowers, a stub of vanilla candle, and a horsehair brush still catching the lamplight in its bristles. Feminine touches, but nothing frilly enough to feel staged.

He glanced at Bucky, who had already settled deeper, arms splayed like a victorious cat. “We’ve got one night of goodwill, Buck. Tomorrow we work till our backs snap, and then we’re still broke. Gas isn’t growin’ in that south field.”

Bucky closed one eye, pretending to sight something on the ceiling. “You worry too loud. We fix the fence, maybe fix the truck while we’re at it—they toss us a few extra dollars, or a jerry can. Folks out here respect elbow grease.”

“Respect doesn’t fuel an engine.”

“Neither does frettin’. You’ll give yourself ulcers before thirty.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on a bent elbow. “Come on, take a seat. Feel this cushion. It’s practically luxury.”

Steve ignored the invitation and set his eye to the telescope. Through dusty glass he caught a sliver of bayou, water black and mirror still, framed by cypress knees. Fireflies sparked like stray embers above the reeds. Something about the view stirred a bone-deep ache for order he couldn’t name.

Behind him Bucky huffed. “You’re really gonna stand there brooding? You’ll ruin my mood, Rogers.”

“You have a mood?”

“Best mood this side of the South, if you’d let it breathe.” The couch creaked again; Bucky’s feet thumped the floor. “Fine. I’ll do a full inspection. Make sure no ghosts under the bed.” He padded toward a curtained alcove where a narrow mattress crouched beneath more quilts.

Steve lowered the telescope. “Careful.”

“Relax, I’m just checking.” Bucky flipped back the curtain, paused, then called over his shoulder, softer, “There’s a vase of fresh magnolias in here, Steve.”

Steve nodded once. “All the more reason to treat this place right.” He dragged fingers through hair damp with sweat and twilight humidity. “Tomorrow, we fence. After that, we find a way to buy gas.”

Bucky chuckled, but it came out tired. “Tomorrow, we survive. Tonight, we sleep on feather cushions like kings.”

A scrape sounded below, the barn’s side door opening. Lantern light bobbed on the ladder rungs. Steve stepped forward, heart ticking faster despite himself, as he caught the soft shuffle of feet heading toward the loft.

“Guess Mr. Moreau’s ‘girl’ brought supper,” Bucky murmured, straightening his shirt, suddenly attentive.

Steve’s pulse thudded, nerves tight for reasons he couldn’t quite blame on hunger. He smoothed his face into politeness.

“Remember,” he muttered, “boots off the furniture. And be respectful.”

Bucky grinned, eyes flicking to the ladder hatch where a warm glow now haloed the first edge of a tray. “No promises, pal.”

Boot-steps creaked up the ladder—slow, sure.You appeared in the hatch with twilight at your back, balancing a tin tray loaded with two enamel plates, a fat mason jar of water beaded with condensation, pillows and neatly folded sheets tucked beneath one arm.

“Evenin’, boys.”

Bucky was on his feet before the last syllable hit the rafters, grin flashing like he’d been rehearsing it. “Evenin’.” He slid a hand under the tray, thumb brushing the outside of your wrist as he relieved you of the weight. “Smells incredible. You must be the angel Mr Moreau mentioned. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and the tall, worried lookin’ fella is Steve Rogers.”

You arched a brow, amused, “Angel, huh?” The word tasted ironic coming from you, syrupy drawl cut with something sharper. “More like delivery girl. Pillow-fairy if you’re polite.”

You set the pillows on the couch arm, smoothed the patterned sheet across the cushions. Up close, sweat-shine on their skin smelled of road dust and cut cane.

Steve cleared his throat, polite even with his sleeves rolled and collar limp. “Thank you for supper… and the linens, ma’am. This your cookin’?”

“Jambalaya,” you hummed, rolling the word slow. “Daddy says it keeps visitors honest—pepper’ll burn lies off a tongue. Hope you’re hungry.”

Bucky inhaled over the plate, eyes closing like a man at church. “Starvin’, darlin’.” Then, glancing around the loft, “Guess this is your spot? Kinda figured we’d be burrowin’ into hay bales.”

Your shrug said maybe tomorrow. “Daddy doesn’t usually let strangers sleep on his land, much less up here.” You perched on the trunk, unbothered by their looming height. “Guess he saw somethin’ useful in you.”

Steve straightened, earnest. “We appreciate it. If you’d rather we sleep downstairs—”

“Relax, Captain Courtesy,” Bucky cut in, throwing him a side-eye. “We’ll keep our boots off the sofa, promise.” To you, softer, “You’re welcome to sit a spell, if you’re not busy. Share a plate. Tell us the house rules.”

The offer hung there with the dust motes, cicadas whirring through the slats, night air thick with sweetgrass and something darker underneath. You let it linger, watching how Steve’s jaw flexed when Bucky talked, how Bucky’s fingertips tapped the tray like he had more to say with them.

Finally you leaned back on your palms, eyes flicking from one to the other. “House rule’s simple; earn your keep. Fence line’s a mess, cows need milkin’, and Daddy hates slackers.” A slow smile uncurled. “But I might come up later, see if the telescope’s still pointed true.”

Bucky’s grin sharpened. “We’ll set it for the moon.”

You rose, brushing hay dust from your jeans. “Eat while it’s hot. I’ll fetch y’all at first light.” At the hatch you paused, tilting your head just enough that lamp-glow kissed the line of your neck. “Sweet dreams, city boys.”

Boot-steps receded, leaving the scent of spices and warm wood in your wake. Bucky let out a low whistle, passing Steve a plate. “Tell me again why you thought today was a bad day.”

Steve didn’t answer. He just watched the ladder, heart knocking once, twice—like somebody’d tapped a match to kindling he’d forgotten was there.

The wire rasped through worn leather gloves as Steve cinched a new section taut against the post.

Morning heat hadn’t hit full force yet; the light was soft, hazy, dust motes floating like lazy sparks each time the staple met wood. Across from him, Bucky should’ve been driving the next nail, but his hammer paused halfway, blue eyes angled toward the paddock.

You were out by the dairy pen, skirt hem stopping at mid-thigh, knees braced to the churn of a milk pail. Every now and then you tipped the tin to pour a pale ribbon into the waiting bucket, the motion flexing your thighs.

Bucky’s lips pulled into a slow grin. “Tell me that view doesn’t make fence-mending a religious experience.”

“Eyes on the post,” Steve muttered, tamping the staple flat. “We finish the south line before the sun’s overhead.”

“M’hands are workin’, my eyes are multitaskin’.” Bucky leaned, deliberately stretching the thick cotton of his vest. “Can you blame me? Those legs could power a tractor.”

Steve followed the angle of Bucky’s gaze despite himself—caught the way morning light traced the curve of your calf, the slip of skin above a worn boot. He cleared his throat and yanked the next length of wire. “Point is, don’t stare. It’s rude. And we told Mr Moreau we’d act right.”

“Act right?” Bucky’s laugh was a slow roll, low enough only Steve heard. “Saint Rogers over here pretending he didn’t spend the last five minutes studying her ass like it’s a map to salvation.”

Steve’s jaw ticked. “I was making sure she wasn’t lifting more than she should.”

“She’s strong. Didn’t you see her lop that bale? Girl could throw you through the barn door if she tried.” Bucky’s hammer finally met the post—thunk, thunk—driving the nail, though his gaze drifted again to the milking stall. “Bet she smells like vanilla and brown sugar up close.”

“For God’s sake—”

“You’re the one sniffing the air like a bloodhound.” Bucky shot him a sideways grin. “Relax your righteous feathers, punk. We fix the fence, we earn lunch, maybe catch her eye after chores. No harm in looking.”

Steve said nothing, but his ears burned hotter than the sun. The fence gave a satisfied hum under tension. Beyond it, you straightened, wiping the back of your wrist over your brow before hoisting the sloshing bucket to your hip. The movement pulled your skirt higher; both men went still, identical pulses jumping in their throats.

You glanced over, caught them, and offered a small smile before turning toward the barn.

Bucky’s voice dropped, sincere in spite of the teasing. “That smile’s an invitation, pal.”

Steve set his hammer on the top rail, exhaling hard. “It’s a warning.”

“Same thing, if you read it right.” Bucky twirled the hammer once, then thunked it into his belt. “Come on, we finish quick, we wash up, maybe wander by the paddock—”

Steve lifted the next coil of wire, but a reluctant curve tugged his mouth. “Finish quick and it better be neat. If her dad sees a sloppy fence, we’re gone before sunset.”

Bucky nailed the last staple with a flourish, dusted his palms, and followed Steve down the line.

The sun hung lazy-low, just warm enough to slick skin but not yet cruel. Fence posts were set, woodchips scattered like confetti around the chopping stump where Steve swung the maul in steady, clean arcs. A few yards off, Bucky rolled hay bales into neat ranks, muscles jumping under sweat-dark cotton.

Bootheels tapped along the packed lane. You appeared with a mason jar in each hand, glass sweating so hard it dripped onto your bare thighs. The hem of your skirt rode high; your cropped tank left a sliver of midriff glowing. You stopped at the paddock rail, hips cocked, watching them work like it was your own private picture show.

“Y’all look parched.”

Bucky straightened first, forearm wiping grit from his brow. One lazy grin and he was sauntering over to you. “Angel, you’re a vision.”

“Uh-huh.” You handed a glass to Steve, eyes glittering. “Don’t spill it.”

Steve set the maul aside, palms broad and pink from the handle. He accepted the lemonade with a murmured thanks—voice gone rough in a way that wasn’t from thirst alone. “Smells like lemons and cane sugar. You make it yourself?”

“Fresh this mornin’. Daddy swears by it.” You sipped from Bucky’s jar, lips glistening, then handed it to him. His gaze tracked the curve of your mouth like a compass needle. “Saw you two knockin’ that fence line out fast. Figured a reward was fair.”

Bucky tipped the drink, throat working. “Could use more rewards just like this.” His eyes drifted down, unapologetic. “Gotta say, the scenery makes hard labour downright spiritual.”

Steve cleared his throat, shooting Bucky a side-long glance that begged for decorum. He turned to you instead. “Is it just you and Mr. Moreau runnin’ all of this?”

“Daddy’s got three hands from town come by Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays.” You shrugged, playful. “So he was mighty generous lettin’ you bunk the loft—already plenty of help around here.”

“Generous man,” Bucky echoed, elbow nudging Steve. “Maybe we earn a longer stay. Few more fences need mendin’? Any chores need extra muscle?”

Steve flicked him a warning, but you only smiled, amused at the jockeying. “We’ll see what Daddy thinks.”

Bucky leaned on the rail, voice dropping. “What about what you think?”

“I think city boys burn quick in bayou heat,” you teased, running a finger along the condensation of Steve’s jar. “But if you don’t mind a little sweat, maybe stick around. Could be fun.”

Steve’s ears coloured; Bucky’s grin stretched wolf-wide.

You tapped the rim of Steve’s glass, then Bucky’s. “Finish up. Lunch at the house in twenty. Don’t keep me waitin’.”

With that you turned, skirt swishing just enough to make both men swallow. The backs of your thighs glowed in the noon light as you sauntered toward the barn, humming something slow and sweet.

Bucky watched every step. “One more day, Stevie. Let’s charm the old man, top off the tank, see where the night goes.”

Steve drained the lemonade, eyes still on your retreating sway. “We charm him by working, Buck. And by keeping our mouths clean.”

“Hands might not stay that way, though,” Bucky muttered, rolling his shoulders before grabbing another bale.

Steve hefted the maul again, but there was a new looseness in the set of his jaw, in the way he glanced toward the barn door you’d slipped through.

The dining room smelled of fried catfish and sweet corn fritters—hot oil, cracked pepper, a shimmer of cayenne that clung to the air like summer sweat. Cedar-plank walls held the noon light soft and amber; a battered ceiling fan turned slow overhead, pushing the warm scent around.

At the rough-hewn table sat Mr. Moreau, back straight, elbows planted wide like fence-posts. His gaze pinned both men while your small radio whispered an old Fats Domino tune from the sideboard.

You settled first, bare calf crossing over knee, skirt riding high so a ribbon of thigh caught the fan breeze. No fuss, no apology, just a lazy slide into the chair to the left of the old man. Bucky and Steve perched side by side on the long bench, shoulders too broad for the narrow space.

Mr. Moreau cleared his throat. “So.”

Bucky flashed an easy grin. “Sir, we wanted to thank you for lunch—and for the loft last night. Fence is tight, wood’s stacked, goats’re lookin’ downright smug. Thought maybe we could hang on a bit. Give you a few more solid days’ work.”

Steve nodded, posture crisp. “We don’t expect pay. Just room, board, maybe a little gas when all’s done.”

The old man’s eyes narrowed, slow as an eclipse. “Men who drift in askin’ favours are usually runnin’ from somethin’.”

Bucky’s grin softened, but didn’t falter. “Only thing we’re runnin’ from is bad luck and an empty tank.” He lifted a fried fillet in salute. “Figured we’d trade sweat for supper till fortune turns.”

Mr. Moreau grunted, slicing into cornbread. “Luck’s earned, not begged.”

Across the table, you leaned your chin into one hand, nails tracing idle circles on the lacquer. “Daddy.” The single word mild and amused. “Fence never looked that straight. Saved you two of the town boys this morning.”

Bucky shot you a grateful wink. Steve took a careful sip of sweet tea—eyes flicking from the old man to the curve of your mouth as you licked a crumb of batter from your bottom lip.

“Could use them on the west pasture, too,” you added, voice syrup-slow. “Boards are rotten through. And your back’s been talkin’.”

The old man’s jaw ticked, like admitting pain was heresy. “Mmph.”

You shrugged, turning your attention to the drifters. “Reckon they stay through the weekend, that job’s done.”

Bucky’s boot nudged Steve’s knee under the table. He straightened. “We’ll have that pasture tight by Sunday. After that, we’ll roll on, no trouble.”

Mr. Moreau studied them, then you. “Ain’t your habit takin’ strays, girl.”

You tucked a damp piece of hair behind your ear. “Maybe they’re useful strays.”

Bucky coughed a laugh; Steve nudged him this time—behave. But you’d already hooked a foot beneath Bucky’s boot-lace, giving it a slow teasing drag. His breath caught, just a fraction, before he masked it with another bite of fish.

Steve felt the shift, the invisible pull of your attention, and he flushed hotter than cayenne pepper. You shifted again, thigh brushing his denim under the table’s edge, bare skin against coarse cotton for half a heartbeat, then you broke contact, like a cat pretending no mischief at all.

Mr. Moreau missed all of it, “My daughter’s comfort counts first.”

Bucky leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a respectful drawl. “Sir, we’d sooner limp to Baton Rouge barefoot than disrespect your home or your daughter.”

You tipped your glass, amber iced tea shining against your mouth. “Told you they got manners, Daddy.”

Steve cleared his throat, earnest. “Mr. Moreau, we may have never grown up around farms… but work here feels right. Let us finish what we started.”

Silence stretched, thick as cane syrup. A fly buzzed the rim of the pepper sauce; the fan creaked overhead. Your toes traced a line up the inside seam of Bucky’s jeans, making him swallow hard. Steve’s knee jostled under your hand, and his fork stalled halfway to his mouth.

Finally Mr. Moreau set down his cornbread. “Two more days. West pasture, chicken-wire pen, then you go. I’ll spare a gallon for your tank—no more.”

Relief flickered across Steve’s face. Bucky grinned outright. “Much obliged, sir.”

“See it done proper.” He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping. “I got hogs to check.” Then he turned to Steve, stern but not unkind, “You strike me as a man who knows straight from crooked. Keep him,”—a nod at Bucky—“on the square.”

“Yes, sir.”

The old man left through the side door, screen slapping shut. The room exhaled, something easier curling in the hot air.

Bucky looked at you, mischief lighting every line of him. “Appreciate the save, darlin’. Didn’t think we’d pass inspection.”

You rose, gathering plates, the hem of your skirt lifting as you reached across Steve’s shoulder—letting him feel the soft brush of your hip before you eased away. “Didn’t do it for free. Fence straight Sunday means I pick my payment.”

Steve tried for steady. “And what payment is that?”

You stacked dishes on the sideboard, glancing back over your shoulder. “Surprise me.” Then, softer, to Bucky, “And y’all behave. Daddy’s got a rifle on the porch.”

Bucky’s grin widened. “Lucky for us I’m faster than buckshot.”

“We’ll see.” You disappeared through the kitchen arch, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle lotion in your wake.

Bucky exhaled a slow whistle. “Think she likes us.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “She’s teasing, Buck.”

“Teasing’s just foreplay writ large.” He elbowed Steve, leaning in. “Did you feel her on your leg? Damn near thought my heart’d stop.”

Steve pushed his chair out, cheeks flushed. “Focus, please.”

Sun-bleached boards thudded under their boots as they stepped off the porch. The cicadas had switched to their slow, drowsy rhythm—a back-of-the-throat drone.

Steve kept his voice low but firm. “We’ve got a good thing here, Buck. Two days’ work, a gallon for the Chevy, and a place that doesn’t smell like diesel. Don’t screw it up.”

Bucky shot him a sideways look, half-smile already fading. “Why’s it always ‘don’t screw it up,’ Stevie? Maybe let a man enjoy the view.”

“We promised Mr Moreau we’d behave,” Steve’s glare held steady. “You act like you’ve never seen a pretty girl before.”

“I promised to respect his house. Didn’t promise to walk around blind.” Bucky kicked a pebble off the path, hands sliding into his back pockets. “Besides, she’s not just ‘a pretty girl.’ She’s—” He paused, searching for the right weight of the word. “—a woman. Curves like a prayer and a mouth that could talk the devil into church.”

Steve stopped, jaw tight. “You’re thinking with your dick.”

“Guilty as charged.” Bucky’s grin flickered, then fell when Steve didn’t soften. “Come on, I’m not gonna leap on her in broad daylight. I can look.”

“Looking becomes touching, and touching gets us tossed back on the road.” Steve’s shoulders slumped with the day’s work, but the edge in his voice stayed sharp. “I’m tired, Buck. One calm weekend—that’s all I’m asking.”

Bucky dragged a hand through sweat-stiff hair, irritation creeping in. “You ever get tired of being the saint? Ever just… feel something and want it?”

“I’m not dead.” Steve’s gaze drifted back toward the house where you were in, then snapped back. “I just know consequences.”

Silence yawned between them, warm and weighty. A dragonfly skated past, wings catching the sunlight.

Finally Bucky exhaled, palms up in surrender. “Fine. No dirty business. Cross my heart. Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when we’re rolling down the highway with a full tank.” Steve started walking again. “Fence first. Daydreams later.”

Bucky fell in beside him, muttering, “Still gonna daydream,” but the bite had gone out of his voice. He cast one last glance at the house, wondering if you were watching from a window, then squared his shoulders and matched Steve’s pace.

Night pressed soft against the loft, all damp cricket-song and the slow pump of the bayou. Bucky slept hard—one arm flung over his face, snore sawing in and out like a loose screen door. Steve lay staring at the beams, sweat cooling on his chest, counting every creak of the rafters until the numbers tangled.

Finally he slid upright, feet finding the quilt-cool boards. Maybe a glance through the telescope would bleed off the restlessness. Just stargazing, nothing more.

The brass tube stood ready at the cut-out window, still flecked with dust from the afternoon. Steve angled it toward the water first—silver ripple, cypress knees shining. Pretty, but the hush didn’t fill him. The lens drifted past the dark smear of the barn roof, climbed to the house on the slight rise. One window glowed warm at the top floor—the only light left awake.

Curiosity, he told himself. He dialed the focus with thumb and forefinger, glass settling on the open curtains.

You moved into frame like a slow exhale, backlit amber. Bare shoulders, skin glinting where the lamp touched. A thin bra—lace maybe, pale against the line of your ribs. Matching panties sat low on your hips, soft fabric hugging the curve he’d pretended not to follow all day.

Steve’s breath stalled. He should pivot away, point the scope at the moon. Instead he watched, heartbeat thudding dull over the swamp’s night chorus.

You worked lotion over your body, hands moving over your chest, throat lengthening with each drag. Heat pooled low in Steve’s stomach, spreading tight. His underwear grew snug; he shifted, ashamed and hungry all at once.

Then your hands slid behind your back. A tiny hitch of shoulders, a flick—straps loosened, the bra easing forward before you peeled it off, slow as a secret. Breasts cupped the lamplight, perfect weight swaying when you dropped the scrap of lace onto a chair.

Steve’s palm tightened on the telescope barrel. He wanted to look away, give you privacy, keep the promise he’d made to himself and to Bucky, but he couldn’t. Not while you turned, adjusting the lamp wick, the soft underside of your breast catching the glow. His breath fogged the eyepiece; he wiped it with a trembling thumb and stared harder, pulse hammering through every inch of him.

Below, Bucky’s snore cut off, shifted, resumed. Steve froze, spine prickling, but the other man didn’t stir. Only the wind moved, pushing thick bayou air over Steve’s damp skin, over the ache pressing urgent inside his shorts.

In the window you stretched, arms above your head, nipples tightening against the night chill. A small satisfied sigh seemed to carry across the dark, Steve almost felt it on his tongue.

“God,” he whispered, a prayer or a curse, he wasn’t sure.

You turned then, facing the glass fully, eyes half-lidded, unaware of the distant drifter watching like a sinner. Steve’s heartbeat slammed. One more second, he promised himself, just one—

A floorboard groaned behind him. He jerked away from the telescope, heat flushing his face even in the dark. Bucky muttered, rolled, settled again. Steve pressed knuckles to his mouth, breathing through the thunder in his chest.

He lay back down but sleep didn’t come. The image of you; smooth skin, bare and unhurried, glowed behind his eyes, bright as the wildfire heat pooling low, refusing to let him go.

A pulse of want rolled through Steve so sharp it bordered on pain. He imagined stepping into that warm-lit room, sliding behind you, palms cupping the soft weight he could only see now in glass and reflections—thumbs circling your nipples until your breath stuttered.

He could almost feel the heat of your skin against his tongue, taste salt and honeysuckle lotion as he mouthed the tip and heard you sigh his name. The thought hit low and thick, tugging at him until his boxer briefs felt two sizes too small.

He tried to drag the vision back to something polite, tried to picture himself knocking on the door, asking if you needed help with chores, but the reel kept slipping; his hands spreading over your hips, his mouth trailing down to suck at the lush underside fo your breast where the lamplight painted shadows.

He wanted to trace every curve, let you arch beneath the weight of his body, feel you shiver when his tongue flicked over pebbled skin. The wanting rode him hard, ruthless, until he clenched his fists against the quilt and swallowed a groan, knowing the taste of you would haunt his tongue long after dawn.

Crickets sang louder, the bayou hummed, and Steve counted the beats until dawn, pulse trapped in the fist of his own wanting.

The next day the sun was high but merciful, tucked behind a gauzy veil of clouds. Steve worked the auger alone, shoulders bunching with every crank. He’d barely spoken since dawn, jaw tight enough to creak.

Across the pasture, you crossed the grass with a slow swing in your hips, skirt flirting just above your knees. Bucky spotted you first; the post-hole digger hit the dirt with a muffled thud. His grin arrived a heartbeat later.

“Afternoon, darlin’. Come to supervise?”

You stopped beside him, fingers trailing the rail he’d just set. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Your friend over there”—you nodded toward Steve—“can hardly look me in the eye without blushin’.”

Bucky followed your gaze. Steve never looked up, but his strokes came faster, as if he felt the attention. “That’s Stevie for ya. Spends half his life polishing a halo no one asked him to wear.”

“And you?” Your tone dropped silk-low. “What do you polish, hotshot?”

“Depends who’s askin’.” He leaned on the fence, sweat darkening the vee of his T-shirt. “If he’s the saint, guess that makes me the sinner.”

You hummed approval, thumb idly circling the rough grain near his wrist. “Sinner’s a big word.”

“Earned it.” His gaze dragged the length of your legs, unapologetic. “Figure sin’s just pleasure folks’re too scared to call by its proper name.”

“That right?” You shifted closer, the scent of hay and skin mingling. “Tell me a sin, then. One you’d commit if no one was watchin’.”

Bucky’s smile dipped wicked. “Start with a kiss, slow and sweet, right where that pulse flickers.” He trailed a knuckle just shy of the soft hollow beneath your ear. “Maybe taste that sheen of sweat on your throat—follow it down, see where it gathers.”

Your breath caught, but you kept your poise, folding arms under your breasts so they lifted, tempting. “Bold talk for a man on probation.”

“Two days’ probation.” His eyes sparkled. “Could make ’em holy or make ’em worth repentin’.”

You glanced back at Steve; he’d stopped, one hand braced on the auger, head dipped like a man praying for composure. A smirk curved your mouth. “Your boy looks ready to burst.”

“My boy’s got eyes.” Bucky lowered his voice. “Bet he’s thinkin’ the same dirty things. Just afraid to name ’em.” He leaned in until his lips almost grazed your ear. “Maybe we should show him sin ain’t so scary.”

Heat spiraled low in your belly at the promise. You slid a fingertip over the tops of Bucky’s work gloves, tracing the crease where leather met skin. “Maybe I like watching men wrestle temptation. Makes the reward sweeter when they finally give in.”

“Careful, angel. I’m a simple man once the rules come off.”

“So take ’em off,” you whispered, stepping back with a tease-slow smile. “When the work’s done.”

Your gaze drifted past the fenceline, toward the shimmer of water where the bayou curved like a dark ribbon through cane and cypress. Bucky’s eyes followed, hungry for whatever had your attention—even hungrier when they slid back to him.

“Pretty out there at night,” you murmured, thumb idly tracing the crease of his glove again. “Moon hangs low, fireflies float so thick it looks like somebody scattered diamonds over the water.”

“Sounds downright romantic,” he said, voice roughening on the word. His fingers twitched as if they’d rather close around your waist than the post-hole digger. “You a fan of romantic things, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hmm. When they’re done right.” You stepped just close enough that your skirt brushed his thigh, letting him feel the heat that lived in the inches between your thighs. “Question is—do you like romance, or are you all talk and no follow-through?”

“Oh, I follow through.” His grin tilted wicked. “Give me a porch swing, bit of night air, someone worth sittin’ close to? I’m a poet.”

“A poet?” You teased, but the word sparked a pleasant thrum low in your belly.

“Maybe more a—” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lowered, lingered at the neckline of your tank. “—hands-on storyteller.”

“Then maybe I’ll tell Daddy I’m takin’ the skiff after supper.” Your voice stayed soft, but the promise in it was as thick as the noon heat. “Could show you that view once your better half’s asleep.”

His breath hitched. “And what view would that be?”

“The one where moonlight paints the bayou silver…” Your fingers ghosted up the inside of his bare forearm. “…and nobody’s around to see if I dip my toes into the water.”

He swallowed hard. “Could be dangerous out there.”

“Only if you scare easy.” Your lips curved. “You strike me as the kind that doesn’t.”

“Saint back there might beg to differ,” he said, jerking his chin toward Steve, who was still hammering like salvation depended on it.

“He’s busy saving souls. I’m busy tempting sinners.” You stepped back, leaving the faintest drag of your nails along his wrist before the distance sealed. “Finish your posts, handsome. Meet me by the dock after dark. We’ll see if romance fits you.”

Bucky’s voice was just a rasp now. “Yes, ma’am.”

You turned toward the barn, hips swaying like slow jazz. Behind you, the clink of wire and rasp of shovel sounded suddenly frantic—as if the devil himself told him every nail he sets is one minute closer to sin.

Across the pasture, Steve finally looked up, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes. He watched Bucky watching you and couldn’t quite name the tightness curling in his gut; couldn’t decide if it was jealousy, dread, or something hotter than either.

The loft was heavy with darkness—rafters lost in shadow, only a ribbon of moonlight sneaking through the cut-out window. Steve rolled onto his back, blinked, and blinked again. The couch beside him should’ve been groaning under Bucky’s long sprawl, but the cushions sat empty, quilt folded neat as a flag.

“Damn it, Buck,” he muttered.

Boots in hand, he eased to the ladder, the barn’s hush broken only by the soft drip of night dew through the roof tin. Outside, the world glimmered silver—pasture brushed in moon-pale grass, house lights long since snuffed. Steve angled toward the porch first, nothing. He circled the truck, checked the tool shed, found only his own irritation sharpening.

Last option, water.

He followed the narrow path that cut between cane rows, the air warm and wet against his skin. Crickets chirred in lazy chirr-chirrs; now and then a bullfrog belched from some hidden hollow. The bayou opened ahead, black water reflecting slices of stars.

That’s when he heard it—soft at first, a breathy hum sliding into a low, bitten-off moan. Another, higher, drenched in pleasure and muffled by sleepy dark. Steve stopped dead. The sound floated from the dock where the skiff rocked, a rhythm that was distinctly human, distinctly intimate.

He swallowed, pulse thumping in his throat. A rustle followed, then a hushed male laugh—Bucky’s, unmistakable, husky with mischief. Another sigh answered him, velvet-sweet. Steve’s cheeks flamed; every warning he’d given rattled back in his skull.

He stepped closer, shoes silent on damp earth, but stayed behind the screen of cypress trunks. The voices blurred but the tone was clear—slow, wet kisses; a whispered “you like that, darlin’” that tightened his gut. Wood knocked softly, a back hitting the dock, maybe, then a tremor of breathy laughter, yours, sliding straight beneath Steve’s skin.

Steve’s boots sank into the soft mud as he edged forward, the cypress shadows cloaking him like a guilty secret. The air hung heavy, laced with the musky tang of the bayou and something sharper—sweat, skin, raw need.

His heart hammered against his ribs, each step pulling him deeper into the forbidden pull of those sounds; the slick glide of bodies, the creak of the dock under shifting weight, your gasps weaving through Bucky’s low, filthy murmurs.

He parted the low-hanging branches, breath held tight, and there it was—laid bare under the fractured moonlight. The old wooden dock stretched out over the inky water, a threadbare blanket rumpled beneath you, your body arched and exposed in stark naked glory.

Legs splayed wide, knees hooked over Bucky’s hips, you lay on your back, skin flushed and glistening, breasts heaving with every ragged inhale. Bucky loomed above you, just as bare, his muscled frame glistening with effort, driving into you with relentless force—like a piston hammering home, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm that made the skiff bob gently against the pilings.

“Goddamn, angel, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” Bucky rasped, voice gravel-rough and dripping with heat, his arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider.

He plunged deep, cock thick and veined, disappearing into your slick folds with each savage thrust, the wet squelch of your cunt taking him echoing softly over the water.

You encouraged him, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that made him hiss and buck harder.

“Yeah, just like that… fuck me deeper, honey, don’t stop,” you moaned, voice husky and demanding, hips rolling up to meet him, chasing the friction that had your toes curling against the blanket.

Steve’s gut twisted, a vicious knot of jealousy coiling tight. That smug son of a bitch—breaking their word, claiming you right here where anyone could stumble on it.

Part of him wanted to storm the dock, drag Bucky off you, demand answers—Why you? Why him? Why not…?

But his feet stayed rooted, eyes glued to the obscene union where Bucky’s cock stretched you wide, emerging slick and shining with your arousal before slamming back in, balls slapping heavy against your ass.

He couldn’t tear away. Watched, transfixed, as Bucky’s ass clenched with every drive—muscles bunching tight, flexing under the moonlight as he powered forward, burying himself to the hilt.

Your pussy lips clung to him on the outstroke, puffy and soaked, the connection a filthy, mesmerizing sight that sent heat surging through Steve’s veins. Jealousy warred with the fire building low in his belly, his cock swelling hard and insistent against his pants, throbbing with a need that shamed him even as it gripped him tighter.

Bucky leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, while his hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit, making you arch and cry out into his mouth.

“Come on, pretty girl, squeeze me—milk this cock like you own it,” he grunted against your lips, pace turning frantic, the dock groaning under the onslaught.

You bucked beneath him, moans spilling free, body trembling on the edge, and Steve’s hand drifted unconsciously to his zipper, palm pressing against the rigid length straining there, breath coming in shallow pants as arousal drowned the anger, leaving only the pounding urge to watch you shatter.

His resolve cracked like dry earth under the relentless pull of what was unfolding before him. His hand trembled as it fumbled with his belt, the zipper rasping down too loud in the humid night, but the bayou swallowed the sound.

Shame burned hot in his chest, a sick twist of disgust at his own weakness—spying like some pervert, palming his aching cock free into the cool air. It sprang out, thick and heavy, veins pulsing with the blood roaring through him, pre-cum already beading at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking slow at first, then matching the brutal rhythm Bucky set.

Bucky shifted, his thrusts deepening, hips grinding forward with a force that buried him balls-deep, your slick walls clenching around his length in greedy pulls. Steve’s eyes locked on the way your body yielded, pussy stretched taut around Bucky’s girth, juices coating him shiny and wet with every withdraw.

He pumped his fist tighter, breath hitching, hating how the sight made his balls draw up, how the jealousy gnawed deeper when Bucky dipped his head to your chest.

Bucky’s mouth latched onto one breast, sucking hard on the swollen nipple, tongue lashing the peak while his teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.

Your back bowed off the blanket, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, and Steve’s gut clenched like a fist—fuck, he wished that was him, his lips sealing over that pebbled flesh, tasting the salt of your skin, drawing those desperate sounds from your throat.

“Harder, handsome—suck ’em like you mean it,” you gasped, voice raw and pleading, and Steve’s strokes quickened, imagining those words spilling for him, your body writhing under his weight instead.

He leaned against the cypress trunk for support, the rough bark biting into his palm as he jerked himself off in frantic pulls, the wet schlick of his hand mirroring the obscene slap of Bucky’s hips against yours. Every encouragement you tossed out—“Yes, just like that, fill me up”—twisted the knife of envy, but he devoured them, pretending you meant him, that your heat was clenching around his cock, not Bucky’s.

Then it hit—you shattered with a loud, keening moan that sliced through the night, body convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you. Steve watched your pussy spasm, milking Bucky’s shaft in rhythmic squeezes, walls fluttering visibly around him.

Bucky groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating from his chest as he felt it, your release soaking him further.

“Fuck—yeah, cum all over me, sweet thing,” he grunted, pace turning savage, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own edge with short, brutal drives that made your tits bounce and the dock shudder.

Steve’s vision blurred, the coil in his gut snapping as he stared at the frenzy—your nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders, his ass flexing with each punishing thrust, cock slamming home through your climax.

It was too much; his balls tightened, and he came with a stifled grunt, hot spurts erupting over his fist, splattering the mud at his feet. Ecstasy flooded him in white-hot waves, cock twitching in his grip, but as the peak crested, shame crashed down like a Louisiana storm—disgust churning in his veins, sticky and vile, for getting off to his best friend fucking, to you choosing Bucky’s roughness over whatever Steve might have offered.

Bucky kept going, mouth claiming yours in a sloppy, devouring kiss, tongues tangling as he rode out the aftershocks, hips still rolling deep.

Steve’s hand shook as he tucked himself away, cum-smeared fingers fumbling the zipper up, heart pounding with the need to vanish before the guilt swallowed him whole.

He backed away silent as a ghost, retreating into the cane rows, the sounds of your shared breaths fading behind him, leaving only the bitter ache of what he’d seen, and what he’d done, in the humid dark.

Morning sweated slowly into afternoon, the sun floating white-hot behind a gauze of haze. Down in the west pasture the fence line rattled beneath the steady thunk of a post-hole digger, but today its rhythm belonged to only one pair of hands.

Steve drove the iron blades into the soil again and again—shirt plastered to his back, jaw set so tight the tendon jumped. Every few minutes he straightened, wiped the grit from his palms, and turned the next section of wire without so much as a glance toward the barn.

Bucky tried talking first thing, an easy joke about cane toads croaking love songs, but Steve answered with a curt nod and buried himself in work. Now, hours later, Bucky was done pretending it didn’t sting. He stalked up the fenceline, boots crunching weeds, sweat glistening on his forearms.

“Alright, punk, what crawled up your ass?”

No answer. Steve slammed another staple home, muscles flexing under sunburned skin.

“Come on, Rogers. Usually I can’t shut you up about alignments and load-bearing angles. Now you’re growlin’ like a kicked dog.”

The hammer paused mid-swing. Steve’s eyes cut sideways, bruised with sleeplessness. “I’m working.”

“Yeah, and ignoring me like I shot your horse.”

“You’d have to own a gun first,” Steve muttered, turning away.

The hammer came down hard, bending the staple sideways. Steve cursed under his breath, pried it out, tried again. Bucky leaned on a fencepost, arms folded.

“You gonna keep this up all day?” he asked, softer now. “Or tell me what I did.”

Steve’s shoulders heaved once, twice. Finally he tossed the hammer into the grass and faced him. “I saw you.”

Bucky blinked. “Saw me what?”

“Last night.” The words grated out like gravel. “By the bayou. With her.”

Silence sucked the air from between them. A cicada screeched somewhere overhead; the wind died.

Bucky’s mouth opened, shut, then set in a thin line. “You spying on me now?”

“I came looking because your dumb ass snuck off.” Steve’s voice cracked with heat—not anger alone, but something raw beneath it. “We agreed, Buck. No screwin’ around with Mr Moreau’s girl.”

“She’s not a girl, Steve. She’s a woman. And she made the first move.”

Steve barked a humorless laugh. “So that clears your conscience? She offered, you took, and the rest of us be damned?”

Bucky pushed off the post, expression hardening. “Don’t pretend it’s about conscience. It’s about you bein’ jealous I got there first.”

Steve flinched as if struck. “You think this is a competition?”

“Isn’t it?” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’m tired of tip-toeing around you so you can pretend you’re above wanting her.”

A flush crawled up Steve’s neck. “This isn’t about me. It’s about respect—”

“It’s about you not knowing what to do with what you feel,” Bucky shot back. “So you call me reckless to make yourself feel righteous.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “Reckless? You call sneaking out to fuck the farmer’s daughter on the dock responsible? You risked us getting thrown off the property.”

“Worth it,” Bucky said, and the word was all challenge, “I’m not ashamed of wanting her. She sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of wanting me.”

Steve’s breath hitched; the memory flashed—moonlight on skin, your voice breaking open. Shame burned inside him like lye. “We’re guests here,” he managed. “We owe Mr Moreau respect.”

“I didn’t touch her where he could see.”

“That’s not the point.” Steve turned away, picking up the wire as if work could armour him. “You never think past the next thrill. And I’m always the one patching whatever you tear up.”

“So patch this,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Or admit the real reason you’re mad is because you wanted to be where I was.”

Colour surged up Steve’s throat. He took a half-step back, fists clenching, then exhaled hard. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You think I can’t see it? You stare at her like she’s Sunday salvation—then play saint when she looks back.” Bucky shook his head, frustration edging his tone. “I’m not sorry, Steve.”

Steve’s gaze flicked toward the house, shutters still closed and curtains fluttering soft. His jaw worked. “If you cared half as much about respect as you do about getting off—”

“Respect?” Bucky scoffed. “I asked her what she wanted. She said yes—loud enough the gators could hear.”

Steve’s eyes flashed, hurt bleeding through. “You don’t get it.”

“What I get is a partner who can’t decide if he’s my brother or my warden.” Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “If you wanted her, you should’ve said so.”

Steve spun, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat words tangled unsaid—about loyalty, about how long he’d followed Bucky into trouble and how this, somehow, hurt worse than any fight in a back alley. Instead he grabbed the digger, drove it into the ground with a grunt.

“Go inside,” he muttered. “I’ll finish the line.”

Bucky took a step, but not back. His voice dropped to a thread. “You gonna tell her you watched?”

The tool froze mid-lift. Steve’s gaze snapped up, raw panic flickering before he masked it. “Don’t.”

Bucky’s anger faltered, replaced by something like wonder. “Jesus, you did more than watch, didn’t you?”

Steve’s face went white, then red. The digger slipped; he caught it, palms stinging. “Shut up.”

Bucky exhaled, disbelief softening into a rueful smile. “Saint Rogers,” he murmured. “Guess halos tarnish after all.”

Steve’s eyes glinted, hurt and humiliated. He dropped the tool, stepped past Bucky, shoulders stiff. “I’m done talking.”

“Steve—”

But Steve was already striding toward the cane rows, boots kicking dust, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The sky boiled with late-day clouds, thunder rumbling somewhere distant. Bucky watched him go, chest tight with something that wasn’t victory at all.

The stall smelled of clean straw and warm horsehide, lantern light pooling soft over the cedar boards. Steve stood at the far end, shirt stuck to him, shoulders working a curry brush over the sorrel mare’s flank. The rhythm was steady, measured—every stroke a word he couldn’t speak.

You eased between the stalls, plate balanced on your palm, hips brushing the half-open doors as you passed. “Skipped lunch,” you said, “Figured a man could use somethin’ besides self-reproach for fuel.”

He turned, blue eyes wary until they landed on the sandwich, then gentled. “Ma’am, you didn’t have to—”

“Didn’t ask if I had to.” You held the plate until he took it, fingers grazing his knuckles, a quick spark you pretended not to notice. “Eat before you faint and scare my horses.”

Steve managed a crooked smile, sank onto an overturned feed bucket. The first bite broke the tension in his shoulders; you leaned against the stall door, arms folding under your breasts, watching him chew like it was the most interesting thing in Louisiana.

“You work too hard,” you said after a moment. “Makes me nervous—like I’ve gone and offended you.”

His gaze flicked up, guilt flashing. “You haven’t. I’m… just wired tight today.”

“Wired tight.” You tasted the words, slow. “Could loosen you, if you’d let me.”

He focused on the sandwich, and cleared his voice, despite colour creeping up his throat. “Wasn’t raised to pester a lady while I’m a guest under her roof.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Feels more like you’re dodgin’ than mindin’ manners. You won’t hardly look at me unless I corner you.”

Steve set the plate on his thigh, thumb worrying the edge. “I—” He paused, swallowed. “You make it hard to keep my thoughts straight.”

“That so?” You pushed off the door, closed the distance until your boots touched his. Fingers slipped beneath the collar of his damp T-shirt, brushing the salty line of his neck. His breath caught hard.

“You ain’t doin’ anything wrong, sugar,” you whispered, letting your nails trace a half-moon before sliding away. “Least not with me.”

The mare huffed behind Steve, but neither of you moved. Your palm skimmed the line of his shoulder, slow and coaxing, to where the muscles knotted beneath damp cotton. “Tell me what’s eating you, pretty boy,” you murmured, thumb easing up the column of his throat to the sharp square of his jaw.

Steve’s lashes flickered. He tried to keep his eyes on the half-eaten sandwich, but the gentleness in your touch tugged his gaze up—and once he met your stare, whatever dam he’d built cracked. “I— last night,” he rasped, voice scraping raw. “I went looking for Bucky. I saw you two… by the bayou.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I stayed. Watched. Should’ve turned around, but I—”

The confession spilled in a tumble of guilt and want. “I hated how jealous I felt. Hated that I couldn’t stop.”

“Oh, baby.” The words were a hush, almost a lullaby. You slid your fingers into the short hair at his nape and guided his head forward until his brow rested against the fine cotton of your shirt just above your navel. He inhaled, sun-warmed linen and honeysuckle, and shuddered.

“You didn’t do wrong by me,” you whispered, stroking the back of his neck. “Feelings aren’t sins.”

Steve’s hands hovered, uncertain, then settled at the backs of your thighs, big and tentative. You stroked his hair once more, let the silence breathe. Outside, the afternoon cicadas blurred into a single shimmering note.

“You can want something without tearing the roof down,” you said, voice low. “All that goodness in you doesn’t disappear ‘cause your body woke up.”

He nodded against you, and the movement, the trust in it, pulled a soft ache in your chest. You tilted his chin, thumb brushing the stubble-rough corner of his mouth. “Look at me, Steve.”

He did, eyes ocean-deep and storm-tossed at once. Your pulse skipped. “Let me show you it’s all right,” you breathed.

You bent, brushing your lips to his—a feather’s kiss, barely there. Steve’s exhale trembled, lashes falling shut as though the simplest touch was sacred. You tasted salt and sun and something sweeter before you lifted away a sliver. His eyes opened, dark with wanting, but he waited, polite even here, and that patience lit a spark low in your belly.

So you kissed him again, surer this time. The soft drag of mouths lingered, then opened; tongues met in a slow glide that tasted like a promise. Steve’s grip tightened at your thighs, thumbs sweeping small circles against your skin as though mapping sacred ground. You inched forward a fraction, pressing him back onto the overturned feed bucket; the move stole a breathy groan from him, swallowed into the kiss.

The stables seemed to narrow around you—lantern glow pooling honey-thick, dust motes floating like sparks in the slanted light. Somewhere a horse stamped, but the world had fallen to heat, straw, and the soft slick slide of lips.

You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth. “Still feel like you’ve done wrong?”

His eyes opened; blue storm clearing to summer sky. He shook his head, a dazed smile ghosting. “Feel like I’m still figuring out what right feels like,” he murmured.

Your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip, swollen now, beautifully kiss-bitten. “Right’s easy,” you said. “It’s what makes you breathe easier, not harder.”

Steve’s gaze dipped to your mouth, then to the stretch of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Courage flickered. One big hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the curve just beneath your hemline—a question more than a claim. You answered with a slow nod, lowering your weight a breath closer until his knuckles pressed warm between your ribs.

You slid the half-eaten sandwich and tin plate to the floor with one careless sweep, then eased a knee onto Steve’s lap, settling astride him. The overturned feed bucket creaked; Steve’s hands darted automatically to steady your hips, then froze as if he touched fire.

“Wait—” His voice was a husky scrape. “What about Bucky?”

You leaned in, thumbs brushing the fine blond stubble at his jaw. “Bucky’s not here, sugar.” Your hips sank a fraction, finding the thick shape straining beneath his work jeans. A tremor ripped through him; his eyelids fluttered.

“I can feel how bad you want it,” you murmured, amusement curling in the words like smoke. “Been feelin’ it since I met you. You think I didn’t notice?”

Heat bloomed crimson along Steve’s cheekbones. “I— I keep tryin’ to be respectful.”

“You are.” You cradled his face between your palms. It was steady and reassuring. “Respect doesn’t mean pretendin’ you don’t ache.”

His fingers finally unclenched, sliding up your thighs, rough thumbs stroking slow circles that raised gooseflesh. You rocked once, lazy and testing, and the low sound that spilled from his throat made the lantern sway on its hook.

“I want you too,” you confessed, voice just above a breath. “Want to hear you forget every polite word you know.”

Steve swallowed hard. “That might… take some coaxin’.”

You smiled, nose brushing his. “Lucky I have time.”

Storm-cloud light flickered through the high slats; somewhere beyond the stables a first fat drop of rain hit the tin roof with a hollow ping. You tilted his head back, claiming his mouth again—slow at first, letting him taste the yes in every slide of your tongue. His hands gripped your waist now, anchoring you as though the whole building could spin away.

“Tell me,” you whispered against his lips, “does this feel wrong?”

“No,” he exhaled, breath shivering through the single syllable.

“Then let it feel right.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, guiding him to the soft hollow of your throat. He pressed his mouth there, and the sharp sigh he let out bloomed heat low in your belly.

Rain pattered harder, drumming steady on the roof—cover for any sound you might choose to make. You rolled your hips once more; Steve answered instinctively with a slow lift of his own. The friction dragged a gasp from you both, tangled in the humid air.

You ground against him harder, hips circling with deliberate pressure, the denim barrier between you doing nothing to dull the rigid heat of his cock pressing up into your core. Steve’s mouth yielded under yours, the kiss turning rough—tongues clashing wet and urgent, his lips bruised from the depth of it. He looked utterly lost in it, eyes half-lidded and glassy, like a man three shots deep into whiskey, chasing the burn of your flavor.

Your teeth nipped his lower lip, drawing a ragged inhale from him as you murmured against the corner of his mouth, “That’s it. Touch me, honey. Feel how wet you’re makin’ me already.”

His palms hesitated for a split second, then surged upward, callused fingers digging into the swell of your ass, kneading the flesh through your skirt with a grip that bordered on desperate.

“Good boy,” you breathed, nipping his earlobe before sucking it between your teeth, the vibration of your praise humming into his skin, “pull me down harder. Make me ride that thick length of yours.”

Emboldened, Steve’s hands clenched tighter, yanking you flush against him with a low groan that rumbled from his chest. The force of it slammed your clit right over his bulge, friction sparking white-hot through your veins, your pussy throbbing with the need to be filled.

He bucked up to meet your rhythm, the overturned bucket groaning under the strain as you rutted rougher, denim grinding cotton in slick, heated drags that had slickness soaking through your panties.

Steve’s breaths came in hot pants against your neck, his confidence blooming like the storm outside—fingers spreading wide to cup your cheeks fully, thumbs pressing into the cleft, urging you to grind faster, deeper.

“God, you feel so good,” he rasped, voice thick and broken, finally shedding that polite shell as his hips rolled up hard, chasing the pressure building between you both.

The storm raged fiercer, rain lashing the roof like a thousand frantic fingers, drowning out the world beyond these weathered walls. Impatience clawed through you, a hot coil tightening low in your gut—you needed more than this teasing grind, needed him bare and buried deep.

With a frustrated sound against his lips, you lifted your hips just enough to break the contact, the sudden absence making your clit ache from the loss of friction.

Steve chased it instinctively, a desperate buck of his hips upward, his bulge straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.

“Easy, baby,” you soothed, voice a husky purr as you pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath sweat-damp cotton. “I got you… gonna take care of that ache right now.” His eyes were wild, pupils blown dark with lust, but he stilled under your touch, breath ragged and waiting.

Your fingers fumbled hastily at his belt buckle, the metal clinking sharp in the humid air before you yanked the zipper down with a swift tug. Steve’s mouth never left your skin, latching onto the pulse point at your throat with hot, open-mouthed sucks that sent shivers racing down your spine—teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue lapping greedily like he was starving for your taste.

His hands, bold now in their roaming, shoved up under your shirt, palms rough and seeking as they cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your hardening nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He squeezed , rolling the peaks until you arched into him with a sharp gasp, the dual assault of his mouth and hands making your cunt clench with raw need.

Diving into the open fly of his jeans, your hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around the thick, velvety length of his cock. God, he was huge. Hot and heavy in your grip, the foreskin sliding smooth over the swollen head as you gave him a testing stroke.

Excitement surged through you, a fresh gush of wetness soaking your panties. “Fuck, Steve,” you breathed, as you pumped him slowly, feeling the way he throbbed and leaked pre-cum against your palm.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes hazy and uncertain, searching your face for that green light—like a man on the edge, waiting for permission to shatter.

You smiled, thumbing over the flushed tip to smear his slickness down the shaft. “I love uncut men,” you murmured, low and filthy, watching heat flood his cheeks even as his cock twitched harder in your fist.

“Makes ’em feel so damn good… sensitive and real. Yours is perfect, honey. Thick and ready to stretch me wide.” Confident, you stroked him firmer, twisting your wrist at the base where veins pulsed hot under your fingers, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

You released him just long enough to hike up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist to expose the damp lace clinging to your thighs. Hooking your fingers into the crotch of your panties, you shoved them aside roughly, the cool air kissing your slick folds for a heartbeat before you positioned yourself above him.

His cock stood rigid, flushed and glistening from your touch, the head nudging insistently at your entrance as you hovered there, teasing the tip through your wetness—letting the anticipation build until his hands gripped your hips like iron, urging you down with a plea in his eyes.

Slowly you sank down onto his cock, the thick head parting your slick folds and stretching you inch by agonizing inch. A sharp hiss escaped your lips at the burn of it—uncut skin gliding smooth against your inner walls, every ridge and vein dragging delicious friction as you took him deeper.

You watched him like a predator savoring prey, drinking in the way his jaw clenched, brows furrowing in overwhelmed bliss, those blue eyes fluttering half-shut before snapping back to yours. The power of it surged through you, your pussy clenching around him just to feel him twitch inside, the sight of his restraint cracking making your clit throb with wicked satisfaction.

“That’s it,” you murmured, voice a sultry rasp laced with filth, leaning in close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “Feel how wet I am for you? Squeezin’ this fat cock like it belongs in me. Tell me how it feels—c’mon, baby, use those words.”

Your hips settled fully, grinding in a lazy circle to seat him to the hilt, his balls pressed snug against your ass, but you held still for a beat, teasing him with the velvet grip of your heat. The rain might as well have been a memory; all you heard was his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies joined.

Slowly, you started to move—lifting just enough to let half his length slide free before easing back down, the drag pulling a low moan from your throat.

“Take what you want, sugar,” you encouraged, nails digging into his shoulders for leverage, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Grab my ass, my tits—fuck me like you’ve been dreamin’ about. I ain’t fragile; I want it rough, want you to ruin me with this thing.”

He answered in groans at first, deep and guttural, vibrating through his chest as his hips jerked up to meet your descent. “God... so tight,” he murmured, the words tumbling out low and broken, like they were dragged from some hidden place.

“Feels... too good... can’t—” Another thrust from below cut him off, his cock spearing deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His hands roamed hungrily now, one sliding down to grip your thigh, the other tangling in your hair to pull you into a messy kiss, his tongue thrusting in time with his subtle bucks.

The pace quickened as impatience won out; you bounced a little harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down to soak his jeans. Steve’s control frayed further; he shoved your tank top down with a rough yank, the fabric bunching at your waist and dragging your bra along with it.

Your breasts spilled free, heavy and bouncing with each rise, nipples peaked and begging for attention in the humid air. He stared for a split second, awe flickering in his lust-glazed eyes, before his hands were on them—palms cupping the soft weight, thumbs flicking over the sensitive tips.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, voice sweet and polite even in the haze, like a gentleman undone. “These... perfect. So full, so soft—wanna taste ’em, if that’s alright.”

The contrast hit you like lightning, his polite words amid the filth of what you were doing, making your core clench tighter around him. You arched into his touch, moaning as he leaned up to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard while you bounced faster, the dual sensations coiling that heat low and fierce.

The rhythm turned frantic as you picked up speed, hips slamming down harder onto Steve’s cock. Your ass slapped against his thighs, the wet smack mingling with the creak of hay beneath you and the thunder rumbling outside. He thrust up to meet you now, powerful bucks from below that jolted through your core, his body finally surrendering to the instinct you’d been coaxing out.

You reveled in it, a smile splitting your face as you caught him still fixated on your tits—bouncing wildly with each bounce, nipples grazing his chest when you leaned forward, flushed and heaving from the effort.

“Yeah, that’s it baby,” you murmured, voice breathy, threading your fingers through his hair to tug his head back just enough to force his eyes to yours.

“Fuck me back like you mean it—tell me, Stevie, you like poundin’ into me? Like how my pussy milks this cock?” Your words were a filthy prod, urging him past the groans into something more, wanting to hear that polite facade shatter completely.

He groaned louder, the sound raw and desperate, but he managed words this time, spilling them between gritted teeth as his mouth returned to your breast—sucking the peak hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting.

“Love it... shit, love how you take me,” he rasped, voice muffled against your skin, one hand squeezing your ass to pull you down firmer.

“These tits drivin’ me crazy, so damn perfect, bouncin’ like that. And you... tight, hot, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.” The sweetness laced his filth, his blue eyes locking on yours mid-thrust. It fueled you, that mix of gentlemanly sweetness and primal drive, making your walls flutter around his length as you rode him relentlessly.

Eventually, you reached between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit amid the slick mess where you joined. You rubbed in firm circles, the pressure building fast under your touch, chasing that edge while his cock stretched you full.

“Keep talkin’, sugar,” you gasped, bouncing even more furiously, the pace turning punishing, your juices soaking his balls with every slap. “Tell me what you like about me—my tight little cunt? How I ride you like I own this cock?”

Steve’s response was a guttural curse, his free hand joining yours briefly to press your fingers harder against your clit, like he couldn’t help but take over even there.

“Everything... your fire, the way you squeeze me—god,” he murmured, thrusting up with a force that nearly unseated you, his cock throbbing inside.

The words tipped you over; your orgasm crashed through like lightning, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses around him, milking his shaft as waves of pleasure ripped cries from your throat. You shuddered through it, grinding down to ride out the bliss, clit pulsing under your touch while your body trembled atop him.

He followed seconds later, the vice of your release undoing him completely. “Shit—cummin’...”

Steve groaned, hips snapping up one last time, burying himself to the root as he erupted. Hot spurts flooded you, his cock jerking with each pulse, filling your spasming heat until it leaked out around him, mixing with your own wetness.

His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, holding you in place as he rode the high, face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths ragged against your skin. The stables seemed to spin for a moment, the rain’s roar returning as your pulses slowed, bodies slick and spent in the humid aftermath.

Steve stayed where he was, like he didn’t quite trust his own limbs yet—face pressed into the warm softness of your chest, breath still uneven against your skin. His hands hadn’t moved either, still anchored at your hips like if he let go too fast you might disappear on him.

You smoothed your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, easing him down from that sharp edge he’d been riding. “Easy, baby… breathe,” you murmured, voice soft, coaxing. “That’s it.”

He let out a shaky exhale, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The tension in him didn’t vanish, but it softened, melted under your touch instead of snapping tight like it had all morning.

“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, words catching somewhere between guilt and something softer. “I didn’t think I’d… be like that.”

You tipped his chin just enough to look at him, thumb brushing the flush still high on his cheek. “Like what?” you asked gently.

“Needy,” he admitted, quiet. “Rough. Thought I was better at keepin’ things… under control.”

You huffed a quiet little laugh, not mocking, just warm. “Control’s overrated.” Your hand drifted down his arm, tracing the muscle there, feeling the last little tremors still working through him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with wanting somebody. Ain’t nothing wrong with taking what’s given, either.”

His eyes searched yours, still unsure. “Even… like this?”

“Especially like this.” You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re a man, Steve. You feel things. You want things. That don’t make you bad.”

He swallowed, something easing in his expression, though a crease of doubt lingered. “Doesn’t feel like the way I was raised.”

“Maybe the way you were raised ain’t the only way to live.” Your fingers slid back into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, coaxing another quiet exhale from him. “You keep tryin’ to fit yourself into something too tight. No wonder you’re all wound up.”

His grip on your hips loosened, hands shifting instead to rest like he was finally allowing himself to just be there with you instead of bracing for what came next.

“You didn’t look like you thought it was wrong,” you added, a teasing lilt slipping back into your tone, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Not when you took me like a rowdy bull.”

A faint, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “No… guess I didn’t.”

“There you go.” You nudged his nose with yours, playful now. “Honest for once.”

He let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the sound low and a little disbelieving, like he wasn’t used to feeling this light after something that intense.

Outside, the rain had started to ease—softening from a roar to a steady patter. Inside the stall, the air stayed thick and warm, the kind that made it easy to linger. Steve shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to your back, resting there more confidently now.

“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat, then smiled. “Don’t start getting all polite on me again,” you warned lightly. “We just fixed that problem.”

That earned a small huff from him, the ghost of his usual composure returning, but looser now, less rigid. Your fingers traced idly along his shoulder again, slow, absentminded, like you had all the time in the world.

“Better?” you asked, softer.

Steve nodded, eyes lingering on your face—then dipping, just briefly, before coming back up. There was still heat there, still want, but now it sat easier on him. Less like something to fight. More like something he was starting to understand.

“Yeah,” he said. “Better.”

Rain sheeted against the loft’s tin roof hard enough to rattle the rafters, a steady percussion that should’ve lulled tired muscles to sleep.

Instead, Steve lay flat on the thin mattress pulled beside the couch, eyes fixed on the low slope of the ceiling where moon-gray water stains mapped the wood. The darkness felt thick, scented with damp hay and the copper tang of dying storm, but it was the silence between the two men that really pressed on his ribs.

Across the narrow space Bucky shifted, springs creaking under the old couch cushions. Not asleep. Steve could tell from the rhythm of his breathing; too shallow.

They’d worked the afternoon in tense near-silence, traded a few practical words over supper, then climbed to the loft when Mr. Moreau doused the lanterns downstairs. Since then… nothing.

Steve’s guilt gnawed as loud as the rain. All the righteous bullshit he’d thrown at Bucky that morning felt paper-thin now, ripped by the memory of your thighs bracketing his hips, the slick pull of your body around him. He’d sinned in the very place he’d condemned… maybe deeper. Bucky had broken a promise, sure, but Steve had broken it twice. First by watching, then by taking.

If he spoke first, will it sound like confession or a challenge? He imagined Bucky’s face if he admitted what happened in the stables—those bright blue eyes narrowing, that crooked grin folding into something sharp and hurt. Bucky was reckless, yes, but he was proud; jealousy cut him close to the bone. Steve couldn’t blame him. He felt the same knife when he’d watched Bucky with you, a sick cocktail of envy and desire he still tasted on the back of his tongue.

A board popped in the loft floor; Steve flinched. Bucky exhaled, a quick huff that could’ve been a sigh… or a laugh, it was hard to tell.

“Storm’s loud tonight,” Bucky muttered into the dark.

Steve swallowed. “Yeah.”

Another beat. Rain drummed harder, then softened in waves. Steve could picture the bayou swelling, black water rising under the dock where everything had changed. He tried not to think about how your moans had sounded layered over the water, how his own had answered hours later in a dusty stable.

“You finish that west line tomorrow,” Bucky said finally, voice low, almost casual. “We’ll have Moreau paid up.”

“Almost done,” Steve answered. He wet his lips, searching for something, anything really, to ease the weight in the room. The apology caught behind his teeth.

Bucky shifted again, the couch springs squealed. “Punk, you gonna stew all night?”

Steve closed his eyes. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to lie either.

Outside, lightning flashed white through the high window slats, illuminating dust motes and the curve of the telescope aimed at dripping darkness. The quick burst etched Bucky’s silhouette; hands behind his head, stare fixed on the rafters, then vanished.

Steve drew a breath, let it out slow. “We should get some sleep,” he managed. “Finish early.”

Bucky’s chuckle was soft, humorless. “Sure.” A pause. “Night, Stevie.”

“Night, Buck.”

The rain settled into a gentle hiss, but sleep stayed distant. Steve lay listening to the space between heartbeats, wondering how long secrets could hang in rafters before they dripped down like stormwater, soaking everything beneath.

Dawn slipped through the loft slats in gauzy stripes, lighting dust motes and the tired curve of two backs turned on one another. Steve sat on the edge of his mattress, boots half-laced, guilt thrumming like an ache in his teeth. Across the aisle, Bucky tugged yesterday’s shirt over his head, humming nothing in particular, almost normal again after a night of storm-soaked silence.

Steve cleared his throat. “Mornin’, Buck.”

Bucky flicked him a sideways grin. “Look who’s talkin’ to me.”

Steve managed a huff of a laugh, tension easing a notch. “Didn’t mean to be a bear yesterday.”

“Figured you were just hungry.” Bucky stretched, joints popping. “Or constipated.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” Steve stood, wiped his palms on his thighs. “Listen—there’s somethin’ I gotta say before we head out.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, but the grin stayed. “Alright, preacher. Floor’s yours.”

For a heartbeat Steve couldn’t find air; the loft felt too small for the words. He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the warped floorboard between them. “Yesterday… after the rain started… I was in the stables.” He forced his gaze up, blue meeting blue. “She came by to give me some lunch and— and things got… outta hand.”

The smile died on Bucky’s mouth, shoulders stiffening under crumpled cotton. “Outta hand how?”

Steve swallowed. “We— I—” The confession lodged, then fell. “I slept with her.”

Silence crashed heavier than the storm. Bucky’s jaw ticked once, twice… his eyes flared a darker shade. “You mean right after you tore me a new one for fucking her?”

Steve winced. “Yeah.”

Bucky laughed. It was short, sharp and no humour in it. “That’s rich, Stevie. Real righteous.”

“I know it’s hypocritical,” Steve said, voice clipped. “But it happened.”

“‘Just respect Mr. Moreau,’” Bucky mocked, pitching his voice higher. “‘We’re guests, Buck.’ Then you go and fuck his daughter in the hay like a damn barn animal.”

“Wasn’t like that.” Heat licked up Steve’s neck. “It wasn’t planned. We—talked, and—”

“And you forgot all about your sermon.” Bucky crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “Tell me, did you watch yourself grunt and moan the way you watched me?”

Steve’s cheeks flamed. “Don’t make this dirtier than it is.”

“Dirtier? Brother, the mud’s already up to our knees.” Bucky stepped closer, anger bright and brittle. “You wouldn’t even let me feel good of what I had with her. Now you want me to swallow this and play nice?”

“I’m not askin’ for forgiveness.” Steve’s voice rose. “But you deserved the truth.”

“Truth is you’re jealous as hell and didn’t want to admit it,” Bucky shot back. “So you took your turn and still wanna be the saint.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “You think this feels right to me? I don’t think I can even look her father in the eye.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll choke on that guilt.” Bucky pivoted, pacing a tight line, boots thumping. He stopped, spun. “Fine. Let’s skip the guilt. Let’s ask her straight out who she wants. Winner keeps the girl, loser keeps their mouth shut.”

“That’s childish,” Steve snapped.

“Better than self-righteous,” Bucky muttered.

They stared each other down, breath quickening with a frustration edged in something hotter. Outside the loft, a rooster crowed. The tension held, buzzing like a live wire between their chests.

Steve exhaled first, the fight draining to weary honesty. “We can’t turn her into a prize, Buck. That ain’t right, and you know it.”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged, but the jealousy still smouldered in his eyes. “Then what? We keep sneakin’ behind each other until Mr. Moreau shoots one of us?”

“I don’t know.” Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “But we finish that fence today. After that—figure it out with her, together. No more secrets.”

Bucky studied him, jaw working. Finally he nodded stiffly. “Finish the fence,” he echoed. “Then we talk.”

The afternoon never quite decided if it was rain or sleet; it just hurled water sideways until the posts sagged in the muck and both men were soaked to the bone. By the time they slogged back to the barn, the sky looked like a dull bruise and the west line was still three rails short. No one said it, but they were glad for the excuse to quit early.

Up in the loft, Steve kicked off his mud-caked boots and dropped onto the couch, hair plastered to his forehead. Bucky lingered at the hatch, stripping and changing out of his drenched shirt, drops tapping the floorboards. He found a rag, swiped at his face, then tossed the cloth aside.

Tense didn’t begin to cover it. They moved around each other the way soldiers do when the truce is thin—careful, eyes sliding away after the briefest glance. Steve rummaged for dry socks, Bucky fished for a cigarette he never lit. Rain pattered on the roof, steady as a clock.

The ladder creaked.

You appeared with a bundle of quilts over one arm, hair damp, skin glowing from kitchen heat. “Thought y’all could use somethin’ dry,” you said, voice gentle, eyes flicking from Steve’s rigid shoulders to Bucky’s tight jaw.

Neither man answered right off, and the hush sharpened until even the rain felt awkward. You crossed to the couch, shaking out a faded patchwork, the cotton smelling of starch and chamomile. Steve took it with a muttered thanks, knuckles brushing yours; his gaze skittered away before it could catch.

“Fence fight back?” you teased, hoping to coax a smile. It earned only a grunt from Bucky and a shrug from Steve.

You laid another quilt over the couch arm, slower this time—testing the air, feeling the edge in it. “Storm’s supposed to clear by dawn,” you offered, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing. “Plenty of time to finish tomorrow before ya’ll leave.”

Still the silence. Bucky’s cigarette twirled restlessly between his fingers; Steve’s fingers dug into quilt batting like he might wring the tension out of the fabric.

You straightened, eyes narrowing just a touch. “The weather ain’t the only thing foul up here,” you said softly, but there was firmness under the honey. “Y’all gonna tell me what’s crawled between you, or am I supposed to guess?”

Neither answered, but their gazes finally met. It was brief, charged… and you felt the spark skip the space between them like summer lightning.

Bucky broke first, voice rough. “Y’know what this is, sweetheart? A game. You’ve been playin’ us—fuckin’ us both and watchin’ which dog growls louder.”

You propped a hip against the couch arm, arms loose across your chest, unbothered. “Playin’? Honey, I just like good company. Can’t a girl enjoy both flavors without pickin’ a favourite?”

Steve’s tone came gentler but no less raw. “Why, though? If you care for either of us, why throw a match on gasoline?”

“Why not?” You lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “World’s big enough for more than one kind of want. I didn’t hear either of you complainin’ at the time.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “’Cause I thought it meant somethin’—til I find out you rode him next like a county fair row-pony.”

You arched a brow. “Meanin’ like you cared about Stevie’s feelin’s when you waited ‘til he was dead asleep to slide into my bayou and make me holler? Glass houses, James.”

The barb hit; he flinched, fingers whitening around the cigarette he still hadn’t lit. Steve opened his mouth, a protest half-formed, and you cut him a sidelong glance. “And you—moral high ground looked real pretty till you let me grind it to dust in the hay. Hypocrite suits you about as tight as those jeans did yesterday.”

Colour scorched Steve’s ears. “I won’t deny it,” he said quietly. “I was jealous. Still am.”

“Same,” Bucky snapped, softer now, wounded pride bleeding through. “Feels like we’re bein’ measured for sport.”

You blew out a breath, voice dropping to something low, coaxing. “I’m measurin’ the way I measure ripe peaches—by taste, not by pit. Didn’t reckon either one of you wanted claim-stakes hammered down.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, restless. “Can’t keep splittin the difference. Not without someone gettin’ cut.”

You let a slow breath roll out, smoothing the air like a hand over rumpled sheets.

“Alright—enough chest-thumping,” you murmured, voice a lazy drawl meant to soothe. You pivoted first to Bucky, stepping in just close enough that the lantern light caught the silver flecks in his eyes.

“Y’know what I like about you, Bucky?” Your fingers brushed the inside of his forearm—just a ghost of touch, but it made his shoulders ease a notch. “It’s that wildfire charm. You see somethin’ you want, and you grab it like life’s too short for second thoughts. Had me tremblin’ on that dock, remember? You move like you own the night, and for a minute I believed you did.”

A faint, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still smouldering there.

Then you turned to Steve, reaching to smooth a wet lock from his forehead. “And you? Gentleman on the surface, but lord—the heat underneath once you let it out.” Your hand slid to cup his jaw; Steve leaned into it without meaning to, “You made me feel wanted in every sweet, filthy way a woman craves. Like I was worth every ounce of that control you dropped.”

Their gazes flicked to each other, some of the sharpness dulling with your words.

“You boys’ve been best friends forever, ain’t that right?” you asked, stepping back so you could see them both. “Shared bruises, shared bottles… but you never learned to share a woman?”

Bucky’s brows knitted. “Ain’t exactly the way we were taught.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to Bucky, then you. “Not sure how that even works.”

“Works however we want it to,” you said with a shrug. “Could be one night. Could be more. Only rule is nobody’s feelings get shoved in a dark corner.”

They traded another look. This one was longer, uncertainty warring with curiosity. Rain pinged softly on the roof, a gentler rhythm now, like the storm itself was catching its breath.

You smiled. “Me? I’d rather see the two of you side-by-side than at each other’s throats. Twice the fun, half the guilt.”

Silence hovered, but the tension had shifted, no longer a taut wire ready to snap, more a low hum in the rafters. Bucky wet his lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Steve exhaled, shoulders softening, as if the idea wasn’t as impossible as it had sounded a minute ago.

Lantern-light flickered across the loft as you stepped between them, storm-tamed curls brushing Steve’s cheek. One hand found the back of his neck, guiding him down; your mouth covered his in a slow, coaxing seal. At first he held himself still, surprised, then his hands rose, steadying at your waist while he answered, tongue sweeping to taste the invitation you offered. The kiss went deep, unhurried, a warm pull that drew a hum from somewhere low in his chest.

Across the narrow space Bucky watched, arms folded but jaw tight, jealousy flashing bright before he masked it. You felt the weight of his stare; when you finally let Steve breathe you kept your gaze on those blue eyes gone hazy, then pivoted without missing a beat.

Your free hand snagged the front of Bucky’s T-shirt, knuckles brushing the hard plane beneath, and you tugged him forward.

“C’mere, hotshot,” you whispered.

He came, like the magnet he’d always been, meeting your mouth with none of Steve’s hesitation. The kiss landed hungry, teeth grazing, his hand sliding to cup the side of your throat. Where Steve’s earlier sweetness lingered, Bucky’s heat sparked bright, and you let both flavors mingle on your tongue a heartbeat longer than strictly fair.

When you broke away the air felt thicker, three sets of breaths stirring the dust motes. Your lips, plush now and tingling, curved into a satisfied smile.

“See?” you murmured, voice lazy as molasses. “Turns out sharing ain’t so hard.”

Steve stood rooted, wide eyes flicking from your mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky’s stare, darker now, drifted to Steve, sharp edge softened by the flush riding both their cheeks. Rain pattered gentle drums on the roof above, the storm’s worst anger spent, leaving only a hush that felt charged rather than tense.

“You pull us in opposite directions long enough,” Bucky said, half-grin creeping back, “might find we land in the same place.”

“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” you answered, giving his shirt a playful tug before smoothing the crumpled cotton flat. You turned, letting your knuckles brush Steve’s knuckles—an invitation to stay right where he was. “The three of us could keep warmer than any blanket in this loft.”

Neither man moved to argue. Steve’s throat bobbed, eyes searching Bucky’s. Bucky’s shoulders shifted, like he was trying on the feel of standing this close without bristling. A tentative thread of curiosity stretched between them stronger than the jealousy that had ruled the morning.

You stepped back just far enough to see them both, palms open. “Fence can wait,” you said. “Weather looks set to keep us indoors.” Outside, thunder rumbled a soft bass note, agreeing.

The air in the loft hung heavy, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the raw edge of anticipation. You stood between them, Bucky and Steve, their breaths syncing in ragged pulls, eyes locked on you like you’d become the only fixed point in the dim lantern glow.

Your fingers hooked under the hem of your damp shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin from the earlier drizzle. You peeled it up slowly letting the cool air kiss your ribs before it whispered over the swell of your breasts still trapped in lace. Their gazes followed every inch, darkening as you tossed the shirt aside onto the couch.

Then came the bra—clips snapping free with a flick, straps sliding down your shoulders. Your breasts spilled out, full and heavy, nipples tightening into stiff peaks under the weight of their stares. Bucky’s tongue darted over his lips, a low sound rumbling in his throat, while Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping straight to the soft curves, tracing the way they rose with each breath you took.

Not done yet. Your hands moved to the button of your jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged quiet. The zipper rasped down, and you shoved the denim over your hips, hooking your thumbs into your panties and dragging them along for the ride. They pooled at your ankles, and you kicked them free, standing bare before them—skin flushed, thighs slick with the ache building between them.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his cock straining visibly against his jeans, and Steve shifted, a flush creeping up his neck as he drank in the sight of your naked body, every curve and shadow laid out like an offering.

“Who wants to touch first?” you purred, voice husky, letting the words drip like honey over the tension.

It took barely a second—Bucky, of course, moving like he’d been coiled for it. His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, crashing his mouth against yours. His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your throat with a possessive thrust that made your knees weak, tasting of salt and coffee and that unashamed want.

He hauled you flush against him, your bare tits mashing into the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric as his free arm banded around your waist, grinding his hard length into your belly through his clothes.

You melted into the kiss, moaning around his invading tongue, but then—hands. Warm, callused palms sliding onto your waist from behind, tentative at first, then firmer as Steve pressed his body against your back. His chest was a solid wall of heat, his cock throbbing hot against the cleft of your ass even through his jeans.

Those hands trailed up, slow and careful, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted Bucky’s roughness—thumbs brushing the undersides before squeezing soft, kneading the flesh until your nipples ached under the pressure.

A shiver raced down your spine as his mouth found your throat, lips parting to suckle the pulse there, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks straight to your clit.

Bucky didn’t let up, his kiss turning sloppier, wetter, tongue battling yours while Steve’s breaths fanned hot against your neck, his squeezes growing bolder, rolling your breasts in his palms like he couldn’t get enough of the weight, the give.

The kiss with Bucky lingered like a brand, his tongue retreating with a final, teasing swipe that left your lips swollen and slick. You twisted in his grip, turning your head to capture Steve’s mouth instead, and he met you halfway—eager, almost desperate, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that stole your breath.

His tongue delved deep, exploring with a fervor that matched the way his hands still cradled your tits, thumbs circling your hardened nipples until they throbbed under his touch.

Bucky didn’t yield an inch, his mouth shifting to the curve of your neck, hot and insistent, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as he sucked a mark into place. One of his hands slid down, palming the swell of your ass with a firm squeeze, fingers digging in to guide your hips forward. You ground against him instinctively, feeling the rigid bulge of his cock press into your belly through the denim, thick and insistent, pulsing with every roll of your body.

Steve’s kiss deepened in response, turning rougher, his free hand tangling in your hair to angle your head just right, devouring your mouth like he needed to erase Bucky’s taste.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Bucky rasped against your throat, his voice a gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine, his breath fanning over the damp spot he’d left behind.

You hummed into Steve’s kiss, the sound vibrating between your pressed lips.

Steve broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, whispering hot against your ear, “You’re perfect... so soft, so sweet,” his affirmations spilling out like confessions, voice thick with awe and need as he nuzzled into your shoulder.

You pushed at their chests, firm but playful, breaking their hold. “I want both of ya’ll to eat my pussy,” you said, eyes flicking between them as you backed toward the small mattress piled with worn blankets on the loft floor.

You sank down onto the makeshift bed, the rough weave scratching your bare skin just enough to heighten the thrill. Spreading your legs wide, you exposed yourself fully—the swollen folds of your cunt glistening with arousal, clit peeking out begging for attention.

Bucky and Steve froze mid-step, their eyes locking onto the sight between your thighs, breaths catching in unison. Bucky’s jaw went slack, that smirk faltering into raw want, while Steve’s flush deepened, his cock tenting his jeans obscenely as he swallowed hard.

Then, like a dam breaking, they lunged,both scrambling forward in a tangle of limbs, shoulders bumping as they vied for position.

“Move over, punk,” Bucky murmured, shoving at Steve’s arm, trying to wedge in closer.

Steve pushed back, his voice a strained mutter, “There’s room—back off a sec.” They bickered like that, half-hearted jabs and elbows, but neither stopped advancing, knees hitting the mattress as they crowded between your open legs.

Their argument dissolved into action, mouths descending on your pussy in a frenzy of heat and hunger. Bucky got there first, his tongue lapping broad and flat up your slit, collecting your wetness with a groan that rumbled against your sensitive flesh. Steve wasn’t far behind, angling in from the side to suckle at your inner thigh before dragging his lips to your clit, enveloping it in wet suction that made your hips buck.

They jostled for space, Bucky’s shoulder knocking Steve’s as he delved deeper, tongue fucking into your entrance with sloppy thrusts, while Steve latched onto your nub, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.

The dual assault overwhelmed you—Bucky’s mouth devouring your hole, slurping noisily at the gush of arousal leaking out, his stubble scraping your thighs raw; Steve’s lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to pull whimpers from your throat, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.

“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” Bucky mumbled between licks, the words vibrating into you, while Steve hummed agreement, his tongue circling faster, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.

Their mouths battled over your dripping cunt like starving men, tongues and lips a chaotic symphony of slick heat that had you mesmerized. You watched through half-lidded eyes, pulse hammering in your ears, the way Bucky’s tongue plunged deep into your hole, fucking in and out with obscene wet sounds, only for Steve to shove in closer, latching onto your clit with a fierce suck that made your toes curl.

Their faces were inches apart, cheeks brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged, and fuck, the sight of it twisted something filthy in your gut. You imagined it—their tongues slipping free from you, tangling together in a messy, saliva-slick kiss, tasting you on each other, and the thought alone shoved you toward the edge.

“God, yes—right there,” you gasped, hips grinding up into their faces, fingers yanking at their hair to hold them in place.

Bucky groaned low, the vibration humming straight through your core, “You like watchin’ us fight over this pretty pussy, huh?” Steve mumbled something incoherent against your thigh, too lost in the feast to form words, but his tongue flicked faster, relentless.

It hit you like a storm surge, that orgasm sneaking up fast and brutal—your walls clenching on nothing, release gushing out in hot waves that soaked their chins. You cried out, back arching off the mattress, thighs quaking as pleasure ripped through you. Bucky and Steve didn’t pull back; if anything, they dove deeper.

“So damn good,” Steve finally rasped, voice muffled as he licked a stripe up your seam, sharing the taste with a quick, accidental brush of his tongue against Bucky’s.

The intensity bordered on too much, sparks of overstimulation prickling like needles as their mouths kept working, tongues still probing and sucking without mercy. “Wait—fuck, too much,” you panted, hands flying to their heads, trying to shove them away, but your pushes were weak, body still humming from the high.

They lingered a second longer, reluctant, before Bucky’s eyes flashed with that predatory glint. In a blur, he shouldered Steve aside, “My turn, Stevie”—the bigger man stumbling back on his knees, jeans strained tight over his erection.

Bucky didn’t waste a beat, fingers fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal echoing in the loft as he yanked it open. His jeans shoved down just enough, his cock sprang free—thick, veined, the flushed head already leaking pre-cum, curving up with a slight leftward tilt.

He gripped the base, stroking once, twice, before dragging the length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The friction teased your entrance, bumping your clit with each pass, and you bit your lip, doing nothing to stop him—hell, you spread your legs wider, inviting the invasion.

“Yeah, just like that,” Bucky muttered, voice rough as gravel, lining up and sinking in slow, inch by torturous inch, your pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that blurred into bliss.

He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls slapping against your ass as he started thrusting—deep, claiming strokes that rocked your body against the mattress. “Still so tight... takin’ me so good,” he grunted, hands pinning your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin filling the air, mingling with the rain’s fury outside.

You took it, moaning with each plunge, walls fluttering around him, but your gaze flicked to Steve, who knelt there looking adrift—lips shiny with your juices, chest heaving, cock throbbing untouched in his pants, a mix of uncertainty and need in his blue eyes.

“Aw, c’mere, sugar,” you cooed softly, voice breathy from Bucky’s relentless pace, reaching out a hand to beckon him closer. He hesitated for a split second, then crawled forward, drawn like a moth to flame.

You pulled him down, crashing your lips to his in a messy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Bucky’s thrusts didn’t falter, each one jolting you into Steve’s mouth, making the kiss deeper, hungrier. “Mmm, don’t look so lost,” you murmured against Steve’s lips, nipping at his bottom one before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want you in my mouth—wanna taste that big cock of yours while he fucks me.”

Steve’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck, but he nodded, fumbling with his zipper as Bucky chuckled, hips snapping harder. “You heard her, pal. Feed her that dick.”

Steve’s fingers trembled on his zipper, the metallic rasp cutting through the humid air as he finally freed himself—his cock springing out, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and glistening with pre-cum. You watched for a beat, heat pooling fresh in your belly, but then impulse hit like lightning. With a hum, you planted your hands on Bucky’s chest and shoved hard. He blinked up at you, confusion flashing in those blue eyes as his cock slipped free from your clenching heat with a wet pop, leaving you achingly empty for just a second.

“What the—” Bucky started, but you didn’t let him finish, pushing him sideways until he toppled onto his back, jeans still bunched around his thighs, legs splayed. The mattress creaked under his weight, and before he could protest, you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. His dick slapped against your inner thigh, hot and insistent, as you gripped it at the base and sank down in one fluid motion, taking him balls-deep with a satisfied moan.

“Fuck yeah, angel,” Bucky rasped, hands flying to your waist, thumbs digging into your skin as he bucked up once, testing. “Ride me like one of them horses out in the pasture—hard and wild.” His voice was all gravel and hunger, that smirk creeping back as he watched you take control.

You laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips in a slow grind before lifting up and slamming down, “You’ve got a real dirty mouth on you, handsome,” you teased, picking up the pace, bouncing steadily now, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your thighs with each drop. The friction added a bite to the bliss, making you hiss through your teeth.

Bucky groaned, head tipping back against the mattress, but his eyes stayed locked on you. “Shit, just like that. Tighter, darlin’, squeeze me.”

Your gaze shifted to Steve, who hovered there, cock in hand, looking equal parts left out and starved. You flashed him a soft, encouraging smile, slowing your rhythm just enough to beckon him with a crook of your finger. “C’mon, honey. I want you right here.”

He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, but he shuffled closer on his knees, positioning himself near Bucky’s head, close enough that the scent of his arousal mixed with the musk of sweat and rain-soaked hay.

You leaned forward without missing a beat, your breasts swaying with the motion, and wrapped your lips around the tip of Steve’s cock. He was pretty—long and girthy, the foreskin peeling back as you sucked gently, tongue swirling over the sensitive head to taste the salty bead of pre-cum. “Mmm,” you hummed around him, the vibration pulling a choked gasp from his throat.

Steve’s hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you licked a broad stripe up the underside, tracing the thick vein before taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing with the suction.

“God, your mouth... feels so damn good, beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and genuine, hips twitching forward instinctively.

Bucky’s thrusts didn’t let up—he drove into you from below, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it pebbled hard under his touch.

“Look at you, takin’ us both like a champ,” he panted, pinching lightly, sending sparks straight to your core.

But then his rhythm faltered for a split second, eyes darting sideways as your head bobbed right next to his face, the wet sounds of your sucking filling his ears. Steve’s cock glistened with your saliva, inches from Bucky’s cheek, and you caught the way Bucky’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something strange and curious in his expression.

“Hey, eyes on me,” you pulled off Steve with a pop, grinning down at Bucky as you clenched around him on purpose, making him curse under his breath. “Or you wanna join in? Taste him too?”

Bucky chuckled hesitantly, squeezing your other breast in retaliation. “Temptin’, but I’m good buried in this pussy for now.” He bucked harder, the scrape of denim biting into your skin again, urging you back to work.

You obliged, moaning around Steve’s length as you took him to the back of your throat, nose brushing the unkept hair at his base. Steve’s free hand braced on Bucky’s shoulder for balance, the accidental touch making both men tense, breaths syncing in the charged air.

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Steve warned, fingers tightening in your hair, but you just hummed encouragement, riding Bucky faster.

Bucky’s eyes gaze flicked back up, locking onto the way your lips stretched around Steve’s throbbing dick, slurping and sucking with greedy abandon. Steve’s face was a mask of pure ecstasy; eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a silent groan, and Bucky couldn’t resist. “Hey, punk, she’s got you leakin’ like a damn faucet.”

Steve’s breath hitched, his hand flexing in your hair, but he shot Bucky a glare through half-lidded eyes. “Shut it, Buck,feels too good to argue.”

You hummed around Steve’s length, the vibration making him buck forward, your free hand cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten as he teetered on the edge.

Bucky hummed, spreading your ass cheeks wider, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where his cock pistoned in and out. “Nah, saint, you’re blushin’ like a virgin. Gonna blow already?”

“Screw you,” Steve panted, but there was no heat in it, just desperate need as his cock twitched against your tongue. You could feel him swelling, the salty pulse of pre-cum flooding your mouth, he was seconds from exploding.

But you weren’t ready to let him go over yet. With a deliberate pop, you pulled off, your hand still stroking his slick shaft lazily, denying him that final push. Steve’s eyes flew open, pained and pleading, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.

“Please... don’t stop,” he begged, voice cracking, hips jerking futilely into your grip.

You paused your bounces on Bucky, clenching around him to keep him buried deep but holding still, the ache of denial making your thighs quiver. Leaning up slightly, you cupped Steve’s jaw with your free hand, thumb tracing his lower lip as you met his gaze softly. “Shh, pretty boy. I want you to finish inside me… fill me up proper. Not like this.”

Bucky stilled beneath you, his hands loosening on your ass just a fraction, brows knitting in confusion as he glanced between you and Steve. “You kickin’ me out now?”

Steve mirrored the look, his cock bobbing neglected in the air, still rock-hard and dripping. “But... Buck’s already...”

You grinned, sweet and reassuring, “Fellas, I’ve got room for two. Plenty of space in me.”

Your words hung in the humid air like a challenge, that smile still playing on your lips as you picked up the pace, bouncing with renewed vigor, your ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sounds of your pussy devouring him echoing in the dim loft.

Steve shifted behind you, his uncertainty clear in the way his hands trembled slightly on your waist. He was rock-hard, tip leaking and flushed, but his mind raced ahead—assuming you meant something else entirely. With a hesitant nudge, he pressed the head of his cock against your ass, the pressure firm but tentative, like he was testing uncharted waters.

A soft laugh bubbled out of you, light and teasing, cutting through the tension as you twisted your head to glance back at him. “Oh sweetheart, that’s not quite what I had in mind.”

Steve froze, cheeks burning even in the low light, his cock twitching against your skin. “I... thought... shit, sorry. You said—”

Before he could finish fumbling, you reached back with one arm, your fingers wrapping around his thick shaft—hot and pulsing in your palm. You stroked him once, firmly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips, then guided him downward, angling him right toward your soaked entrance where Bucky was already buried deep.

The tip brushed against your folds, slick with your arousal and Bucky’s pre-cum, nudging insistently at the stretched opening.

Steve’s eyes widened, confusion etching deeper lines on his face as he stared down at the impossible sight. “Wait, but... how the hell—?”

You paused your grinding just enough to lean forward, bracing one hand on Bucky’s chest, nails digging into his skin for leverage. “There’s enough room in this greedy little pussy, honey. Stretch me wide, fill me up until I can’t think straight.”

Your words were a sultry command, eyes fluttering half-shut in anticipation, but you shot Steve a reassuring wink over your shoulder.

Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes meeting Steve’s in a shared look of stunned disbelief. “You serious, darlin’? Both of us... in there? Shit, that’s—”

“Insane,” Steve finished, voice hoarse, but his hips inched forward anyway, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance alongside Bucky’s girth. They exchanged another glance; uncertain, a flicker of worry in Bucky’s eyes and Steve’s furrowed brow. This wasn’t some quick tumble; it was pushing boundaries they’d never imagined.

“Yeah, insane,” Bucky echoed, but his voice dropped an octave, laced with a sliver of excitement as he held still inside you, letting you feel the throb of him. “You sure you can take it, angel?”

“Mm, more than sure,” you murmured, rocking your hips experimentally, which only wedged Steve’s tip a fraction deeper, the dual pressure making your breath catch. “Come on, Stevie—push. I want to feel you both sliding in, rubbing against each other in me.”

Steve swallowed hard, resolve flickering to life in his gaze as he nodded, hands steadying on your hips. “Alright... alright, if that’s what you want, sweetheart.” He started pushing in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch burning sweet and intense as your walls accommodated him.

You breathed in deep, eyes squeezing shut, a shudder rippling through you as you balanced on Bucky’s chest—fingers splaying wide over his pounding heart, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin.

Bucky groaned low, his cock twitching inside you as he felt Steve’s length pressing in against him.

Steve’s breath stuttered, his forehead beading with sweat as he sank deeper, the sensation overwhelming—your pussy clenching around them both, hot and velvety, while Bucky’s cock pulsed right against his own. “It’s—tight as hell. You okay?”

You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a whimper, the fullness bordering on too much but tipping straight into ecstasy. “Keep goin’... just like that. Oh, fuck. Yeah, both of you, right there.”

The stretch was exquisite agony, your body locked in place between them, every nerve ending firing as Bucky and Steve filled you to the brink—two thick cocks wedged deep in your pussy, pulsing hot and insistent against each other through your slick walls.

You could barely shift, let alone move, the overwhelming fullness pinning you like a vice, your thighs quivering from the strain. A hazy fog clouded your mind, cockdrunk and drifting in the haze of sensation, every shallow breath pulling a whimper from your lips.

“F-Fellas,” you gasped, voice slurred with lust, fingers clutching at Bucky’s shoulders for any semblance of control. “I... I can’t—move for me. You gotta fuck me like this.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, a feral glint cutting through the sweat beading on his brow. He nodded once, rough and sure, his hands clamping harder on your hips. “Yeah? You want us to use you, sweet thing? Pound this greedy little hole till she breaks?” His voice was gravel, hips shifting first—tentative at the start, pulling back an inch before slamming upward, the drag of his shaft grinding against Steve’s in the tight confines of your cunt.

Steve mirrored him a beat later, hesitant but hungry, his broad chest heaving as he withdrew slightly, then thrust in—the dual motion sending sparks exploding behind your eyes. “God, it’s... too much,” he groaned, voice cracking on the edge of a moan, his cock sliding against Bucky’s.

They found a rhythm, tentative thrusts syncing into something primal, back and forth like a seesaw of pure heat—Bucky pushing deep as Steve eased out, then reversing, their groans mingling with the wet slap of skin and the creak of the mattress beneath.

You were their plaything now, jolted between them like a ragdoll, body bouncing on the wave of their cocks, the pressure building in your core until it bordered on delirium. Lost in the rhythm, Bucky’s hand snaked up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to yank you down, crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss—tongue plunging deep, tasting the salt of your shared sweat, devouring you like he owned every gasp. You melted into it, moaning into his mouth as their cocks speared you harder.

But Steve wasn’t going to be left out anymore. As Bucky released you, Steve’s strong arm hooked around your waist, pulling you upright with a possessive tug, his free hand cupping your jaw to turn your face to him. As he sealed his lips over yours—kissing you slower but no less fierce, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, drawing out a needy whine as his hips snapped forward, grinding deeper alongside Bucky.

Your mind spun, pleasure dazing you into a stupor, words tumbling out in a breathless haze. “Kiss... kiss each other.”

Bucky faltered for a split second, his blue eyes flicking up to Steve’s, surprise flashing before lust swallowed it whole. “What—darlin’, you—”

You didn’t let him finish, one hand snaking behind Steve’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair and pushing down firmly, guiding him toward Bucky’s waiting mouth. “C’mon, hotshot, kiss your golden boy for me.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, resistance crumbling under the weight of your words and the relentless pump of his hips. They kept moving, cocks buried to the hilt, sliding in tandem as their faces drew closer—lips brushing tentative at first, then crashing together in a passionate lock. Bucky’s tongue darted out, claiming Steve’s mouth with the same hunger he fucked you with, a muffled groan escaping them both as the kiss deepened.

You watched, transfixed, the sight of their mouths fusing; tongues tangling, breaths mingling, pushing you over the edge. The coil in your belly snapped, orgasm ripping through you like lightning, your pussy spasming wildly around them both, walls fluttering and squeezing in rhythmic pulses.

“Fuck—yes, oh god, I’m cumming!” you cried, body arching as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, soaking their cocks in your release.

Their kiss broke on a shared gasp, Bucky pulling back first, eyes wide and wild as he felt the vice-like grip of your climax. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” Bucky grunted, voice strained, his grip bruising your hips as he drove up into the slick chaos of your pussy, feeling the hot flood of your release coat him. “Gonna make me—”

Steve beat him to it, a choked groan tearing from his throat as his body seized. “Oh shit—can’t hold—”

His cock throbbed wildly inside you, swelling against Bucky’s before unleashing thick ropes of cum, pulsing deep and flooding your core. The warmth spread instantly, mixing with your own juices, the sensation of his load spilling out around their joined shafts pushing Bucky right to the brink.

That was it—the wet heat of Steve’s release seeping through your walls, drenching Bucky’s cock in the messy proof of his friend’s orgasm. Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut, a guttural moan ripping free as he slammed home one last time. His shaft jerked violently, erupting in heavy spurts, pumping load after load into you until it overflowed, the combined seed sloshing with every twitch.

They emptied everything, cocks twitching with brutal oversensitivity, veins pulsing against your fluttering insides. You shuddered between them, body limp and quaking, every nerve raw from the overload.

Bucky’s hands roamed your sweat-slick skin—tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your ass, kneading your thighs—as if grounding himself in the aftermath, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your ear. “Easy, angel... we got you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, fingers digging in just enough to soothe the lingering ache.

Steve, still buried deep, pressed his lips to the pulse at your neck, kissing softly at first, then with more urgency, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. “So good... you feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling closer, his chest heaving against your back as he fought to steady the tremors racking his frame.

Steve was the first to stir, reluctance clear in the way his hands lingered on your waist. With a careful shift, he eased back, his softening cock slipping free with a lewd, wet pop. The rush hit immediately—a gush of warmth spilling from you, their mingled cum trickling down in thick rivulets, soaking the denim of Bucky’s jeans beneath.

“Ah—sorry,” Steve muttered, flushed and spent, collapsing onto the mattress beside Bucky, his arm draping loosely over his eyes as if to block out the intensity.

You let out a shaky breath, muscles protesting as you lifted yourself off Bucky next, the drag of his cock pulling a sharp whine from your throat. More seed followed, sliding hot and sticky down your thighs, pooling where you’d been joined. Bucky hissed through his teeth, hips bucking involuntarily at the loss.

“Fuckin’ hell—that’s... messy,” he rasped, a low chuckle rumbling out despite the sensitivity, his hand coming up to swipe at the spill on his jeans.

Exhausted, you collapsed between them, body sinking into the rumpled sheets, limbs twitching with aftershocks. Silence fell, broken only by the trio of heaving breaths syncing in the humid loft air, thick with the musk of heat and raw sex, undercut by the distant patter of rain on the roof and the faint, the sweet trace of your honeysuckle lotion clinging to sweat-damp skin.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through the hush, like he was trying to toss a joke over something that felt too big to stare at.

“Well… guess we learned how to share after all.”

You let out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh if you’d had more air in your lungs, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Your body still felt like it was humming—too warm, too wrung-out, like you’d been shaken up and put back together wrong in the best way.

Steve made a sound that could’ve been a chuckle, “S’pose that’s one way to put it,” he murmured.

Above your head, Steve turned his head towards Bucky. That familiar, easy glance they’d shared a thousand times in their lives, the one that always said you good? and yeah, I’m good, the one that had carried them through worse than a Louisiana storm. Only now it didn’t land the same.

Because now “you good?” had more weight.

Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s mouth, just a fraction too long, and something tightened in his chest, warm and confusing. A flash of it, all over again, the wet press of tongues, the wrongness-turned-rightness of it, the way it had sparked through the whole loft like lightning.

The two of them had spent their whole lives calling it brotherhood because that word was safe. Best friends. End of the line. A story you could tell people without watching them look too closely.

But you had made them look too closely.

Bucky broke eye contact first, like he felt the heat of the thought and didn’t want to stand in it, his gaze dropping to you like he needed somewhere safer to look. His hand came up, fingers warm and careful at your throat, thumb resting at your pulse like he could feel your heartbeat still stuttering there. He tilted your face toward him with a gentleness that didn’t match his normal charm at all.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, and there was no swagger in it, no performance. “One hell of a woman.”

“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you breathed back, a lazy little smile tugging at your mouth.

He kissed you, slow and lingering, like he was claiming the moment for himself. You let him. Let him have the softness. Let him taste the last traces of you on your own lips without making it a fight.

And you felt Steve’s attention sharpen across your skin.

At first it was just presence. Then it became something else, that ugly twist of jealousy rising in him again, quick and hot, like he’d hated it earlier and still couldn’t stop it now.

Only this time it wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t just Bucky’s kissing you and I’m not.

It was tangled up with the memory of Bucky’s mouth against his, with the fact Steve had felt it… felt how it changed the air, how it changed the shape of his chest when he thought about it too long. It was the unsettling realization that what he wanted wasn’t cleanly separated into categories anymore.

He didn’t want to name that.

So he did what Steve always did when he didn’t want to name something, he acted.

His hand came up, palm warm against your cheek, and he guided your face toward him with a firmness that bordered on petulant—like he couldn’t stand being left out even for a breath anymore.

“Hey,” he muttered, as if the word could justify what he was about to take.

Then he kissed you.

Deeper than Bucky had, because Steve kissed like he was trying to anchor himself, like if he could taste you hard enough, he could drown out every complicated thought trying to rise. His mouth was hot and sure, tongue slipping in with a confidence he hadn’t carried before the stables, before the loft, before you pulled all the polite restraint out of him and taught him what he looked like without it.

You hummed into the kiss, letting it be messy, letting him be greedy.

Bucky watched, jaw tightening, though not angry exactly, not anymore. Just… lit up. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, his pride, his hunger. Like the sight of Steve taking something he wanted did something ugly and thrilling to him at the same time.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes heavy. Your voice came out soft and unhurried like you weren’t about to let either of them pretend this was simple.

“You boys keep lookin’ at each other like you don’t know what you’re seein’,” you murmured, eyes flicking between them. “Ain’t like you didn’t already cross the line.”

Steve’s throat bobbed. His gaze cut away for half a second, reflex and denial, then returned.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “She’s got a point, punk.”

Steve shot him a look. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m not startin’,” Bucky said, almost too calm. “I’m just… takin’ inventory.”

That made Steve’s brow furrow, something wary and pulled-tight in his expression.

You shifted between them, the movement small but enough to draw both their eyes, enough to remind them you were still the center of gravity here, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

Steve felt it in the quiet seconds after, watching you push yourself upright, stretching like a cat that’d just had its fill. The lamp on the little trunk threw a golden wash over you, catching the curve of your shoulder, the soft hollow at your throat, the confidence in the way you didn’t rush to cover yourself.

And in his head, Steve hated how perfectly Bucky’s pet name fit you now. Angel.

He had always thought angels were meant to guide you back toward the straight path. You were the opposite kind. The kind that smiled sweetly and led you off the road on purpose, deeper into the dark, deeper into want, like sin wasn’t something to fear but something to finally stop lying about.

He should’ve hated that.

Instead it felt… like relief.

It felt like coming home to a part of himself he’d kept locked up tight, because being Steve Rogers meant being good, meant being steady, meant being the one who held the line. Out here… on this farm, in this heat, with your hands on him and your mouth on his—he didn’t have to perform holiness. He could just be a man. Hungry, human and wanted.

And Bucky, reckless, charming and always halfway out the door, had been tempted into stillness for once. Steve could see it. Even now, with Bucky sprawled beside him, breathing slower, eyes heavy, there was a calm in him that didn’t usually last longer than a cigarette.

You’d done that. To both of them.

Then you spoke again, and the words hit like cold water.

“Shame you boys’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.”

You said it so goddamn easy. Like you were talking about weather. Like you hadn’t just cracked something open between them that didn’t fit back the same way.

The warmth in the loft went cold.

Steve’s throat tightened. He glanced at Bucky without meaning to, like he needed confirmation he hadn’t imagined the sting. Bucky’s face had gone still, brows drawn together, mouth set in a line that looked almost… hurt. Just that faint pout of a man who didn’t like realizing he’d started wanting something he couldn’t have.

Steve recognized the expression because it was sitting on his own face too.

Leaving had always been the plan. Finish the fence. Get the gas. Roll out. Keep moving. That was Bucky’s rhythm. That was the only rhythm Steve had been able to follow for months without losing him.

But now, hearing you say it out loud, Steve felt something stubborn rise up in him. Possessive in a quiet way. Not of you exactly… though that was in it. Of the whole thing. The strange little pocket of peace this place had offered. The way his shoulders had stopped riding his ears. The way he’d slept deeper here, even on a hayloft mattress.

He could feel that same resistance in Bucky, of all people.

Steve swallowed, voice coming out quieter than he meant. “Who says we have to leave tomorrow?”

“My daddy’s got you on a job. Fence gets finished, you take your gas, you go,” you said. “That was the arrangement.”

Bucky shifted beside you, shoulder tightening. “Arrangements can change,” he muttered, rougher than necessary.

Steve’s eyes snapped to him, surprised by how fast the words came out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky didn’t meet his gaze. He stared at the sheets instead, jaw working like he was annoyed at himself for saying anything at all.

Steve felt a tug in his chest.

You tilted your head, studying them both. “Y’all don’t like bein’ told when to leave, huh,” you murmured, almost amused. “Thought drifters lived for the road.”

Bucky’s laugh came out flat. “Usually.”

Steve looked at you, really looked, and he didn’t like what he saw. You didn’t look afraid of losing them. You looked like you knew exactly what it did to men to feel wanted, then be reminded it had an end date.

Steve’s voice dropped, honest without meaning to be. “This place… it’s been good for us.”

Bucky’s fingers flexed against the quilt. “Don’t start getting sentimental,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only discomfort.

Steve glanced at him again, then back at you. “If we asked, again, would your father consider letting us stay a few more days?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than the rain outside. Bucky finally looked up, and for a second their eyes met again.

You let the silence sit just long enough for it to sting. The lamp warmed your skin into gold again, turning you soft around the edges, almost holy if a person didn’t look too closely. But Steve knew better now. Bucky did too.

Two grown men were lying on either side of you like you were the altar and they were the ones who’d come to kneel.

Your mouth curved. “I’ll talk to Daddy,” you said, voice lazy, sweet as iced tea. “If he’s in a good mood.”

Bucky’s brows lifted, hope and irritation tangled. “And what puts him in a good mood?”

You hummed, rolling a shoulder in a shrug that made Steve’s throat go dry. “Could be the fence looks right. Could be he slept decent. Could be the Lord whispers in his ear.” Your eyes flicked to Steve. “Could be the sun decides to shine.”

Steve felt his chest tighten on a rough breath. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grit his teeth.

Bucky shifted beside you, restless. “So we’re just… waitin’ on weather?”

“Mm-hmm.” You let your lashes lower. “Seems y’all are good at waitin’ when you want somethin’ bad enough.”

Steve had been stuck his whole life being the good one, the noble one, and you’d given him freedom not to be. Bucky had waited his whole life for something to matter enough to make him stay. And now here they were, both acting like it was anything but your hand on the leash.

You didn’t even have to tug it.

You simply settled back down between them, shoulder brushing Steve’s arm, thigh sliding against Bucky’s, casual contact that made both men go quiet. You fit there too easily, like you belonged in the seam between them.

You lay between them like a secret, like a blessing, like a sin dressed up in honeysuckle and honeyed words.

Angel, Steve thought again—then corrected himself. No. Not an angel. A temptation that looked like one.

Your hand drifted lazily up Steve’s chest, fingers splaying over his heartbeat as if counting it. Your other hand found Bucky’s wrist on your waist, thumb stroking once, absentminded.

You sighed, content, as if the question of tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that tonight was still yours.

“If the morning’s kind,” you murmured, voice soft as prayer, “maybe I’ll keep you boys a little longer.”

And you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t promise, didn’t explain, didn’t give them the comfort of certainty. You just settled deeper between them, warm and wicked and impossibly at ease, like the devil himself could’ve learned a thing or two from you about patience.

And outside, rain kept whispering its steady sermon against the roof.

a/n | hope ya'll enjoyed my freakiness, tell me what you think, also im thing abt starting a fresh new taglist, so let me know. and i had to a lotttt of research, so i hope my potrayal of New Orleans, Louisianna is the tiniest bit accurate. the title is based on the movie Wild Things, obviously this fic has no relation, except for the very heated sex and erotica

also the barn loft was based on my man, Clark Kent's favourite spot

[evergone]

this was… insane… i will never get over this

[enjinsdoll]

you hadn’t meant for it to become a thing.

but how could you be blamed for it becoming a thing?

enjin’s hands were… distracting. long fingers, rough knuckles, veins running like delicate lines beneath his skin. and those tattoos - black and red rings that curled around his fingers. the same color that crawled from his arms into his hands.

mmmm. you’d catch yourself staring a lot. like right now.

he was sitting across from you, elbow resting on his knee, absentmindedly rolling a cigarette between his fingers. the motion was practiced. thumb pressing, index finger guiding, the paper twisting. your eyes tracked every movement.

“you’re staring again.”

you jolted slightly, heat rushing up your neck. “am not.”

enjin had a small knowing smile on his face as his eyes lifted slowly. “you are. been doing that all week.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but then he reached out to (very!) slowly drag the ashtray toward him. your eyes dropped again like the traitors they were.

“what is it?”

you hesitated. this was so embarrassing. you were mortified. he stared at you like he wouldn’t let go of the topic even when you begged.

so you muttered, “your hands.”

“my hands?”

you nodded, refusing to meet his eyes now. “they’re just… i don’t know. nice.”

“nice,” he exhaled amused.

you risked a glance up and immediately wished you hadn’t. now he was looking at you differently. he leaned forward and rested his chin on his knuckles. fingers flexing and the tendons shifted deliciously beneath his skin.

“what about them?”

“everything,” you admitted.

“everything,” he echoed again as he licked his lips. “c’mere.”

your heart did something very stupid in your chest. “what?”

“you heard me.”

you sat down besides him with shaky knees as he reached out and slid his hand along your arm… until it hovered over your hand. you swallowed hard. at first you played awkwardly with his hand before your thumb traced his tattoos. enjin watched you silently as his fingers curled and his bigger hand engulfed yours.

ooooh. oh god.

“like this?” he asked quietly.

you nodded, completely lost now. his thumb brushed against your knuckles now and your breath hitched.

“shit,” he whispered under his breath, more to himself than you.

his grip tightened, turning your hand so your palm pressed fully against his. your fingers slipped between his without thinking. this was less innocent than you expected.

his eyes dropped to where your hands were joined. “fuck. got no idea what you just unleashed.”

you blinked. “me??”

“yeah. you.” his thumb dragged slowly across your skin again. “look at you.”

you couldn’t even argue. not when your brain had gone completely blank. he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head and there was something very primal under it.

“if i let you keep doing this,” he whispered, “you gonna behave?”

you squeezed his hand without thinking and he smirked.

“yeah,” he said. “didn’t think so.”

[bfbkg]

Oh my gosh, what about Katsuki and reader relaxing peacefully in her apartment. Then she suddenly sees an enormous amount of chaos outside her window, Kats phone is pinging left and right, and she can feel explosions rattling her building. Then she suddenly begs Bakugo not to leave for some reason ask he’s rushing to gather his stuff, and HE HESITATES! And freaks out because defending Japan is his duty but his girl feels like this mission is different, like he’ll die. 😭😭😭😭😭.

notes: you sent me this a month ago and i kept forgetting to post it!!! LOVE THIS IDEA!! feels unique !

your boyfriend's work phone vibrates before you hear the eruptions outside.

you’re laying flat on top of him as he lays across your sofa. it wasn’t everyday you get your boyfriend to yourself and this was an evening he purposely scheduled off so you could do nothing together. 

it was one of your favourite things in the world, hearing his heart beat softly under your ear, one of his paw-like hands sneak under your long sleeve comfy top to rest on your back. his other hand sits on your ass, kneading it every few minutes like he’s remembering how lucky he is to be here with you.

you’ve already made out a little, made each other come a few hours ago so now you just stare at the television with bakugou, his pectorals a soft pillow as he props his head up on the armrest.

“this is a stupid fuckin’ movie,” he mumbles into your hair.

you look up at him, “hm? what did you say?”

he pouts at you first, the side of katsuki only you get. you meet his lips in a kiss before his eyes droop in disinterest.

“said this movie is stupid.”

“maybe you’re stupid,” you smile and he rolls his eyes, hugging you closer to him, “you haven’t even given it a chance.”

“i can already tell,” he murmurs, sneaking his hand under the waistband of your flared leggings to feel your bare ass, “the whole movie is beige and dark.”

you moan in annoyance, “the reviews said it’s good! just wait a few.”

that’s when his phone vibrates, you can tell it’s his work phone because he sets it to this angry pulsating vibration that sounds as if the phone is about to blow up.

“for fucks sake. i fuckin’ told them i’m off today,” 

still he pulls the phone out of his pocket, squinting to read the roll of text message notifications coming through. 

“stop swearing, baby,” you whisper, eyes fixated on the tv, “tell them you’re not going in.”

slowly, with his hand on your back, bakugou sits up. regret and annoyance written all over his face, “sorry baby, i gotta get goin’.”

this is a normal part of being in a relationship with a pro hero. him leaving early, dates being cut short or at four am you’d get a kiss on your forehead saying he’s off for an emergency. but today feels completely different, a sinking feeling slapping the pit of your gut.

there’s a booming sound far off in the distance causing your home to shake from the impact. you clutch onto your boyfriend, fear rippling through your body.

“oh my god,” your eyes are the size of golf balls, but your boyfriend is rising to his feet, eyes still skimming text on his phone. he pulls your body off of his, leaving you alone on your sofa.

“it’s on the west side of town, a few streets over. they’ve got my location, that’s why they’re askin’ me.” he takes his hand through his hair, stuffing his phone into his pocket, “sorry about this baby, i won’t be long, a few hours and i’ll come back here.”

there’s another explosion which drags your legs to your window. your heartbeat is in your ears and you become conscious of your morality. the danger is so close, you could be hurt next, your home and it’s your boyfriend who’s going to go out to fight it.

orange and yellow lights, a hurricane dust of smoke near the park you take your evening strolls around. you think you can see a hero in the distance, darting around the explosion but you can’t make out the villain. never have you had danger this close to you.

you spin around to katsuki who's kneeling to tie his boots, phone vibrating relentlessly in his pocket. he’s looping his laces, looking around your flat for his jacket. he’s got his hero gear in the car.

you blink at him, your breaths hitching in your throat.

“you’re leaving me.”

bakugou takes you in properly for the first time since the texts. he snapped into hero mode like second nature, he’s always been taught that the best heroes move without hesitation. there’s civilians that need help, every second is somebody hurt.

but now, dynamight fights bakugou katsuki, your katsuki.

the love of his life is trembling, looking smaller than he’s ever seen. your bottom lip shakes and you wrap your arms around your torso to self soothe. tears well along your waterline and there’s no way for bakugou to not scoop you up, his strong arms around your back.

“baby, baby,” he coos, though his brain racks with the best thing to do in this situation. he needs to leave but he can’t leave you. “you’re okay, nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

every second is a life, hero training screams through his head.

“b-but it’s so close and—,” your flat shakes from a blast outside, rattling your eardrum, “don’t leave me, i’m scared.”

you cry in his arms, throat raw with screams as you jump from the noise and you can’t stop blubbering.

“please don’t.” he can only hug you tighter, “w-what if you die? you can’t die on me k-katsuki.”

that makes him pull off you, pushing you back to sit on your sofa. he crouches in front of you, cradling your head in his hands. you’re his baby, on the verge of a panic attack and there’s nothing more he wants than to rock you to sleep.

“baby, breathe,” he levels with you, ignoring the emergency messages on his phone buzzing through his pocket. people need him, “you’re going to be fine, you’ve got me to look after you. i’m one of the best fuckin’ heroes in the country, nothing that goes against me wins. you know that, yeah?”

you force yourself to nod, hiccuping every few breaths.

“so i’ve gotta go out there and handle the situation. my sidekicks are saying it’s not that bad out there, ‘s not gonna take long. a few hours and i’ll be back here for you.”

you can’t think straight, not when another boom shakes under your feet. a ceramic cup you left on the kitchen counter rattles against the counter tops and cracks against the floor.

you scream but bakugou shushes you smoothly, “you’re fuckin’ strong baby, brave as hell. i want you to stay here, call one of your friends to chat. you’re gonna be safe. once i get out there it will be sorted.”

“don’t leave me,” you whisper and bakugou’s heart cracks in his chest. these are those scenarios they mentioned in class years ago regarding relationships, friends and family. the civilians have to come first, despite.

he kisses you softly on your lips but you can barely give anything back.

“i’ve gotta go, babygirl.”

you whimper, resting your head on his shoulder. your shoulders tremble, tears falling on your leggings.

“listen, you know dynamight. he never fuckin’ loses, he’s gonna get me back safely. back before you know it.”

dragging himself away from you is hellish but the sooner he’s goes, the quicker he gets back to you. he kisses the back of your palm, three times as you wipe your nose. he wishes he was the boyfriend that could lay with you through this, whisper in your ear while another guy goes out to save the city. but he was the chosen one, trained his life to do so.

“i’m sorry, baby. so fuckin’ sorry,” he wipes under his eye, he needs to look strong here, “i’ll be back in three hours, max. we’ll finish the movie, have a bath together. okay?”

but you’re still shaking your head at him, staring at your hand as he finally lets go. “katsuki,” your words are wet and pained.

bakugou backs up to your front door like dynamight would, “you’re safe, baby. three hours, okay?”

you know he has to leave, but fear makes you irrational, selfish. “don’t get hurt. i don’t want you to go.”

he opens the door and your breath hitches, “a few hours. you’re strong, you can do a few hours for me. i love you, babygirl.”

you hug your knees on your sofa, rocking back and forth. 

“i l-love you too,” you shake, wiping your eyes.

once bakugou closes your front door, he runs out of your building down to his car to get out his hero gear. he’s only got your face in mind, begging him to stay, for him not to die.

after tackling the villain, handing them over to the police, the compulsory after-fight interviews, giving his reports to his agency, the police and the commission, dynamight makes his way back to your apartment.

two hours and forty eight minutes later. usually this is a five hour ordeal, sometimes six but he’s cut it down significantly like he promised.

he lets himself into your apartment and strips all the blood, dirt and danger at the door. bakugou’s only in a vest and underwear as he walks into your bedroom, finding you fast asleep under your covers.

you’re frowning, tears dry on your cheeks. he feels horrible for leaving you. what boyfriend leaves his girlfriend crying, scared shitless?

he should shower, get rid of the smoke out his hair and the dust on his cheeks but he can’t resist a second away from you. he tucks himself in your covers, tugging you close to his chest.

“i’m so sorry. i’m so fuckin’ sorry, baby.”

“katsuki?” you whisper, throat dry and raw as you blink awake. “you’re safe.”

“i’m s-sorry for leavin’ you earlier. hated it so goddamn much,” he sniffs your hair, smells warm and familiar. katsuki doesn’t realise the tears falling down his cheeks but as you blink awake that’s the first thing you notice.

“don’t cry, ‘tsuki.” you smile softly, sleep creased in your face, “i’m sorry for earlier, i was just… scared.”

you’re embarrassed to admit that, especially with the way you were acting earlier. making him choose between you and the city but that is what happens when you love a hero, you can’t always come first.

“wish i didn't have to choose,” he sniffs, “wish i could choose you every time.”

you rub your thumb over his cheek, cradling his jaw, “it’s okay, sweetie. we are all lucky we get you looking after us.”

he huffs, wiping his face roughly, “didn't mean too fuckin’ cry. seein’ you so goddamn terrified. i hated it.”

it’s a reversal from earlier, you comforting him as the whites of his eyes flush with red veins. you kiss his nose in the darkness, “you did what was right and you’re back with me now.”

bakugou wants to promise he will never leave you again, that this is the last time he will choose the country over you but he can’t.  

[evergone]

Goodnight Kisses

Kyle Rayner x reader | fluff

Warnings: Firearms, pet-names and nicknames used, reader is not given an explicit gender or pronoun for the sake of making this short work accessible to any gender identity.

Description: Kyle's away for the time being, so he and reader have to make super-long-distance work.

“Where are you?” you ask, a cloud forming on your lip as your hot breath hits the winter air.

“A galaxy far, far away.” Kyle’s voice comes through your phone with a tinny overtone, but still, you can hear his self-satisfied smirk.

You shake your head and chuckle at his joke, but your eyes stay trained above you. All the lights in the house are off, all the street lights have mysteriously been broken and your neighbours could swear they heard a shotgun go off a couple times earlier today. The stars are so visible in the depth of the darkness that you can almost see different colours and shapes in them.

“Seriously, Ky, where are you?”

His voice becomes more serious, yet it softens at the same time as a yawn escapes him. He says, “I forget what sector it is… Sector two-something… It’s been a long day.”

“Fine. What direction should I be looking?”

In your hands is a warm mug full of hot chocolate with a white marshmallow melting into the milk. Taking a sip lets the heat rush through your body. In front of you is your telescope, a Christmas gift you and Kyle split the cash for because it was technically for you both.

“To the left of Venus, and then out really far into space, like, five million light years away,” he replies.

You place your eye on the telescope and angle it correctly. You catch the side of Venus and remember the night the two of you spent there. Kyle’s ring provided a clean socket of air which protected you both from the toxic atmosphere. He thought it would be cool, but there was nothing to do there, so you came home after only twenty minutes of fruitless exploration.

“I can see you,” you lie.

“Oh, yeah? How many fingers am I holding up?” he challenges you.

“Hm, five?” the guess slips out in the hopes that you might accidentally be right and he’ll think you’re telling the truth.

“Nope, try again. Look more carefully,” he says playfully. “Can you see me waving it around?”

“Yep, definitely can! That’s three fingers.”

Kyle laughs, “No, you liar. None. I didn’t even move my hand from my phone.”

How his phone works in a completely different galaxy is completely beyond you. It must have something to do with his ring, because there certainly aren't any satellites there, or at least not any that could connect to Earth.

You press your own fingers to your lips and blow a kiss towards the unknown sector far, far away from you.

“I just sent you a kiss,” you tell Kyle.

“It’ll take five million years to get here, but I’ll wait to catch it,” he says and yawns once again. “Love you, precious, good night.”

“Love you, Ky. Sleep well.”

[batwngs]

this is so cute wtff i love that the reader and kyle are still managing to make time for one another despite him being off world; and i love the idea that they bought a telescope for this very purpose :') there is something so deeply romantic in its silliness, but looking to the stars in search of your lover is so 😮‍💨❣️

but also maybe its bc im insane but i was so enamored by the entire dialogue and movement surrounding locating kyle:

“To the left of Venus, and then out really far into space, like, five million light years away,” he replies. You place your eye on the telescope and angle it correctly. You catch the side of Venus and remember the night the two of you spent there. Kyle’s ring provided a clean socket of air which protected you both from the toxic atmosphere. He thought it would be cool, but there was nothing to do there, so you came home after only twenty minutes of fruitless exploration. “I can see you,” you lie. “Oh, yeah? How many fingers am I holding up?” he challenges you.

like god there is something to be said about the physical act of searching amongst the stars for him, but also how intimate the movements are, esp in how you wrote them. there inherently is a requirement for a lot of gentleness and care that comes with operating a telescope, esp one strong enough to see venus and other neighboring stars and planets in winter from a city with insane light pollution. and not only that u have to be attuned to the way the universe shifts ever so slightly during seasons, how venus fluctuates between morning and evening star (which considering its cold out in the realm of this fic for the reader to be holding a mug of hot chocolate, it would make it an evening star here, hanging low just above the horizon) like there is such a level of intimacy that comes about being an astro-cartographer, esp for the purposes of locating ur green lantern bf in space :')

and i love how the dialogue in this reads so naturally; there is this real layer of familiarity and ease and silliness that feels so necessary to fill the five million light year difference that stands between them :'0 like ur dialogue writing really reads so naturally its so strong throughout this and despite their physical distances the love is so prominent and present in their laughter and smiles and flying kisses sent through space :'0 genuinely so in love with how soft and cute this reads im going to be thinking about sharing a telescope with kyle for days now omgg

[evergone]

my heart—😣🫶 i’m so happy u liked this so much! this is such a lovely review to read about my own work i can’t even!

sometimes you have a little vision of what you’re gonna write and you don’t know if it’ll be received the way you imagined it — and then you get a response like this,, and it’s like,, my vision is realised. people get it.

kyle is just so artistic, i always see him as the kind of person who would be too enamoured by an artist’s notions of space to think very much about the scientific truths. i reckon he would’ve taken the reader to venus for valentine’s with the idea that the planet was a symbol of love, and then been absolutely wrecked to find out it’s not even habitable let alone romantic.

thank you so much!

[evergone]

New Girl

Freshly out of a relationship, you're forced by desperation to move into an apartment with your high school sweetheart, Bakugo Katsuki (who has also recently become single again), and his friends.

Warning: Not suitable for readers under the age of 18, swearing, semi-nudity/nudity, sexual content (but no smut).

“You know what’s funny?” you say, looking at the three men sprawled out on the lounge in front of you. “When I saw your Facebook post about looking for yet another roommate, I thought to myself: damn, these guys are hopeless.”

The one in the middle, a blond with a punk-ish lightning bolt through his fringe, Kaminari, laughs but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The redheaded (and rather more buff) man to his right, Kirishima, chuckles along with him, but he, unlike Kaminari, seems genuinely amused. The electric type now sits forward, growing more serious.

“And why, might I ask, would you think that?” he asks, a deadpan look on his face.

On the other side of him, his left, the man who has thus far been simultaneously silent yet so clearly volatile — Katsuki Bakugo — breaks his stern frown with a grin. His spiky hair presses into the back cushion of the lounge as he makes himself more comfortable.

“Oh, I dunno, I guess it was the tone of it. It was like, uh—” pinching the bridge of your nose, you search your mind for what exactly had given you the hopeless impression— “like, desperate in a way. Almost like you were begging on the street or something.”

“Kaminari made the post,” Bakugo teases.

Very visible from the way he puckers his lips and squints so the edges of his eyes wrinkle, Kaminari is swallowing back a scoff. He glances over at Kirishima, who is still in a haze of amusement at their current situation. Then he’s pulling off his shirt.

Your eyes widen, locking with those of Bakugo at the whim of a nostalgic connection. His eyes sparkle like rubies in the light coming through the window. As he turns to Kaminari, an unimpressed frown re-settles on his ash-blond brows.

“What are you doing?” he huffs.

Kaminari’s shirt is completely gone now, his bare chest way too exposed for a rental interview, even if it is just between old friends.

“Do these look desperate to you? These look homeless? These look like they belong to a beggar?” he says and gestures to his admittedly well-formed pecs.

Again, Bakugo catches your gaze, though this time it was he who glanced at you first. He mutters a short apology, the one word carrying more shame and personal responsibility for his roommate’s action than it, at first utterance, seems to.

Meanwhile, Kirishima is unfazed. He watches Kaminari with Luciferian pride and, with all the suave of a wet towel, informs you that he’s been training Kaminari.

Tapping the bare abs, Kirishima says, “this is my masterpiece. Three years of work sculpted into six gorgeous specimens.”

Bakugo nearly gags, “I hate you both.”

“This is what makes a top fifty hero, princess,” Kaminari nods, very much full of himself.

“What?” Kirishima exclaims with newfound disgust dripping off his tongue, “what did you call her?”

Kaminari looks at Kirishima. He blinks once, amber eyes adding to the set of gems above Bakugo’s scarred cheeks.

“Go put a dollar in the jar,” Kirishima orders.

The jar? The three men squabble amongst themselves for a moment before Kaminari concedes. He drags his feet across the floorboards to the side table where a jar holding about sixty bucks in change sits. There’s a sticky note on the front reading: Douchebag jar.

As their back-and-forth comes to a close, you find yourself remembering how goddamn desperate you are for a place to stay.

You offer up your compliments; you just love the neighbourhood— so close to work!— and they were always the best dormmates in high school. At the same time, you drop your (recently become) ex-boyfriend’s name, pulling a tight-lipped look of sheer depression as you blink back tears.

Kaminari, in the process of putting his shirt back on, reassures you, “it’s okay. Bakugo gets it—” he juts his chin towards the spiky-haired man— “he was dumped, too.”

“It was months ago, Kaminari,” Bakugo scoffs, and he huffs as the memory of his break up seems to flash in his mind.

He becomes increasingly heated as he growls, “I’m over it. I’ve been over it. You both need to get on board!” he starts glaring from roommate-to-roommate-to- (with a strangely shy flick of his eye) you, as he continues, “I don’t want to hear about it again.”

Clearly, your sob story charms absolutely none of them, so you move to more obvious measures. You talk yourself up — yes, you can be a little annoying, but you’re higher in the hero rankings than two of them so you’ve got a secure job, solid pay, you’re good at arts and crafts (Bakugo’s gonna be sick, he hates artsy types), your music taste is immaculate (though you do have a tendency to sing quite literally all the time). This hardly sells them on you.

So, desperate times, and all that.

You admit, “Jiro’s sick of me crashing on her couch, guys. She said if it comes to it, which I see it has, she’ll go on a date with Kaminari if you agree to let me have the room.” Kaminari’s gaze is trained on you.

“How soon can you move in?” he asks, his volume overpowering Bakugo and Kirishima’s protest that this was a low blow, even for you.

Still, they can’t argue with the power Jiro has over Kaminari. And just like that, you’re in.

“Her living with us means absolutely nothing, you know that, right?” Kirishima tells Bakugo the day they’re helping you move in.

You’re over at Jiro’s with Mina and Uraraka, packing another load into the back of the hired truck. The boys, on the other hand, have stayed back to put your bed together. With the instructions no where to be found, they’re following a YouTube tutorial, prying random nuts and bolts from a ziplock bag.

“I didn’t take it to mean anything,” Bakugo huffs, pulling his beer to his lips.

“Good. We were worried you might think she chose to live here because you guys dated in high school,” Kaminari says with a nod. “But you know high school relationships aren’t real if they don’t last past graduation.”

Kirishima’s gaze meets Bakugo’s in a fiery test of red against red. The red of Kirishima’s eyes is vastly calmer, though harbouring a challenge. Bakugo’s is lively and rough— the kind of red one would expect to see in the eyes of the Hardening quirk’s user.

“Yeah, I know.”

“And you know that you can’t fall in love with her, yeah? ‘Cos if you guys break up, we still have to live together,” Kirishima adds.

“Or have sex with her!” Kaminari says, pointing at Bakugo, “sex is just as bad as falling in love, except with the risk of a fifth roommate— one who doesn’t pay their share and cries all night.”

“I fuckin’ know! For fuck’s sake, do you think I’m a dumbass?”

“No. I just think you fell in love with her all over again the second she walked through our door,” Kirishima says knowingly.

Language is lost to him as movement fails his tongue and vibration fails his vocal cords. He throws a glare at Kaminari, who shrugs and tosses his hands up in surrender, but Bakugo can’t force Kirishima to stand down as easily. Ever the pillar of strength in masculinity, Kirishima only raises his eyebrows until Bakugo reluctantly reminds them that they need to finish the bed.

Not too long later, the jingle of keys followed by a fit of toothachingly sweet laughter heralds your return. The boys catch the latter half of a conversation— the words he’s hot, and bit of a slob, though, and thank you for your sacrifice— hit their ears.

Fast as his namesake, Kaminari’s head whips around, and he scrambles out of your room to the entryway. There, he finds Jiro kicking off her shoes and swapping them for slippers. You and the other girls are there too, but he’s too single-minded to care about that.

Jiro’s got half her plum hair braided back, with her lopsided bangs hanging over her earpiece. A leather jacket and one of her favourite Deep Dope shirts (he knows it’s one of her favourites because he remembers everything about her) obscure much of her figure. But her miniskirt is tight around her thighs, which grow more muscular every time he sees her.

“Denki~ you’re drooling~” Mina coos, twirling her pointer at him.

Both he, and the victim of his ogling, blush at the same time that Uraraka, Mina, and you erupt into that harmony of girlish laughter. Jiro lightly slaps Mina’s bicep as a warning. They look at each other, a whole conversation happening between them in complete silence.

“How’s the bed going?” you ask.

You bring a suitcase full of clothes in with you, Jiro has your bedding, Mina has your cutlery, and Uraraka floats in half the truck’s contents on her own.

Instead of answering you, Kaminari pulls Jiro into an energetic discussion about an upcoming album launch being hosted by a band she got him into. You roll your eyes and bite your lip.

Luckily, though, Bakugo notices you never got a response. He’s been intently listening since he first heard the keys. Just as Mina heads for the kitchen, he strolls out of your room. His shoulders are lazily hunched, and his bad hand is in his pocket while the other holds his beer.

“Don’t put those in my cutlery drawer!” he hisses at Mina first, then turns to you with a far milder tone, saying, “bed’s nearly done.”

“Do you need some help?” you offer, leaning your suitcase against the couch.

“Where the hell am I gonna put them if not in the cutlery drawer?” Mina interjects with her teeth bared.

“I don’t care where you put them as long as you don’t put them in my goddamn cutlery drawer!” Bakugo spits back before glancing down at your vintage spoon collection and adding, “or anywhere in my kitchen for that matter.”

“Hey!” you exclaim, jutting your bottom lip out.

“It’s a communist kitchen, Bakugo! It belongs to all of us!” Kirishima calls from your room.

“The word is communal, hair-for-brains, how many times do I gotta tell you that?” Bakugo yells back, promptly choosing to ignore the rest of Kirishima’s discourse.

Your pout dispels the annoyance on his face, and he answers your offer from before with: “we’ve got the bed. Won’t be long. Promise.”

Nodding your appreciation for his work with your furniture, you scurry off to help Uraraka. You hardly realise you’ve forgotten to swallow until you pass Mina and she whispers that you’re drooling too, with the same playful accent she directed towards Kaminari.

When, later that night, Bakugo makes dinner, it’s impossible not to open the conversation about high school. You all pretty quickly descend into roasting each other’s cooking abilities. Uraraka’s potato peel pie almost killed half of today’s greatest pro-heroes before their prime.

It’s even harder once you pull out the several packs of beer and cider you bought to express your gratitude for everyone’s help today. Worse still once Kirishima and Mina each pull housewarming gifts (bottles of red wine) out of thin air.

With the addition of alcohol, you guys start forgetting that you’re in an apartment block. Jiro connects her phone to Kaminari’s bluetooth speaker. Her head’s in his lap as he waterfalls pear cider between her lips. Mina pulls you and Uraraka up to dance as she sways her hips along to a nineties hit.

Uraraka slips her hand into yours when Mina ushers Kirishima to join in. She, Uraraka, pulls you close and her mouth draws so close to your ear that you can smell the alcohol she’s been drinking.

“He’s smitten,” she whispers and you can feel the smile breaking out on her face.

“No, he’s not,” you laugh just as quietly.

Sneaking a peek in the direction of the man in question, your eyes lock on to his. He looks away, sipping his beer.

“He helped you move in, built your bed, and made dinner for you,” Uraraka says, stepping away so she can read your expression.

In doing this, she also gives you a solid view of her chest and arms. Uraraka is jacked. She has been since Gunhead got her weirdly obsessed with martial arts. You tell her as much, and she coughs her thanks before returning to the topic at hand.

“On Mum’s, he’s smitten,” she says as a matter of fact, then asks, “are you?”

“I told you earlier that I still think he’s hot. More than he was when we were together, really,” you mumble.

She squeals and erupts into giggles. As she places the last of her fingers down on your arms, your feet lift off the floor. Eyebrows now raised and mouth now closed flat, you poke her chubby cheeks until she finally presses the pads of her fingers together and lowers you back to the ground. You scurry away from the impromptu dance floor.

There’s a ruby gaze boring into your shoulder when you sit down beside Kaminari. Uraraka pulls Jiro up to take your place in a gossip-filled pas de deux. Kaminari keeps her in his line of sight over the horizon of the beer bottle in his hand.

“I need her,” he says as he places the glass down. “Not just as a favour for letting you move in, but, like, legitimately.”

When you don’t say anything in return (too busy avoiding that ruby gaze), he takes it as his sign to continue, stating, “you have to help me. You’ve always been the best at setting people up.”

This steals your attention. Looking at Kaminari in all his heart-eyed, wet-lipped glory, a clock ticks over in your mind. The truth becomes obvious in a way it’s never really appeared to before. Kaminari’s schoolboy crush on Jiro has transformed into something much more profound.

And, it’s true. Matchmaking is your hidden talent. The number of couples you’ve set up in your time is becoming a bit ridiculous. Once, the wedding invitations were stuck on the fridge in the apartment you shared with your ex-boyfriend, now they’re kept safe in a shoebox under your freshly rebuilt bed.

With a sigh, you admit defeat. You get too carried away with the notion of making the perfect match, and it can’t be denied that Kaminari and Jiro would make an excellent pair.

“I’ll do this for you, but you’ll owe me one, okay?” you say and point into his sternum to confirm. He nods. It’s on.

“The game is King’s Cup, U.A. rules because, I mean, that’s the only true and honest way to play,” you announce with a glass of wine in one hand and the other thrown out in a shrug as you scoff at the obvious nature of your statement.

“Hear, hear!” Uraraka exclaims seriously, her own drink raised in cheers.

The group has migrated to the table in the dining room. A vase has been emptied and placed in the centre to be the proverbial King’s cup, and around it is a deck of cards, the Jokers still shuffled in somewhere.

Standard King’s Cup rules would have you take these out. But in third year, when your class and class 3-B threw the dorms’ most notorious rager (of the kind that would impress Corey Worthington), the Jokers became emblems of this edition. They haven’t been taken out since, and the deck originally used to play it is still passed down by U.A.’s graduating class every year.

“Remember, if you pick up a Joker, you must announce it and hold on to it until the next Joker is picked up, and then it’s Seven Minutes in freakin’ Heaven, people!” you sing.

At the same time, you point finger guns at each person around the table, starting with Bakugo to your right, and finishing at Kaminari to your left. The former rolls his eyes, while the latter winks and tugs the end of your sleeve down. The two cards you’ve stuffed up there scrape against your skin, but at least no one can see them.

You learnt sleight of hand for a mission when you were just out of school. It frequently comes in clutch.

The group all take a swig to start the game, then paper, scissors, rock to decide who goes first. Bakugo’s so obnoxious about it when he wins, cracking a grin and picking up the card while everyone else is still mid-groan, and while Mina’s still reeling that she lost to Bakugo ‘never-picks-anything-other-than-rock’ Katsuki.

“Eight,” he says casually and turns to you, “you’re my mate.”

Both Mina and Kaminari burst into laughter. The implication isn’t lost on you as your cheeks heat up and you quietly scold Bakugo for not thinking before he spoke. He just keeps grinning down at you with sparkling eyes, too tipsy to put his walls back up.

Clearing your throat, you tell everyone, “slow start, but that’s okay. Eight: mate. Every time either Bakugo or myself drink, so does the other one. My turn.”

Though your hand reaches for the pile of cards around the cup, you don’t pick one up immediately. Instead, you slip both of the cards from your sleeve just as you place your palm down. You take one, and leave the other for Kaminari. Flipping it, you reveal a King to the other players.

“Oh, yay! I get to pick a new rule this early. I have so many good options saved up, let me think…”

As you feint consideration as if you don’t have this planned out already, you put a finger on your chin and glance sideways at Kaminari.

“I’ve got it!” you happily exclaim, spreading your fingers wide and smiling at your co-conspirator, “before drawing a card you have to guess what suit it’s gonna be. If you’re wrong, you have to take off an item of clothing. If you’re right, you choose someone else to take off an item of clothing.”

“There’s fifty-two cards left and only (one, two, three, four…) seven of us!” Jiro squeals in horror, “that’s, like, seven or eight pieces of clothing each!”

“I’m not even wearing that many layers! This is unfair,” Kirishima argues, his pupils mere dots in his eyes.

“Fine. Each sock will count as one, as will each piece of jewellery, but only once you’re down to your panties,” you concede, watching as Jiro, with her fist full of rings, sighs of relief. Kaminari kicks you under the table.

You pour the rest of your glass of wine into the vase and offer an excuse me, sorry to Bakugo as you lean across him to grab the bottle to refill. He helps you balance with a guiding touch to your waist, and your hand drags along his shoulder as you sit back down.

Kaminari chooses a card, the one that was in your sleeve, and follows your rule by guessing the suit. He already knows it’s the King of Hearts, so he guesses correctly and singles Jiro out to get a little colder. She complains, rightly so, but complies, slipping off her miniskirt since she can hide her bottom half under the table.

“As for my rule,” Kaminari starts, remembering what you told him in secret earlier, “I saw something like this on Reddit, but I’m gonna make it my own. If you tell someone to drink, you have to do it in the most intimate way possible.”

“What does that mean?” Uraraka asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m lost,” you add, nodding along, “maybe, Kaminari, you can give us an example?”

The nod that follows is far too eager and you bite your lip to signal that he needs to be more inconspicuous. By the proud way he saunters around the table to Jiro, he obviously hasn’t taken the hint.

Taking her chin in his fingers, he tips her head upwards and gets so close that their noses are almost grazing one another. He scans her face from her eyelashes down to her mouth, her lips are covered in an expensive blackberry lipstick. When he finally meets her gaze again, she’s gone all doe-eyed, and a blush blankets the back of his neck.

But he presses on, saying, in his most sensual tone, “take a drink for me, won’t you, Kyoka?” before turning away and returning to his normal voice to tell everyone: “something like that.”

Settling in his seat again, the pair of you share a fist bump under the table as Jiro covers her mouth with her hand and avoids all eye contact with anyone in the group.

Next up, Kirishima guesses his suit will be Diamonds. He picks up the Nine: Rhyme of Clubs and removes his shirt. He starts the rhyme off with the word ‘dart,’ which is awfully easy to rhyme with and goes around the table for some time before anyone gets out. Part, cart, mart, fart (Mina cracks herself up with this one), art, chart, smart, heart, and so on and so forth until you’ve constructed an Odyssey-length poem. In the end, Kirishima loses, drinking for ten seconds straight as punishment for how long the game went.

Uraraka removes her pants when she also guesses Diamonds but her card ends up being the Jack of Hearts. You play a round of Never Have I Ever, Uraraka mortifying the better part of the group when she announces:

“Never have I ever had a wet dream about someone else at this table.”

You wait for Bakugo to take a sip before following his example, hoping that the others will blame the Eight: Mate for your drinking. Luckily, they’re all of them too busy justifying their own drinking and making accusations to pay attention to what you’re doing. Unfortunately, though, Bakugo notices. His eyebrow quirks, but he doesn’t say anything, and you just know he’s holding onto that one for later.

The others are hardly as bad as the game makes its way around the table, quickly shoving you all into the depths of intoxication.

Unlike her two predecessors, Jiro guesses correctly (the Queen of Spades), but is still too embarrassed from the last few rounds to even look at Kaminari. She turns on you, and you slide your shirt off, dumping it in Bakugo’s lap. He moves it only higher on his lap— not away— as he tries his best to be respectful and not look down at you. Every time he does, he gets an eyeful of boob.

Mina then makes Bakugo follow in your footsteps and take his shirt off when she also correctly guesses her suit (Two of Hearts). She picks Bakugo to drink

You’re so distracted by Mina’s giggles that the Eight: Mate escapes your mind. That is, until Bakugo hooks his foot around the far leg of your chair and spins it around so you’re facing each other. He gets up, places a hand beside each of your thighs (the weight mostly on his left), his thumbs rub circles into your skin as salted caramel musk wafts off his bare chest.

There are so many scars all over him. You look fondly on the ones you remember from back when you were dating; a couple training scars, the really vicious scars from the war, and one from where you accidentally stabbed him with stiletto acrylics. But the few you don’t recognise— a burn on his abdomen and a litter of other scars and bruises— leave a foul taste in your mouth.

“Look at me,” he orders gruffly.

Your reddening cheeks puff out, but you reluctantly obey, tilting your head back to view the scar on his face. His hand reaches those hot cheeks of yours, running over them and down along your jaw.

“You’re my mate,” he reminds you with a sultry tone of voice, “drink.”

Then, he picks up your glass and brings it to your lips, helping you to swallow. For a moment, you both forget anyone else is there as you’re too lost in the intimacy of the gesture, but when Mina clears her throat, Bakugo instantly pulls away and sits down.

He makes his guess, takes his card, and is forced to lose his jeans, but you’re too flustered to pay attention. Only when Jiro waves at you while pronouncing your name do you realise it’s your turn again and pick your card. You guess spades, but when you turn the card over and see a Joker, you concede to taking off your bottoms as well.

“Well, I guess I have to wait for the next Joker,” you shrug.

“Wait?” Jiro asks with a wild expression.

“Someone’s not been paying attention,” Kirishima laughs, pointing over your shoulder.

Cluelessly, you whip your head around to see Bakugo holding up the other Joker. Your words from earlier ring in your mind: Seven Minutes in freakin’ Heaven.

Without the necessary closet, the others stuff Bakugo and yourself into his bedroom. You clasp your hands together, feeling awkward despite the knowledge that he’s been in your room alone all day. Meanwhile, makes himself comfortable on a wheeled chair by his desk, his legs spreading too broadly for a man in just his underwear as he twists from side to side.

“You were cheatin’,” he says and crosses his arms over his chest.

“What?” you sweat. “No, I wasn’t.”

This action of his, the arm crossing, squeezes his already ridiculously large pecs together. They spill over his arms like a woman in a bra a few sizes too small. At the same time, his biceps flex, bulging against his body. The left one is considerably stronger, but the skin on the right is so taut that the weaker muscles are exaggerated, stretching his large scars out and accentuating his ruggedness. You bite your bottom lip.

“I saw you and Kaminari,” Bakugo uses his friend’s actual name in private, “what’re you two idiots doin’?”

A sigh slips past your lips and your arms come up to hold your shoulders, providing some security and coverage against the cool air of his bedroom. Bakugo watches on, his frown deepening. With just the two of you in there, as opposed to the seven in the dining room, it’s quite chilly. As goosebumps start to freckle over your skin, you worry, silently, that the pads of your bra won’t be thick enough to protect the last vestiges of your modesty if the cold reaches your breasts.

“Setting him up with Jiro,” you admit with your tongue poking out between the teeth of your smile.

“Doesn’t he get one free date for lettin’ ya move in?” Bakugo questions, his head almost imperceptibly inched to one side.

You nod, then follow it with a lazy shrug as you reply, “but he wants her. For realsies.”

“For realsies,” Bakugo mocks.

“For realsies.”

Silence washes over the room. In the past, back when you guys dated, it would’ve been comfortable. You probably would’ve reached your leg out and kicked him playfully, then he would’ve latched on and wheeled on over. Then, the silence would’ve continued, soft and sweet and childish, like the whole world was in awe of both of you.

Now, the silence is tense. The cool air seems freezing because there’s nothing else to focus on except how little you’re wearing. He’s rarely self-conscious about this kind of stuff, and for good reason. Being as built as he is, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.

But you, on the other hand; you’re teeming with embarrassment. Bakugo hasn’t seen you this bare in upwards of three years. The last image he had of you like this was when you had less evidence of bones broken in combat (betraying your inexperience at work), and when he could recall every corner of your body with perfect accuracy.

“So… You got broken up with, eh?” you start again after some time.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mumbles. “It was forever ago.”

With a laugh, you comment, “I don’t think I ever met her.”

His eyes flick up to you, red hot, and he takes note of the considerate look you’re giving him.

“She wasn’t anythin’ special. Not like… Whatever. One year and three days, then she broke up with me ‘cos she found somethin’ better,” he huffs disjointedly.

“Better than fucking Dynamight? I thought there was no such thing!”

You’re being facetious, he knows that, but the way you gasp and play into his egotism is part of the reason he always got along with you. You really do think he’s one of the best, and you aren’t afraid to tell him as much.

“There ain’t.” he nods. “How ‘bout you? What happened with your guy?”

“Two years. I met his whole family. He met mine, and met you guys, obviously. Took his little sister to meet some of her favourite heroes— our old teachers, mostly, and the Phantom Thief (of all people). We moved in together. He uprooted his life for my career. But, um,” you glance down at your hands which have settled into your lap to pick at the edges of your fingernails.

Bakugo waits for you to finish your sentence with no physical sign of impatience. Inside, though, he’s bursting at the seams. For some reason, not unbeknownst to him, but certainly not a reason he cares to admit, he needs to know what happened between you and that fuckwit.

“Two years, you know? Two years and I could never say…” you squeak out, your eyebrows press tightly together and your lip is getting chewed to death. “I swear, Bakugo… I prayed every night that I would fall in love with him.”

“And every night I prayed you wouldn’t,” Bakugo whispers so quietly you almost miss it.

Head whipping up to lock onto that red gaze of his, you let the hold of his stare shackle you in place. There is barely any softness in Bakugo’s body, not even now. His gaze, though completely and utterly entranced, is firm, sharp, solid. Smitten, to him, is a sword pressed against his heart, and you’re its master.

“Well, I guess you’re God’s favourite. He never answered my prayers.”

Chimes hit your ears, and the door opens a millisecond later. Mina stands in the way, a devilishly presumptuous expression on her features at first. When she scans the room and finds the pair of you seated at least a metre away from one another, she exclaims loudly that you haven’t so much as touched and slams the door again. Bakugo lets out a string of expletives that shouldn’t be repeated in writing, but when he goes to force his way out, Kirishima and Uraraka are on the other side, holding the door closed.

“C’mon bro!” yells Kirishima. “You gotta at least kiss, you slacker!”

“Yeah! Kiss, kiss, kiss!” Mina adds, starting a chant that grows until the whole lot of them have joined in.

Bakugo turns back around to you, his open-mouthed glare somewhere between furious and horrified. You just look at your hands again with a lighthearted smile.

“Come,” you say with a wave, “let’s just do it. Get it over with.”

This isn’t what you mean to say. And it certainly isn’t what Bakugo wants to hear.

“No.”

“What? Just do it. It’s not like we haven’t kissed before.”

There’s this casual, off-handed tone in your voice like you didn’t imply only seconds ago that you haven’t loved anyone since him. He’s seething, and it shows in the red climbing up his back, over his ears, and across his cheeks.

Sick of this, you stand up and go to him. He tries to dodge, but when you send him a pout he gets stuck in place. The chant is hardly atmospheric.

“Kiss me,” you tell him.

“No.”

“God, Bakugo! You’re being ridiculous. Just kiss me.”

“I said no! I don’t want to kiss you!”

“Oh!” your eyes slim in offense.

Your voices start to overlap as the chanting outside slows to a stop. You can barely tell your words from his as they fly out of your mouth without thought.

“You don’t want to kiss me? Hah, you don’t wanna kiss me!”

“No— I just— fuck! You’re infuriating!”

“You could just kiss me and then we’d be outta here, Bakugo! And then, you wouldn’t have to deal with me!”

“I would have to deal with you, because we live together!”

“Okay, so just kiss me and we can forget this ever happened! Oh, but, sorry! You don’t want to kiss me!”

“No, I don’t! Not— not like this.”

A beat. Bakugo breathes so hard that on the inhale, his chest grazes yours.

“Wh… ‘Not like this?’ what does that mean?” you ask a hundred decibels quieter.

As he finds his words, you’re attempting to control the sides of your lips which seem to be inching ever upwards. Your eyes, now round and sparkly like a doll’s, keep contact with his no matter how hard he tries to look away, even if you have to step out of place to remain in his line of sight.

“I didn’t mean— Like, you just— Uh— What, well, I—”

“What do you mean by that, Bakugo? Like what?”

Bakugo can’t stay here. He can’t keep looking at you in your bra and undies and nothing else. A glance to his window. It hasn’t got a screen on it. You catch this, the hint that the perpetrator is about to run, and shake your head. As you reach out to touch him, coax him to stay, he bolts, grabbing a pair of pants on the way.

He’s blasting out the window before you have the chance to apologise for pushing him too hard.

Everyone leaves by two o’clock. The vibes are deteriorated so drastically that no one can stay any longer. Uraraka and Mina are picked up by Sero who has just finished a shift nearby, while Jiro catches a cab home. Kaminari asks her to stay the night, but she needs to be alone in her own place for once.

You thank them all for their help as they go. Kaminari and Kirishima tell you to get some rest, they’ll wait up for Bakugo. But since you’re the most responsible for his crash out, and since they spent all day moving and building things for you, you force them all to bed.

Making yourself a tea, you sit on the floor in front of the door and wait.

Bakugo comes home an hour later, unlocking the door with the key he always keeps on him, and almost leaps out of his skin when he stumbles over you. It wakes you up, as you’ve fallen asleep and spilled your tea all over your pyjamas in the meantime. He squats down to your level, placing a hand on your cheek and humming when you lean into it with a tired pout.

“I’m sorry,” you utter, but he just shakes his head.

“What are you doin’ on the floor?” he takes the mug from your lap and helps you to your feet. “Go get changed. I’ll make you another tea. I want one anyway.”

You listen to his instructions, sneaking past Kirishima’s room to your own and changing into fresh pyjamas. When you return, Bakugo’s in the kitchen with your mug on the island, freshly steaming. There’s not another mug anywhere.

“Don’t be sorry. I’ve missed your dumb antics,” Bakugo says and passes you the tea.

“I’ve missed you, too, B.”

You jump up onto the bench and sit there with your legs swinging close to him. You’re both quiet for a while. Long enough for you to assume that the conversation is over and you’ll never move forward from the place you’re in right now. Then he clears his throat with that cough he does whenever he wants to say something smart or profound or, God forbid, kind, but is too shy to bring it up out of no where. You ask him what’s on his mind.

“I used to love it when you sat on my desk at school,” he responds cautiously.

When you smile at him, he finds himself persuaded to go on.

“I don’t know why. I think it was just that… I’d never had trouble makin’ friends before. People in junior high used to naturally gravitate towards me because I had the best quirk. Which, by the way, still stands, but, you know, everyone had decent quirks at U.A.”

“Oh, come on, Bakugo, give us more credit than that,” you laugh into your cup.

“Fine. Everyone had cool quirks—”

“Thank you,” you interject.

“— which meant they didn’t care about mine, and instead they cared about my flamin’ pile o’ shit personality,” he smirks at himself, but there’s some pain there, “I was abrasive and angry, and I was havin’ a hard time makin’ friends for the first time in my life.

“So when you sat on my desk— the girl who could make friends with anyone because, fuckin’ Hell, you could never shut up—”

“Hey!”

“See! You won’t stop interrupting me.” he laughs and you roll your eyes. “As I was saying, I liked when ya sat on my desk, ‘cos you wouldn’t shut up and ya kept askin’ me questions, involving me.”

A blush paints your ears as you add, “you were so antisocial. It stressed me out that you had no one and didn’t seem to want to make any friends. I had to fix it.”

“You’re such a control freak.”

“Says you, Bakugo.”

Both of you laugh, and continue talking about school and the things you used to get up to as a couple. Skipping class, sneaking out, training together late into the night so that you’d both end up as some of the greatest heroes the world had ever seen. He wanted to be number one, you were happy just to be someone. Tangible glory was his ambition, yours was all about the feeling of success— the adrenaline, the power— you could never be happy at the top, because then there would be nothing to strive for.

“Hey,” he frowns, “I’ve been meaning to ask. When’d ya stop callin’ me Katsuki?”

“Dunno. Sometime after we broke up, I guess,” you shrug.

“Well. Breaking up never changed who you are to me. So, I kinda hoped it wouldn’t change who I am to you.”

As a matchmaker, you were always awake to your suitability as a couple. Even outside of your careers. He was the kind of guy to go to bed early, wake up before the sun to hit the gym, clean his whole house every Saturday morning without fail, all the while ignoring his social obligations. You were the kind of person to sleep when you weren’t able to stay awake any longer, wake up whenever your body told you to, leave a mess everywhere, all the while collecting friends like Pokémon.

When you finish your tea, he pops it in the dishwasher, and you walk towards your rooms quietly. They’re just across the hall from each other. You scratch the back of your neck in common awkwardness as Bakugo walks on your tail with his hands in his pockets. Stopping at the door, you both turn to look at the other with a straight lipped smile.

“Good night, Katsuki,” you say, tapping his forearm.

“G’night,” he nods.

You pivot around to your door, taking the handle with the satisfaction of restoring your friendly relationship with Katsuki after three years in Limbo.

But then, you feel his rough hand clasp your free arm and spin you back around into his embrace, his lips smashing into yours. His front, still bare from earlier, presses against your breasts as he cradles your body, littering it with shy, hungry touches as your arms wrap around his neck. You come up onto your tip-toes, and he lowers himself slightly, never letting your lips escape more than a centimetre from his own.

Within seconds, you’re lifted up off the floor, giving you the high ground to explore his mouth with your tongue, relearning all the small details that once were an extension of your own body. He places you back down, kissing softer now, savouring every taste of your skincare routine as you cherish the salty-sweetness of his natural scent. You have to hold back a whine when he pulls away, his hands settling on your hips and his ruby eyes locking hard and concentrated on yours.

“I meant somethin’ like that,” he says and lets you go, immediately retreating into his room with a firm sense of achievement.

When his door clicks shut, you stand there, astonished. A breath comes out as your eyes widen and flicker between sight and a blurred repetition of the scene that just encompassed you.

[evergone]

Work Christmas Party

Guy Gardner x reader

Warnings: 18+ only, sexual content secondary to plot, getting caught, swearing etc. mostly cutesy but Guy is Guy.

Description: Guy’s partner meets his co-workers for the first time and they can hardly believe she’s real, let alone as lovely and educated as she is.

Securing a plus one to the Justice League’s Christmas party is on the harder side of things Guy’s had to do in his life. Luckily, he’s got the willpower of… well, the willpower of himself, and what Guy Gardner wants, Guy Gardner sure does get.

It takes some serious restraint for the entire month of November, and some even more serious brown-nosing (as he would call it) of table manager Batman and event planner Zatanna. But, by God, he gets it. Batman hands it over exactly ten days before the party, Guy’s girlfriend’s name written on the front of the invite and an NDA enclosed.

“She’s not that kinda gal, Bats,” Guy reassures him with a slap on the back. “But, fuckin’ A, you won’t regret this. My girl’s the hottest woman alive.”

“As if, Gardner! We’ll just see if she actually shows or if she’s a figment of your imagination,” Booster Gold laughs, holding his fist out to the Flash.

“That was a good one, but I think I’m diametrically opposed to ever fist-bumping you, Booster,” Flash says with a flat smile and Booster lowers his hand in defeat.

“Nah, you mouse-dicks can go fuck yourselves,” Guys starts, “you’re gonna want to once ya see my girl, that’s for damn sure!”

“Ew, Guy, just… ew.” the Flash shakes his head.

You hold a green dress over your naked body an hour before you’re supposed to arrive at the Watchtower.

“Okay, look, Guy. There’s the green one — classic, gorgeous, perfectly Green Lantern-ish, but kinda overdone, no?”

It’s all of those things you’ve said and more. Green folds that’ll drape over your curves and make you look more like a Greek goddess than even Wonder Woman, and a back so low you’ll be showing off a risky portion of side boob.

The jewellery you’ve got to go with it is made from extraterrestrial metal of a similar shade to gold. Each piece seems to move in the light, constricting around your arms and neck like a snake, the belt twisting around your waist like a corset.

“Or the other option is the red — tight, sexy, Christmas-y, for sure, but it’s giving less Green Lantern and more blast from the enraged past.”

Switching hands, you hold the red dress up to your body. This dress is made for you. No, really, Guy had it made for you as an anniversary present so it fits your measurements perfectly. Made entirely of velvet with boning in the bust to scoop and hold your breasts and a slit up the length of your thigh, this dress is sex in material form.

For this one, your jewellery is less unique, but more old Hollywood glam of the kind you know Guy loves. A choker of lab-grown diamonds as well as a matching bracelet, earrings, and what Guy calls a fat fuck-off cocktail ring which he sometimes regrets not saving for his future proposal. He spoils you rotten is all you can say.

“Princess, you’re not even dressed yet and I can’t wait to rip that red one off you,” Guy says, licking his lips and staring at you ravenously.

You giggle musically, abandoning the green dress on the floor and enlisting Guy’s help to put on the red one. He takes his precious time positioning your boobs just right in the bust of the dress, holding back the urge to leave an array of love bites all over as he gropes them in. Your makeup takes you forty-five minutes, so by the time Guy tosses you your vintage marabou boa and red heels, you’re already running fifteen minutes late.

Still, he stops you at the door, his eyes running up and down your figure.

“Fuck, babe, you’re givin’ me a hard-on,” he mutters.

You flush red, “then stop looking. We have to get to this Christmas party first.”

“Wait, wait, wait—” he grabs your hand as you turn to leave and pulls you back, running his fingers along the slit on your thigh— “you sure we gotta go? We could stay here and I could help ya outta this boob-prison and we could just make sweet, sweet love all night long.”

It’s tempting, but you stand your ground, reminding Guy that he’s supposed to be showing you off tonight, instead of keeping you to himself like usual. He groans a purposefully lusty groan to test your strength once more, but ultimately surrenders.

The outfits people wear to the Justice League Christmas party are vast and varied. Heroes with public identities typically have the opportunity to wear something nicer, as John Stewart wears a perfectly tailored seventies-black-dandy-inspired suit and Donna Troy is in a traditional Themysciran dress that looks carved into her figure as if she’s a statue.

The secret identities tend to wear, at the very least, a mask covering their eyes. For Green Arrow, this means his usual green mask with a Saint Laurent suit from the Fall/Winter season. Meanwhile, Batman wears his full cowl with a handmade suit in a similar shape to his usual uniform so as to hide his figure. But some of those more lenient with their identities, like Hal Jordan, who hasn’t been Earth-side in years now, take their masks off just for this occasion.

“I notice Gardner’s not here yet,” Booster says loudly as he inserts himself into Hal’s conversation, “is he hiding because he knows that girl of his is fake and he can’t face the truth?”

Booster’s also gone maskless, wearing a western-style outfit with a bolo tie, his golden locks (possibly his namesake) styled like the people’s princess’s.

“Y/n’s not fake,” says Hal with a raised brow, “why would she be fake?”

The Flash arrives at Hal’s side instantly, having heard him from across the room.

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve met Guy’s girlfriend?” Flash asks, staring at Hal in suspicion.

“Yeah, most of the Lanterns have. Let me tell you, though, it’s like whiplash— she’s so different to him, you’re not prepared for it, Wally,” Hal replies with a haunted chuckle as he remembers his first time meeting you.

“Is she hot?” Booster adds, squinting.

“Hot?” Hal shakes his head and places a hand on one shoulder of each Booster and Flash as he informs them: “gentlemen, I’m pretty sure she invented being hot.”

As if on cue, the boom tube whirls, and standing in the blue light is Guy, donning a plaid suit with marabou lapels and cuffs to match your accessories. On his arm, readjusting your boa, you, the legendary girlfriend, look like a true nineteen-fifties sex kitten à la Brigitte Bardot.

“She’s like a hotter Jessica Rabbit,” Booster gapes.

“I’m sorry, there’s no way she’s with Guy goddamn Gardner,” says Green Arrow, entering the conversation himself.

“That’s wrong. That’s wrong and unfair,” Flash utters.

“Wait, who is that?” Power Girl asks as she steps closer to Hal to get some more information.

“Guy’s girlfriend,” Hal sighs.

“No fucking way!”

Curling an arm around the curve of your waist, Guy leads you into the Watchtower. You don’t notice how several members of the crowd gasp as you let Guy touch you so fondly. No, you’re too busy taking in every part of the building. The windows are interesting, looking out into space, but Guy’s taken you to space before so you’re more enthralled with the tower itself.

Guy walks straight over to Booster Gold and the Flash, the former you can’t recognise without his mask (not that you’re sure you’d recognise him with it), but the latter is a superhero classic. No matter how many superheroes you meet, you never stop being starstruck when you meet one of the greats. Guy introduces you with your full name and then a nickname, and finally lets you do the honours:

“I’m Guy’s girlfriend of just over two years now,” you say proudly.

“You’re so pleasant,” Booster breathes as if shocked.

A frown blights your perfect face as you tilt your head at his reaction. Of course you’re pleasant, why wouldn’t you be?

“Don’t worry your pretty little ass about him, babe, he’s just green with envy,” says Guy with a devilish smirk, his hand drifting down to rest below your waist.

You giggle into your hand and the sound rings through the building like a bell stolen from Heaven. The small group that has come to gather with Booster is even more surprised that Guy speaks to you the same way he speaks to all women. You heard him talking and still chose to date him — they cringe in horror at the thought.

“Sorry, Miss L/n, I didn’t mean to offend you at all,” Booster says and cups your hand apologetically in his own.

“Doctor,” you correct him sweetly and he hums in confusion. “I have my doctorate, so it’s actually Doctor L/n, not Miss L/n. Just for future reference.”

After you say a quick hello to Hal, inquiring how he’s been since you saw him last and pressing a European greeting to each of his cheeks like the classy young woman you are, Guy ushers you away. He’s got a million people he needs to show his trophy girlfriend off to tonight, and he’s not hanging around with that loser-Lantern Jordan or the even worse loser Booster who-gives-a-fuck Gold.

“She’s hot, she’s polite, she’s a doctor, and she’s dating Gardner.” Booster says. “What has the world come to?”

“She’s way out of his league,” Power Girl affirms Booster’s position as she watches you happily perform la bise with John Stewart and Kyle Rayner as well.

“Honestly, he’s weirdly good to her. Other than the boa and the shoes, I’m about eighty percent sure Guy bought her that whole outfit,” Hal says thoughtfully.

“Even that mad ring she was wearing?” Flash asks.

Hal nods and, stifling a laugh, jokes, “yep. He’s a ring kinda guy.”

Green Arrow pushes Hal’s head away and abandons the conversation, rejoining his quiver of other arrows.

Later in the night, after canapés and a few informal speeches of welcome from Zatanna and Wonder Woman, the tables are prepared for dinner. It’s a show of superhuman extravagance as three speedsters set it all up in less than a second. The crowd applauds, but it’s obvious that at least half of them are no longer impressed by super-speed. It’s their day-to-day, after all.

The seating arrangements are so perfect that even Guy has to appreciate the board, uttering his backhanded gratitude that he isn’t at the same table as Elastic Man.

The two of you are seated with the other Green Lanterns for familiarity, with Guy on your right and Kyle, who has also gone maskless, on your left. But to spice things up, the other half of the table is filled with Super-people and their partners. Lois Lane is sitting directly across the way, allowing you to have another civilian to chat with rather than getting lost in all the superhero business.

“Did I hear you’re a doctor, Y/n?” Lois asks once the formal speeches are finished and the entrées are brought out.

“Yes, I completed my final internship this year so I’m fully qualified now,” you reply then take a spoonful of your cauliflower soup.

“Oh, how wonderful! Congratulations!” she says with a smile. “You must be so proud, Guy.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” Guy responds inattentively.

He’s far too busy groping your thigh under the table to care about whatever Lois is saying. You offer her an apologetic smile in response and a glance at her husband’s (fucking Superman) expression to try to soften the blow of Guy’s rudeness.

To deter the discussion away from yourself, you place a hand on Kyle’s shoulder and tell the couple, “Kyle’s an artist, a really talented one.”

Lois, a professional conversationalist, gets the memo and shifts to Kyle, asking how his career is going with the added pressure of the Honour Guard. He starts to chat, showing off constructs of particularly impressive artworks. You sigh peacefully knowing you’ve managed to escape the awkwardness of that conversation.

Turning to Guy, who’s still going at your thigh, you ask him to show you to the bathroom. His eye sparkles with lust so all-consuming that it could very well cause another fracture in the Emotional Electromagnetic Spectrum. With the lanterns of love being violet, you imagine the lanterns of lust would be a true pink.

When later Booster leaves the dining hall and makes his way towards the men’s room, he doesn’t hear the fap-fapping over the sound of Nightwing’s karaoke solo. But then he enters the bathroom and the display in front of him is impossible to avoid.

Your dress is hiked up to your hips, Guy’s hands looped under the skirt and palming the fat of your ass. His pants are unzipped and pulled down just enough for him to slip his dick out and slot it into you.

As you whine, your eyebrows tilt upwards and you use your hands to steady yourself on his shoulders. Meanwhile, he ruts into you at a pace that could almost rival the Flash. In a moment of pure bliss, your jaw goes slack and from your throat erupts a lewd moan more heavenly than even your laugh. Moments later, your eyes flicker open and you catch, in your peripheral, a hint of gold.

Mortification strikes as you pull yourself off of Guy, hissing for him to cover you. It takes a second for his brain to register what’s happening and why he’s no longer inside you, but he follows your gaze and finds Booster Gold blinking dumbly at the entrance to the bathroom. As quickly as he can manage, Guy conjures up a pixelated box to censor your bottom half, but proudly leaves his penis out in the open.

“Did no one ever teach you to knock, you knob?” Guy spits.

Booster, bringing himself to his senses, though not yet rid of the image of the two of you enmeshed, scoffs and says, “I don’t know, Gardner, were you born in a tent?”

A green hand pushes Booster out of the bathroom with the middle finger standing tall. Meanwhile, Guy’s own hand pushes your head down towards something else standing up.

“Um, truth,” you say after the last dare had you doing a handstand in your dress, giving half the Justice League a good flash of your green panties.

Black Canary groans like you’re the most boring person on the planet (or in the tower, considering that you’re off-planet), and you send her a teasing glare. The group deliberates for a while on what to ask, but finally land on the most basic question they could possible think up.

“Who’s your favourite hero?” says John Stewart on behalf of the lot.

“Oh, come now, Guy’s Green Lantern, of course,” you shake your head.

“No, no,” Canary interrupts, “before Guy.”

You frown, finding this rather unfair, but still, you play along, “I suppose I’ve always liked the classic roster. Maybe one of them?”

Several members of the group perk up at this, namely the Flash (it’s Wally’s mantle now, so he can claim your favour in place of Barry), Hal, Green Arrow, and Martian Manhunter. Your cheeks start to go red.

“Who, though? Who exactly?” Flash presses.

Thinking for a moment, you remember your halloween costume from the year before you met Guy.

“Maybe Wonder Woman?” you offer up.

Simultaneously, they all groan. Someone, though you can’t pinpoint who, utters that your response is too safe to be true.

The game continues on for at least a half hour before returning to you. In the process, you witness Canary break Superman’s glasses with her sonic scream, and discover that John’s most risky sexual encounter involved tentacles and green constructs of alien appendages on a Corps-owned spaceship. Then, with you at the centre of focus once more, you choose truth again. Everyone’s a little worse off than before, the alcohol really beginning to settle in bloodstreams, and the questions have been getting far more brazen.

“What do you see in him?” Booster slurs, clearly referring to Guy.

The glass in his hand is turning horizontal as he gets more and more drunk, the Pinot Noir inside threatening to spill over the lip. With a gentle touch, you gracefully guide the glass back to an upright position, only for it to begin its descent again.

“I don’t think any of you give him enough credit.” you say, glancing over with a smile at where Guy’s leading a line dance. “He’s very respectable.”

“Oh, eff off he is! Just last week he told some trafficker to suck his — and I’m quoting him here — his big, fat, all-American, bald-eagle-looking, pure freedom-cumming cock,” Booster retorts.

A laugh erupts from your chest, hearty and full. Hal, John, and Kyle watch you fondly. They can’t help but be happy for their fellow corpsman.

“I heard about that,” you nod when you finally catch your breath. “He’s creative. And considering that they were trafficking Tamaranians, I think it was well-deserved. He saved thirty people from slavery, Booster.”

For a moment, a sober look washes over Booster’s face and his wine steadies in his grasp. He gazes at your caring, but admittedly brash boyfriend with a sense of understanding not previously tapped into.

Guy waves you over as the song changes to a favourite of his, a sensual, fast-paced South American tune. You’ve been taking Latin classes since he got back to Earth. Preparation, he calls it, for your wedding, though he hasn’t yet proposed. You down the rest of your drink and hold Booster’s hand in a soft goodbye, waving to the rest of the group and skipping away from the table.

Before reaching the dance floor, though, you turn back to them and say thoughtfully: “By the way, as someone experienced—” you wipe your lip with your thumb— “pure freedom sure does taste nice.”

[twentytomidnight]

five more minutes

Guy Gardner/Reader, 3.7K

a/n: one of two indulgent pieces I wrote for myself. Enjoy!

cw: reader is drunk but very very down for things, mild dubcon, rough kissing, nipple play, restraints, gn!reader

masterlist ao3 rules for requests

PREVIEW:

When he speaks, his voice is layered with something ambiguous. “I got a good idea how you can pay me back.”   “Yeah? What’s that, Guy?” You ask, leaning in to hear his terms and conditions. At this, the smirk returns to his face, slick and slow.   “You want the lantern—”—At this, he raises his hand that bears the ring, crooking his index finger in to beckon you close—“—I want a kiss.”  “Oh.” You say, looking at him, feeling like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. tl;dr: truth or dare has never had such high stakes. Guy Gardner/Reader

You’re tipsy—not drunk, but inebriated enough to be inclined to poor decision-making—and therein the trouble lies. It’s thanks to the half-empty bottle of tequila that has been the lynchpin to several victims now, all claimed by the vicious cycle the five of you are happily subjecting yourselves to. 

“Okay,” Beatriz says your name from the beanbag in Tora’s room, mayhaps slurring a syllable, “You’re up next. Truth or dare?” 

“I thought you said I couldn’t pick any more ‘truths,’” You say, frowning as though this is a trick. Beatriz snaps her fingers at you, grateful for your foolish honesty, and offers a bleary, maybe mildly cross-eyed grin. 

“Right,” she says, “I almost forgot.” 

“No more shots,” Tora pleads from where she leans an elbow on her plush bed, “I don’t want to have to deep-clean the shag rug again.” 

“Well, that wasn’t their fault,” Booster advocates on your defense from where he is lying horizontal on said shag rug, “It was Ted who tossed their cookies last time.” 

“And I paid for the dry cleaning bill, didn’t I?” Ted asks hotly in his own defense, leaning on the cowprint stool in the corner of Tora’s room. He would look like a nobly suffering cowpoke if it wasn’t for the bright ruddy color of his cheeks—even then, he seems the ever-suffering martyr. 

“Yeah, you did,” Tora nods, a disjointed movement, “But none of us are going to be able to roll it up if it happens again.” 

“Says you,” you reply with more confidence than you actually have, “I can stand up if I want to. Behold—”

At this, you amble from where you sit on the other corner of the shag rug, your fingers scrabbling on the wall. You have to use your other free hand to keep your crop top from riding up high enough to give everyone a show they didn’t ask for VIP access to. But stand you do, all under ten seconds, which, given the crowd you associate with, is an impressive feat by comparison. 

Beatriz and Booster, who was watching upside-down from where he lies, both give you lukewarm applause as you cast out a wide hand to demonstrate your capability. Ted gives you a half-hearted thumbs up while Tora casts a glance that demonstrates abject suspicion at the extent of your true capabilities. 

“Ta-da,” you emphasize with a toothy grin to your audience. “How’d I do?” 

“Are you going to be able to get up again if you sit down?” Beatriz asks as you tug down the hem of your shorts. 

“Sure I can,” you reply smoothly, famous last words. “Now hit me with your best shot.” 

Beatriz puts her index finger over her mouth, thinking for a tense, anxious second while you wait. The smile that flashes over her face can only be described as diabolical, before she looks directly at you. 

“Fine,” she says with a degree of ominous finality, “I dare you to go steal Guy’s lantern out of his room.” 

“That’s a crazy idea,” Ted leaps in before the idea can even marinate. “He’ll kill them.” 

Beatriz whips her head around, ready to stand on business for her proposal. “He might kill you, Ted—they’re—”—At this, she proffers a pointed, determined finger in your direction—“—A different story.” 

“Yeah? How’s that work?” Booster asks with a disbelieving grin, like he knows something you don’t. Beatriz shoots him a warning look that prompts him to assume careful, reticent neutrality. 

“Because he just won’t,” Beatriz hotly retorts, “I know he won’t. He might get angry, but he won’t actually do anything, even if he catches them.” 

“I mean, she’s not wrong,” Tora says, as you frown in confusion, because statements are starting to be thrown a little too fast for you to keep up, “But I don’t know if that means that they should do it—”

”—And just because you ‘know’ is enough of a valid reason?" Ted asks, squinting through his disbelief at the questionable soundness of Beatriz’ argument. “I mean, it’s Guy we’re talking about—”

“—Is he even on Earth right now?” Booster shrugs, playing both sides for all its worth. “Maybe the lantern is in the room.” 

“But he needs it to recharge, doesn’t he?” Tora chimes in again. “And I think I saw him this morning.” 

“That was this morning, it’s two in the next morning—”—Ted gapes at the cat clock on the wall, the twitching pendulum of the tail a hypnotizing metronome—“—Oh my God, it’s two in the morning—”

”—This doesn’t matter!” Beatriz snaps. “All that matters is what they’re cool with—I didn’t ask you if you wanted to go and grab Guy’s lantern, Ted—”

”I don’t mind,” you say, from where you’re leaning on the wall, watching the verbal fracas devolve. “I’ll go do it.” 

At this, everyone turns to look at you, having realized that the subject of conversation has borne witness to the devolution of it. You admire the varying degrees of concern, confusion and excitement that the four of them bear. 

“Are you sure?” Ted asks, casting a last shot in the dark for your safety; Beatriz gives him a cutting glower for being the resident killjoy. You shrug again. 

“Sure—but I don’t think I’m going to find it. Have you seen the inside of Guy’s room?” You return. 

“Have you?” Booster asks, cocking his head up to you. You feel like you’re missing something in the way that Beatriz sends a significant smirk to Tora, but you’re not deciphering that anytime soon. 

“Yeah, I borrowed a sweater off of him once.” You reply casually, as though this is common knowledge. Based on the bewildered look on Ted’s face, the way Booster’s face goes blank again, it must not be. 

“Place is kinda messy.” You add on, as though this is a qualifying statement for what you just said. 

“‘Kinda’ is a nice way of saying it,” Tora whispers conspiratorially and Beatriz chuckles lowly. 

“So are you gonna do it?” Beatriz asks, looking at you with an intensity that she’s borne the entire game, honed to a razor-point now that she stares down the barrel at you. 

“Yeah,” you reassure her, trying to keep your heart from beating out of your chest, “I’ll be right back.” 

Right back, it turns out, is a massive overstatement. When you are actually mobile and out the door—granted, everyone walked you to the door and waved you off as though you were departing on the Titanic for the New World—you make a few realizations. One, now that no one is supporting you in your endeavors, watching worriedly as you depart, you don’t feel as brave as you did. Second, have no idea how you’re going to nab this lantern from Guy’s room. 

Granted, you’ve seen his room before—that was no lie. But the last time you were there, you were focused on other aspects of the room than trying to spot where the lantern was. Even now, you thickly swallow thinking of what you’re going to do when you get there. 

But eyes on the prize—you’re a JLI member, after all. Overcoming obstacles in the pursuit of the greater good is part of the job—greater good being stealing fellow members’ possessions—and you continue your trek. 

It comes up sooner than you expected, with another sinking realization—the door is closed, and from the darkness of the hallway, you can see soft light bleeding out from the bottom of the frame. Shadows move from within, disrupting the quiet uniformity of it—he’s there. 

You hesitate at the end of the hall, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you consider your options. Maybe you could throw an object that would clank loudly to make him go run out and look? 

You realize how stupid of an idea that would be the second it manifests—he might not even go to look, knowing him. Fake a JLI distress call? Maybe—again, you’re stuck with the fact he might ignore it if the whim so suits him. You’re caught in a terrible moment of indecision, before it dawns on you. 

Guy’s a human being. He can be reasoned with, bartered with. You can exchange goods for services—a meal bought, a monitor duty shift taken. And then you don’t have to go through the task of rummaging through all of his shit under a time crunch. 

You could, even though it’s morally wrong, lie to the rest of the group in your possible thievery. And who would sell you out? Guy? The very person that you have made this devil’s pact with? No way. 

Yes—knocking will be the best possible option here. And so, you cycle a deep breath through yourself, square your shoulders, and walk the green mile to his door. The sound of someone whistling cheerily off-tune grows louder as you close the distance, raising your hand to rap a knuckle on the door.

The whistling abruptly stops the second that you knock, one-two-three times, and you can hear the tread of deliberate steps before the knob turns and reveals—

“Hey, Guy,” you say, blinking at the light that washes over you, adjusting from the darkness you’ve been residing in, “You busy right now?” 

You realize as you blink away the spots that are dancing in your vision, that Guy is not busy. But he is certainly in the stage of transitioning from one activity to another. The activity in question being changing from his gym clothes to his civvies. As in—Guy is currently shirtless. 

And since you have not had the mental time to prepare for this state of undress, your eyes freely roam. Over the muscular plane of his chest, the taut curl of his biceps, and the span of his shoulders as he shrugs out of his flimsy tank top. 

“Nah,” he says, which makes you refocus back up to his face, which is watching you carefully, “Whatcha want, honey?” 

You remember the purpose of your visit at this late night hour, and take a quick breath before you lean in to whisper conspiratorially to him; a corner of his mouth turns up at the theatrics you’re engaging in.

“I’m playing truth or dare right now, Guy.” 

“Yeah?” He cocks up an eyebrow, assessing your outfit before he returns his eyes back to yours. “So whatcha doin’ here?” 

“They told me to go over to your room for my dare.” You reply honestly, feeling your eyes drift downwards—and then back up as you remember what you’re here for. The lantern, the lantern, the lantern—

“Are you drunk?” Guy asks, and there’s a mix of confusion and amusement on your behalf. You watch the bend of his arm as he tosses the tank top into a bin far-off in the corner of the room that, as far as you can tell, is virtually unchanged from the last time you saw it. 

“I’m tipsy,” you correct him. “I could walk in a straight line if you wanted me to.” 

“Uh-huh,” he says dubiously, crossing his arms over each other, giving you a chance to admire the fine layer of hair on his pecs. “So you gonna do it?” 

“Nope.” You reply cheerily. “Uh, can I come in and sit down?” 

“Why not?” He asks, maybe a tad eagerly. As if he can tell his assistance is needed, he reaches a hand out to wrap around your shoulder—you try your best not to instinctively melt into his grasp as he guides you to the bed. 

“Watch the mess.” He roughly instructs you, the heat of his body pressing against your side as you travel together. 

It’s a bit of a journey, avoiding a stray pair of pants here, a dirty magazine there, but you eventually make it to his bed, which thankfully has a fresh blanket thrown somewhat evenly over its surface. He seats you there before going to a dresser pushed up against the wall to search for a shirt. 

“So why the fuck’re you over here?” Guy asks, cocking a wary look at you as you lean back on your elbows on the bed.  

“Okay, so we’re all playing,” you explain, staring at the ceiling and thus missing the way that Guy sets a long look upon your prone form, “And they say I’ve done truths too many times. So now Beatriz says I have to do a dare.” 

“So what’s it gotta do with me?” He asks, fishing out a suitable black shirt. 

“Well, here’s the thing—”—At this, you look away from the light fixture to him, from where he watches you—“—They want me to steal your lantern.” 

At this, you cast a wayward, surveying glance around the room, as if it’ll magically manifest for your benefit—no such luck. You hear a crude laugh from the corner where the resident Green Lantern is pulling his shirt over his head. 

“Good luck with that shit,” he says, tugging the shirt over his stomach, giving you one final mouthwatering glimpse, “Unless you wanna fight for it.” 

There’s a menacing glint in his eyes, to which you shake your head, already aware of the outcome. 

“No way, Guy. You’ll have me pinned down in like, five seconds.” You roll your eyes at the ridiculousness of this proposal. He walks the distance to his bed, within arm’s reach, appraising you with a smirk. 

“Mmmm—I don’t know,” he disagrees. “That don’t sound too bad to me.” 

“Yeah, yeah, sure it does—”—you wave a hand disbelievingly—“—But that's besides the point. You’re here, so I can’t really steal it, can I? So I figured I would just ask for it, if that’s okay with you.”

At this, you look up at him and try your best, innocently convincing face. He scoffs through his teeth at this concept. 

“You just wanna get my permission to grab my shit offa me?” He asks, unconvinced by your argument—time for you to offer your counter to him. 

“If that’s okay with you,” you repeat, leaning on one elbow to emphasize with your other hand—you don’t catch how he watches you adjust on his bed to do so, set in pleading your case, “I’ll lie and say I stole it and make me sound way cooler than it actually was. And then I’ll bring it back—and I’ll pay you back.” 

“Yeah?” He asks, his voice going low and curious in his inquiry. “How’re you gonna pay me back, honey?” 

This is an excellent question that stymies you for a moment, before you remember your previously considered options. “Uh—I dunno. What do you want? I could get you lunch or I could take a monitor duty shift or—something.” 

You think of the time that’s elapsed since you set off on your mission—they must be wondering where you are now. “But we gotta hurry—they’re gonna think I passed out or something on the way over here.”

Guy is surprisingly silent for once, inspecting you for something beyond your comprehension. Then, he sits next to you on the bed, the mattress dipping with the extra weight that joins you. You’re prompted to push yourself back up to a sitting position so that you can better barter with him. 

But the entire time, he keeps his eyes squared upon you, not uttering a single word. You would be worried, if it wasn’t for the fact that so much was riding on this trade deal. 

When he speaks, his voice is layered with something ambiguous. “I got a good idea how you can pay me back.”  

“Yeah? What’s that, Guy?” You ask, leaning in to hear his terms and conditions. At this, the smirk returns to his face, slick and slow.   

“You want the lantern—”—At this, he raises his hand that bears the ring, crooking his index finger in to beckon you close—“—I want a kiss.”  

“Oh.” You say, looking at him, feeling like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“Oh?” He asks, and there’s a semi-offended glare that crosses his face. “Thought you wanted this shit.” 

“No—not that.” You say, holding up a hand to correct yourself. “I mean, you want to kiss me?” 

“Why the fuck not?” He asks immediately, a grin quick to replace the anger. “You want it, dontcha?” 

“I mean, yeah.” You reply. “But I mean—”—you lean closer to him, so that the two of you are just a breath away from each other—“—I kinda like you, Guy.” 

“Think I don’t know that?” He asks with a crooked smirk. “So what the fuck’s stoppin’ you, then?” 

“You want our first kiss to be because of truth or dare?” You ask him, cocking a brow at this.

“I think the sooner you get it outta your system,” Guy returns back, “The sooner you can get back to your little game with ‘em.” 

He leans in, close enough to seal the deal. “And then the sooner you can get back here and we can actually get to the fun shit.” 

“You make it sound like you’re doing me a favor,” you grumble back good-naturedly. But your defenses are already weakening, crumbling in the face of his good argument, a throbbing pulse awakening in your core. 

“‘Cause I am, baby,” he gloats, “Now come here.” 

Guy’s wide palm cups your cheek, uncharacteristically tender as you look up at him, breath caught in your throat, the weight of a thousand unspoken words passing between the two of you. You run your tongue over your lips as he catches the movement with the slow track of his eyes, admiring every detail. 

When he presses his mouth against yours, it's firm but persistent, and demanding. His teeth graze against your lip and you gasp, giving him the opportunity for further access, his tongue rasping against yours, needy, hungry for more of you. 

You don’t know how you end up pinned down under him, your legs wrapped around the width of his hips, but you don’t question it, nor when he pins your wrists under each of his broad palms, surveying his conquest. You feel like every nerve of yours is on fire, the heat of being so vulnerable, but being so into it threatens to consume every inch of you. He whistles appreciatively at the sight, his eyes running over you as he commits it to memory. 

“God, so fuckin’ hot,” Guy growls, and leans over you, pressing his weight on you—you sigh but it’s punctuated into a whimper as he finds the crook of your neck and sucks on the tender skin hard. You writhe under him, but it’s no use—he’s got you pinned, and you can feel the scrape of his tongue as it laves against your neck, determined to leave a mark. 

When he pulls away, you feel like you’re punch-drunk, the fight leaching out of you as he admires what you’re certain is a weltering bruise. 

“Looks good on you,” he comments coarsely, a possessive smile on his face. “Lemme see what else I can do.” 

He moves your wrists so that he can pin them down with one hand—it’s big enough that it’s no difficult task for him—and then with the other, rucks up your shirt. There’s a dangerous chuckle from him as he sees the way your bare nipples react to being exposed to the cold air, before he gives one of them an experimental pinch—you yelp. 

He groans in the back of his throat, pleased at the noise. 

“Guy,” you beg, squirming under his hold, under his determined gaze, “You’re killing me.” 

“Oh, wouldn’t want that, would we?” He’s mock-sympathetic, relishing the control he’s got over you, the neediness in your voice. 

“So whatcha want me to do?” He asks, waiting as if it’s on your behalf when it’s just prolonging your torture—he rolls your nipple between his fingers to make you gasp aloud. 

“Anything,” you plead. 

“Yeah?” He grins, which grows wider when you nod frantically, desperately—for him. 

“If that’s whatcha want,” he’s smug in victory, and the ring glows as he releases your wrists—but you still can’t move them. You crane your neck to see that there’s a foreign, alien type of manacle around your wrists—the cold metal of the construct feels so real, but you can’t focus on that. Especially not when you the warm, wet heat of his tongue on your nipple interrupts your thoughts. 

You cry out, a moan of pleasure as he takes it entirely into his mouth, the flat of his tongue running over it. His hands, rough and large and warm slide down your sides, holding you steady as you grind into him. 

“Oh my God—”—you gasp as he continues to suck on your nipple, arching your back as you feel the scrape of teeth. “Guy—” 

He chuckles, the vibration going straight to your core, and you whimper again—hell of a trade for this—

“Oh my God!” You say, stiffening immediately, and it’s the difference in inflection this time—from pleasure to panic—that makes him pause in his progress. You look to see those hands working on the hem of the shorts that hang low on your hips, stopping for the moment. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, looking at you with a degree of disgruntled concern. 

“The game—”—you’re breathless, flustered—“—They’ve gotta be wondering where I am by now.” 

“I think they know where you are, honey,” he says dryly, “Now why dontcha let me get you outta all these clothes?” 

“I just—”—you pause dead in your tracks. “Wait, you actually want to—?” 

“Yeah, dumbass,” Guy grins, “I’ve been tryin’ to get in your pants for the past year and a fuckin’ half. Didn’t think—”—at this, he pulls more insistently at the top of your shorts, drawing them even lower—“You’d fall into my fuckin’ lap just like this.”

His hands find the junction of your waist and squeeze for good measure, making you exhale a slow, shaky breath. There’s nothing but a set determination in his eyes, the want of a man starved as his eyes drink in the sight happily trapped under him.

Come on, I’ve been waiting for you to catch up—his eyes say. And you’re not the type to keep someone on the hook for too long, after all.

“Oh. Okay.” You grin, shaky as you reassess a few things—but eager to get the show back on the road. “Come here, then.” 

“That’s more like it,” he smirks. 

You figure if anything, as you feel the heat of his breath ghost down your stomach and continue lower, and lower still—the two of you can both bring the lantern to the group tomorrow.

You, as of right now, have much more pressing concerns to worry about. 

Dividers provided by the very talented @enchanthings and @cafekitsune

[evergone]

Omggg would you ever make a part 2 for the enjin “come home with me” fic? I loveddd your writing :))

Almost In Love

Enjin x reader | A part two to Come Home With Me, but can be read as a stand alone. Thank you for the request !! Please enjoy <3

Warnings: 18+ only, sexual content, smoking, swearing, reader is a woman in this one.

Description: The reader has come home, but is it really working out?

Your cheek is on Enjin’s bare chest, drool spilling out of the corner of your mouth and painting over his tattoos. He tries to keep his breath slow and subtle so he can feel the heat escaping your lips, blowing through the short hairs on his body. Every time you exhale, a nearly silent whistle slips between your front teeth, serenading him.

One of his hands comes up to rest on the back of your head and he tangles his fingers in your hair as he contemplates how precious you look, how happy he is to have you in his bed again. Not even sexually, just with him.

“You’re such a good woman,” Enjin whispers.

“Don’t I know it,” you yawn and press your open mouth against his pec.

He raises his brows, then cracks a smirk.

“You’re awake?”

“Clearly.” you sigh, rolling over so your back is against him. “You woke me up with your fawning over me.”

You raise your arms to drag your knuckles along his jawline and look up at him with a tired but teasing eye. The other eye is closed, your lashes glued together with crusted sleep, a sign that you weren’t ready to wake up yet.

“I wasn’t fawning over you,” says Enjin rather proudly. Another of his white lies that he hopes you won’t catch.

“What were you doing then?”

He can tell you’re quickly growing annoyed at him. You’re chewing your bottom lip and you’ve dropped your hands down to pull at the loose threads on the seam of your singlet.

He’s sure you think he’s predictable when he asks, “you got a cigarette?” to avoid your question.

A nod and you take his wrist, pushing his hand into the pocket of your pyjama pants. He finds the packet, and though it’s been flattened by your sleeping position the actual cigarettes are more or less intact. A couple are bent and one looks like it might be tearing at the end, but they should be fine. He pops one of the straight ones in his mouth and puts the packet on his bedside table next to the necklace you took off before you fell asleep. You glare at this, and he returns it to your pocket, but he can’t seem to find a lighter.

“I don’t understand you,” you say after he maintains such a long silence that you get the idea that he won’t be answering your question.

“What? I feel like we understand each other fairly well.”

You scoff and sit up, pinning his stomach under your bum and cradling his torso with your thighs. He makes an attempt, a very concentrated attempt, not to look down at the space between your legs where your shorts are riding up. The edges of your underwear are poking out. They’re an expensive pair he bought you for your birthday last year.

Back then, you’d argued about them, complaining that Enjin was the only one who got a present out of a pair of red, rose-patterned lace undies with a floss-width string up the arse. Reluctantly, he had to go buy you another present to make up for it. A bouquet of roses and the matching bra. The look you gave him when you found the see-through bra amongst the flowers was enough to kill a man, but he only laughed. He let you milk him dry that night and called that your real present.

Once he realises he’s been staring at your underwear for the last thirty seconds, completely lost in his memories, his eyes slick— sorry, flick up to look at your face.

“I just don’t understand how one minute, you’re on your knees begging me to come home with you—”

“—I wasn’t on my knees, exactly—”

It’s probably not the best idea to make a sex joke right now.

“—and the next you’re telling me you aren’t fawning over me. Is it so hard for you to treat me right?” you say, staring at him with a glossy-eyed frown.

Through those eyes, Enjin rewatches the last few years of your shared lives. There’s a romance in them that he’s unused to. He’s grown so accustomed to the anger and resentment usually directed at him, and the nonchalant, egotistical attitude he usually directs at you, or at women more broadly.

“Hey,” he begins softly as he sits up and you slide down into his lap, “babe, I’m trying my best to treat you the way you’re supposed to be treated.”

He gets the sudden feeling that he’s burning Rome before he even manages to build it.

“Why won’t you just admit it then? Why do you have to backtrack every time you’re almost in love with me?” you squint at him, so full of anger that he can feel it pulsing through you, yet your voice hasn’t raised at all.

“Do we have to argue?” he practically whines.

Underneath you, he starts rocking his hips and grips your waist to make you bounce. When you close your eyes he can’t tell whether it’s in submission to the movement, or retaliation. You’re breathing heavily which might be a good sign, and your pants feel as though they’re getting hotter on top of his bulge which is definitely a good sign.

But then your eyes open, looking away as if they can’t stand the sight of him. You push yourself off him, standing up beside the bed and rubbing your eyes free of sleep. A few of your things are scattered around the room: a handbag, toothbrush, some condoms he can tell you regret bringing, a suitcase of clothes. All of them pre-move-in items you managed to throw into the van as you excitedly left the town house ready to go home. So much for that. So much for this.

“I don’t want to have sex with you, Enjin,” you spit.

“Why were you in my bed, then?” he says without thinking.

“I came here for the kid,” you say firmly.

“Then stay and meet him,” he responds.

You scoff, grab your things, and storm out the door. Enjin follows only seconds later, his long stride carrying him much faster than yours does. His hands are in his pockets and his back arched as he tries to look at ease while racing through the hallways after you. The beat of Tamsy’s obnoxious music and the fight erupting between two overeager teenagers somewhere close by competes with the drum of his heart in his ears.

When you reach the reception area, he’s finally caught up to you. His hand grabs your wrist as yours grabs the door handle. You turn to him and a scowl rips across your face. He can feel Semiu’s gaze on his back.

“You, uh, forgot your necklace,” Enjin tells you.

With a sigh, you pull your shirt and hair away from your skin and let him fasten the chain around your neck. You don’t let go of the handle. He takes his sweet time, and when it’s done, you open the door.

“Please… Please don’t do this to me again,” he whispers, “please don’t walk out of here. I can’t take it.”

You pause, look up at the sky, and shake your head. He curves his neck to get a glance outside and sees the black clouds of his good fortune rolling into town. He’s starting to like the rain.

“Enjin,” you start, “I think we need to stop having sex. It seems to be the only thing you care about, other than smoking.”

“Okay.”

Letting go of the door, you turn around and disappear into the building. He watches you go, his shoulders tense and his chest so tight he might need to go see Eishia for some healing.

Behind the reception desk, Semiu adjusts her glasses and clears her throat. Enjin doesn’t want to hear whatever it is she has to say, but he has an inkling that she won’t let him get away without an earful.

“All of these theatrics could be avoided if you would just be honest with her. Stop with your lies. She needs to know you love her, you dumb womaniser.”

[evergone]

Pool Day

Tim Drake x reader

Warnings: mild swearing.

Description: Damian helps the reader out with a prank.

“Don’t.” Tim’s eyes were closed as he laid on a float in the middle of the pool, but he could sense the mischief in the still, silent air.

“Don’t do what?” You asked.

Your hands were on Damian’s shoulders, and you hoped Tim hadn’t noticed his younger brother snuck through the gate with you so you could get away with the prank you had planned. The prank war had been far too one-sided for your liking, and you were desperate to get him back in some way, even though you knew you could never beat his prank earlier that week of taping all your kitchenware to the roof. Fucking genius.

“Whatever it is you’re trying to do,” replied Tim.

“I’m not trying to do anything,” you huffed, “I don’t like that you’re so suspicious of me.”

“I wouldn’t be so suspicious of you if you weren’t acting so suspiciously,” he chuckled quietly.

Annoyed at your cover being blown and thus having lost the element of surprise, you were antsy to get the prank over and done with so you could run away to begin planning your next one. You nodded to Damian, glancing over at your boyfriend with a playful glint in your eye and setting the little devil-boy free. He catapulted into the water just beside Tim who shot up instantly, completely drenched and eyes wide open. Damian grabbed the side of the pool float and tipped it over, dropping Tim into the water where he flailed for a moment as he tried to regain his bearings.

When Tim finally understood what had happened and where he was, he glared at you, his long hair dripping all over his wide, pale, sunscreen-covered neck. You only grinned back while Damian abandoned the pool and ran off into the manor to avoid any repercussions for his contribution to the prank.

“You’re playing a dangerous, dangerous game, Y/n/n,” Tim said in a low tone, his head on a slight downwards angle so his brow created a shadow over his icy blue eyes. It was so hot it made a shiver run down your spine.

“That’s fine by me. I like to live on the edge,” you told him and stepped closer to the edge of the pool.

“Oh, is that so?” He asked teasingly and you hummed in the affirmative. “Well, you know what they say about living on the edge, right?”

You bent down as he swam up to you so that your faces were only mere inches away from each other, “What do they say?”

His hands reached out at a speed you hadn’t the reflexes to defend against. One hand grabbed your ankle, the other grabbed your wrist, and he tugged, pulling you down into the cold pool with him.

The clothes you were wearing were light, but when soaked with water they dragged you down. Tim extended his arm towards you under the water, and you used it to bring yourself back to the surface. Your eyelashes were knotted together thanks to the way your mascara had interacted when wet, and it took you a few blinks to open your eyes again.

“Be careful not to trip,” Tim laughed as you splashed water into his face.

[evergone]

Come Home With Me

Enjin x reader

Warnings: 18+ only, sexual content, smoking, swearing

Description: Enjin wants the reader to come home and it's so very hard to say no to that face.

(read part two here!)

Everyone locks themselves indoors when rain is forecasted, terrified of getting acid burns or falling ill from contamination. That’s how Enjin knows you’ll be at home.

He glances up from under his Umbreaker, the sole reason he’s able to walk outside without worrying, and he takes in your rather unappealing town house. The roof is still attached, though supported by a layer of rusted tin you scavenged from the edge of No Man’s Land. Boards are nailed to the frame of the first-storey window, your way of protecting against the Attackers who broke in once. Above the door, there’s a set of Komainu spray-painted on as an extra layer of security, an old gift from Gob which still hasn’t worn off.

Just as he raises his hand to knock, the door opens inwards, and you lean against the wall with your arms crossed. Your face is as blank as it can be, which is still rather expressive as your eyebrows sit so low that your lashes are grazing them, and your bottom lip is sucked into your mouth as if to prevent you from spitting at him.

“Hey,” he says and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his basketball shorts, resting his vital instrument between his waist and elbow.

You can probably tell how meek he’s pretending to be, but he thinks that’s part of the charm. That’s how he catches you in his mousetrap.

“What do you want?” You squint at him.

“It’s raining, I needed somewhere to crash,” he whines like a pup.

Your eyes dart to the Umbreaker, then to the clouds above the city that look as though they’ll never part. A knowing sigh slips out from between your lips, but you step out of the way.

Enjin enters with his chest spread broadly towards you. That grin of his sits smug under ravenous golden eyes which sweep down your face to your collarbone. He can feel a drop of sweat (or possibly — but hopefully not — rain) hot on his forehead.

“Don’t look at me,” you hiss.

He raises his hands in surrender, but the grin doesn’t so much as falter. After strolling all-too-casually into your lounge room, Enjin sits down on the leather chaise and occupies himself by flipping through a magazine. A question, or a statement, I suppose — I thought this would be one of them sexy ones — gets stuck in his throat as he tries his best not to anger you any further.

All the way on the other side of the room, you’re searching the wine rack, skipping past the nice stuff you’ve had since forever and only glancing at a few bottles he knows he bought you. You decide on something new, something that hasn’t had enough time to age. You slide it out of the rack and pour two glasses on the bar table, handing one to him and downing yours in one go. As you refill, he takes a sip. It’s too sweet for him. He’s sure you knew that.

“We aren’t having sex, you know that, right?”

Those eyes look up at you from all the way over there, staring like they never lost sight of you in the first place.

“That’s fine,” Enjin says.

“That’s not what you came here for, then?” you ask.

“Not really.” He shrugs, and he regrets it instantly when he sees the way you clench your jaw.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You’re squinting at him again.

“I just… I came here for something else, but wasn’t opposed to the possibility of that happening,” he explains honestly.

As much as he’s sure you’d deny it, he tries to be honest with you. At least, he tries about the important things. The little things, he’s known to be more flexible about. The odd white lie has saved your relationship, or whatever it is you’ve got going on, more than once without your knowledge. But honesty is his natural instinct and you know that. So, he isn’t surprised that you grunt in disgust but don’t make any movements to leave or kick him out.

“You told me you needed somewhere to crash,” you remind him, “but you’ve just said you ‘came here for something else.’”

The white lie. He glances away, his cheeks slightly pink. You’ve caught him.

“The truth, Enjin, or you’re outta here.”

In the interest of buying time, Enjin asks you for a cigarette. Though you don’t smoke, you’ve always got a pack in your pocket, even now. You toss him one. He catches it and lights it using the flame from a candle on your coffee table. The window at the back of your house, the one that looks at the concrete wall of your neighbour’s house, is slightly ajar — not enough to let the rain through. He stands by it so the smoke has somewhere to go.

“I want you to move back home,” he says, staring out the window at absolutely nothing.

Your mouth opens to start to protest, but he cuts you off.

“Not for me,” he argues and turns to lock eyes with you.

“For who, then?” you ask.

“There’s this kid, a Sphereite, and you’re really good with kids, so I thought—”

“You’re really good with kids, too.”

In a single step he leaps over the coffee table and takes your hands in his, the cigarette sitting between his lips as he blows the smoke away from your face. He hates begging, so he was hoping it wouldn’t get to this point.

“I can’t be the only one.”

“I believe in you,” you smile weakly. You pet his cheek, but catch yourself and stop. “Besides, there’s Semiu and the boss to help you.”

“You’re so stubborn,” he says.

“I have to be. You’re hard to say no to.”

That makes him chuckle and your flat smile breaks into a toothy one as you revel in the moment. He can tell you’ve missed this, because he’s missed it too. As his palms run over your biceps, you take the cigarette from his mouth and your fingertips graze his bottom lip.

“Come home,” he whispers as he kisses your hand and blows the last breath of smoke into it.

“No,” you murmur, shaking your head.

You put the cigarette out in a porcelain dish left on a footstool you’ve been using more for stacking homeless items than for its intended purpose.

Tobacco stinks of sex. Or maybe sex stinks of tobacco. You both think this, and you both wonder whether it’s because Enjin always stinks of tobacco. Either way, the scent of cigarettes always gets the both of you horny, and seeing you always makes him need a cigarette.

“Why not?” he says quietly.

He touches your stomach, feels the folds of skin and flesh, searches for those scars you got back when you still worked together. When you start to lick at the ink on his neck he wonders whether he ought to take the choice away from you. Should he just grab the Umbreaker right now and carry you home through the rain?

Nah, better not. You hate tyrants.

“Because you’re gonna do— mm— just what you did last time,” you reply in a gentle croon as your licks turn into bites.

Every wavering breath Enjin lets out reeks of pure lust. His nose melts into your hair as he savours the thought of all the marks you’re leaving on his body. Meanwhile, his hands wrap under your shorts and he lifts you up onto the bar table and reluctantly pushes you away from him.

The look on your face is absolutely wild. Pupils dilated, jaw slack, tongue forced against the inner wall of your cheek. He’s only ever seen it a few times before: when you hadn’t eaten in four days because you got lost in No Man’s Land, and the morning after you shared a bed for the first time. To call it hunger would be to underestimate it. It was something far more encompassing. Far more possessive, like a parasite.

Enjin grins again. A winner’s grin. His eyebrows are curved in, his nose wrinkled, his dimples on full display. You’re still so angry at him, but you’re coming home with him. He just knows.

“What’d I do last time, babe?” he utters.

You flush red when he calls you that name, but you’re reluctant to give in, so you tell him: “You went out with other girls to make me jealous.”

“Did I?”

“And you only assigned me to missions with you.”

“That almost rings a bell.”

“And you never did your paperwork.”

“Never do.”

“So Semiu made me do it all.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And when I told you I was gonna move out… Well, do you remember what you said?” you ask him.

Enjin considers the question for a moment. But he already knows the answer.

“Something about fucking?” he responds teasingly.

“You said,” you start and jam your pointer finger into his sternum, “that I’d come crawling back the second I needed ‘a good fucking!’”

He cackles, actually cackles, when he hears you repeat the words he said to you all those months ago. Of course, he was wrong. You were about as headstrong as the most determined mule anywhere on the ground. Once he said it to you, he practically ensured that you’d never, ever go back to him yourself. It was always going to end up this way, with him begging you to come back to him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you,” Enjin says as he rests his large hands on your knees. “Please forgive me and come home?”

A sigh slips out as you cross your legs around him.

“Whatever.”

You lean your head into his chest and close your eyes, sniffing the thick scent of tobacco still lingering on his clothes and pressed into his very skin. He kisses the top of your head.

“So, what’s this kid like?” you ask.

“You just have to meet him,” he replies.

[evergone]

Goodnight Kisses

Kyle Rayner x reader | fluff

Warnings: Firearms, pet-names and nicknames used, reader is not given an explicit gender or pronoun for the sake of making this short work accessible to any gender identity.

Description: Kyle's away for the time being, so he and reader have to make super-long-distance work.

“Where are you?” you ask, a cloud forming on your lip as your hot breath hits the winter air.

“A galaxy far, far away.” Kyle’s voice comes through your phone with a tinny overtone, but still, you can hear his self-satisfied smirk.

You shake your head and chuckle at his joke, but your eyes stay trained above you. All the lights in the house are off, all the street lights have mysteriously been broken and your neighbours could swear they heard a shotgun go off a couple times earlier today. The stars are so visible in the depth of the darkness that you can almost see different colours and shapes in them.

“Seriously, Ky, where are you?”

His voice becomes more serious, yet it softens at the same time as a yawn escapes him. He says, “I forget what sector it is… Sector two-something… It’s been a long day.”

“Fine. What direction should I be looking?”

In your hands is a warm mug full of hot chocolate with a white marshmallow melting into the milk. Taking a sip lets the heat rush through your body. In front of you is your telescope, a Christmas gift you and Kyle split the cash for because it was technically for you both.

“To the left of Venus, and then out really far into space, like, five million light years away,” he replies.

You place your eye on the telescope and angle it correctly. You catch the side of Venus and remember the night the two of you spent there. Kyle’s ring provided a clean socket of air which protected you both from the toxic atmosphere. He thought it would be cool, but there was nothing to do there, so you came home after only twenty minutes of fruitless exploration.

“I can see you,” you lie.

“Oh, yeah? How many fingers am I holding up?” he challenges you.

“Hm, five?” the guess slips out in the hopes that you might accidentally be right and he’ll think you’re telling the truth.

“Nope, try again. Look more carefully,” he says playfully. “Can you see me waving it around?”

“Yep, definitely can! That’s three fingers.”

Kyle laughs, “No, you liar. None. I didn’t even move my hand from my phone.”

How his phone works in a completely different galaxy is completely beyond you. It must have something to do with his ring, because there certainly aren't any satellites there, or at least not any that could connect to Earth.

You press your own fingers to your lips and blow a kiss towards the unknown sector far, far away from you.

“I just sent you a kiss,” you tell Kyle.

“It’ll take five million years to get here, but I’ll wait to catch it,” he says and yawns once again. “Love you, precious, good night.”

“Love you, Ky. Sleep well.”

[evergone]

Being Two Superheroes in Love

Tim Drake x superhero! reader

Warnings: f! reader, implied POC reader but also not enough for me to say you shouldn't read this if you aren't a POC, swearing, fluff to small angst to fluff again.

Description: The reader's boyfriend, Red Robin, knows everything about her, and she just wants to know one thing about him.

Red and blue lights flashed on each of your faces, illuminating your skin and eyes as you watched the goons get loaded into police trucks. Alarms blared through the eerie alleyways of the rougher outskirts of Gotham, signalling a fire that was in the midst of being put out just a couple doors down from the roof you had removed yourselves onto to watch the scene come to a close. The sharp whistle of a cold, whipping wind, broke through the intense jumble of noise, and sent a shiver down your exposed back.

“You’re gonna need another costume for winter,” said Red Robin knowingly.

With a hum, you replied, “I was thinking of adding long sleeves, a halter neck, and some stockings. What do you think?”

You opened your arms wide in preparation to give him a twirl so that he might be able to take in your current costume and imagine it with all the additions, but decided against it when the chill covered you with goosebumps. Crossing your arms again, you hoped he could see enough of your black battle dress already: the stringy straps, the slit in the skirt, the thigh-high boots. Noticing your discomfort, he unclipped the black and red cape from his shoulders, and draped it over yours. Instantly, you were surrounded by warmth.

“Wanna head home?” asked Red Robin, then he quickly added, “We’re having seafood boil for dinner.” To entice you to join him.

“Your family’s the bland kind of white, Red. I don’t know that I trust them to be able to cook something as flavoursome as Cajun food,” you teased with a laugh.

“Half my family isn’t white,” he said, a pleasant smile on his lips as he stared into your e/c eyes.

“I think ‘half’ is a bit overkill… Can I eat upstairs?” you asked.

“You aren’t allowed yet, Y/n/n.” The sweet sound of your nickname on his tongue almost deafened you to the refusal of your request. “I’ll get someone to bring it to the Batcave for us.”

A huff left you, and you rolled your eyes knowing there was no use in trying to convince him since it wasn’t his rule, but Batman’s. Still, you climbed down the fire escape after him, and let him hold your hand as you tried to remember where he had parked his motorbike before the fight. Once you found it, you hopped on behind him, and planted kisses on his back the whole ride to the cave, knowing very well that he could feel each one pressing on him through his suit.

“You know what?” you shouted as you sped through the Friday night traffic.

“What?” replied Red Robin, just as loud.

“I think it’s so unfair that you know my name, and where I live, and all my family member’s names, while all I know about you is the Red Robin stuff,” you said in annoyance.

“That’s your own fault for not having a code name, and inviting me over for a seance, and I already knew all your family because most of them are Leaguers, so that one’s especially not on me,” he chuckled, “Look, if it makes you feel any better, one of my family members is called Damian.”

“You have, like, a billion siblings!” you scoffed and tried to push his body away from yours, only to freak out the second you weren’t completely touching and wrap your arms around him again. “Surely you tell me your name. Or - or if not that, then your mother’s name.”

“Her name was Janet,” he said softly.

“Oh, she’s passed away?” He nodded, and a grave look came over your face. “I’m so sorry, Red. I’m sure she was a wonderful woman, because her son is such a wonderful man.”

At this, he leant back into your hold as you placed a kiss on his helmet where his cheek would otherwise be. You hid your nose in the dip between his neck and his collarbone for the remainder of the ride, all the while complaining about how your ears were freezing, and how dangerously he was driving, and how hungry you were.

Upon your arrival at the Batcave, he rummaged through the large box of unclaimed clothing left there by both family and visitors until he found a hoodie for each of you to pull over your costumes. When you were sufficiently warm enough, he sent a text to one of his siblings to bring down two plates of food, and you made yourselves comfortable around the table typically used for mission debriefs. You kicked your feet up on the armrest of Red Robin’s chair as you slipped into friendly conversation, but at the sight of Signal’s bright yellow suit, and the scent of garlicky seafood, you stood up excitedly.

“Next time, just come upstairs,” said Signal with a tired sigh, “I’ve got school tomorrow, man.”

You took the plates from him, and placed them on the table before you pulled him in for a short hug, and informed him of your not being allowed upstairs. Batman’s orders. You separated from him as you eagerly dug in to the meal. The blend of herbs and spices exploded on your tongue, you could taste smoked paprika and cayenne pepper on top of the obvious garlic and butter, and you had to admit your fault in thinking it wouldn’t be good.

“My compliments to the chef,” you smiled sweetly to Signal.

“I’ll let him know,” he said, and retreated upstairs.

Meanwhile, Red Robin had been watching the way you interacted with his brother, and it wasn’t lost on him how well you had taken to him, just as you had taken so well to the rest of his adoptive family. A small, almost undetectable smile had crept its way onto his lips, and you raised a brow at him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you asked.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” he responded avoidantly, and raised a forkful of food to his mouth.

You placed a finger on the fork, intercepting its journey, and exclaimed, “You’re making me nervous, tell me!”

“It’s really nothing!” He laughed, and shook his head.

Squinting your eyes at him, you released his fork from your hold, and you went on eating quietly for a while. It wasn’t long, though, before your talkative nature got the better of you, and you pressed him further on the same subject.

“I promise you, it was nothing,” he reiterated.

“Stop it! Just tell me!” you added, “Whatever it was, I won’t judge you, or be weird about it. I just want to know. You know how much I despise secrecy.” With a poke at his domino mask.

He grabbed your finger before it managed to move out of his reach, and opened your palm to hold his. Another of the night’s many complaints was made, this time arguing that you wouldn’t be able to eat if he kept your right hand trapped as it was since you were absolutely hopeless at using your left for anything. But, not wanting to let go, he discarded his own meal to help you with yours. You couldn’t stop yourself from letting out a bemused laugh when he started to move your fork towards you making aeroplane noises, and when he happened to miss your mouth with the food, covering your cheek in sauce.

“Allow me,” he said, and licked the sauce off your face.

“That’s so gross,” you cringed, but he just shrugged and used your closeness to plant a kiss on your glossed pink lips.

Blushing, you turned away from him, letting your hair fall over your shoulder. He smoothly took your hot cheek in his hand, and wiped off all the excess sauce while he lost himself in you.

“If you won’t tell me your secret,” you started quietly, still bright red, “I’ll tell you one of mine.”

“And here I thought you despised secrecy,” he said, every word dripping with sarcasm.

A shake of your head, and then, “I’ve always wished to know what colour your eyes are.”

A pang hit his heart at the softness with which you had spoken. Your gaze drifted from him to the table as if you were ashamed of what you had said, and in that moment, when your perfect e/c eyes were concealed from him, he understood completely the weight behind your words. The crown of his mask came together in a frown as he dropped to his knees in front of you, the picture of a disciple at the foot of his god, and encased your hands entirely in his.

It was part of his training to be hyperaware of the way that people breathed, and it had become second nature to him to always be listening or feeling for it. So when the rise and fall of your chest began to speed up, and he could hear the sharpness of every intake of air, he knew you were on the verge of sobbing.

“I shouldn’t have said anything, I know it’s Batman’s rule—”

“Fuck Batman’s rule.” You snapped your head around to look at him, and he sighed a sigh of relief to see that there weren’t any tears yet. “They’re my eyes, and I’m more than willing to share them with you.”

Unable to let any more time pass, Red Robin peeled off his mask, and deserted it on the floor of the cave. Instinctively, you squeezed your eyes shut until he coaxed you to open them again at which point you were met with the most magnificent blue you had ever seen in your entire life. It rivalled the sea and the sky. It wasn’t cold like crashing waves or storm clouds, but rather, it was the kind of blue seen in the very heart of a fire, right there where it burns the hottest. Framing this excellent display of artistry were long, thick lashes sat under similarly thick, black eyebrows, which were quite well sculpted for a man.

“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered in astonishment.

Now, it was Red Robin’s turn to blush. The rosy colour coated his ears, and touched the lines under his eyes that you had never seen before. You could do nothing but stare at him as you admired the small sliver of space that was so new to you.

[evergone]

The Swordsman and the Singer

Zoro x Musician! Reader

Warnings: Pure fluff, familial bond with the Straw Hats, established relationship with Zoro, reader is referred to as a woman and with she/her pronouns.

Description: Zoro doesn't dance, but when the reader teases him with her voice he can't help himself.

“This music is too loud, you’re gonna get us caught,” Law murmurs as he notices the sun beginning to descend below the horizon, painting the sky a magnificent display of colour.

“We always do this. Get used to it,” says Zoro.

He takes a swig from his beer before placing it into his lap and leaning back against the wooden column behind him. The music is quite loud, but not so loud that he can’t hear your delighted laughter over the bass, so he’s willing to let it go. In the middle of the deck you’re spinning and twirling with Nami and Robin by your sides, each of you wearing ribbons from your sewing box on your wrists. His eye is trained on you and the way the ribbons circle around your body with such precision and skill that you look like some sort of wind deity.

“You don’t join in?” Law asks looking between Zoro and the women.

Zoro shakes his head, “I’m a swordsman, not a dancer.”

An amused breath leaves Law’s nose in such a way that it seems to say: Amen to that. There’s a beat between the music as Brook passes the guitar to Sanji and picks up his violin, and the two swordsman on their own listen as Brook coaxes Franky and Chopper over to a pair of hand drums.

“Are we doing that song?” You exclaim with a quick glance over to Zoro.

He sighs, defeated, but with the shadow of a smile on his lips, and then he raises his beer to you. The excitement bursts through your veins — he can see it in the sparkling e/c of your eyes, in the jump you do before turning back to the others and accepting a few bells that Robin threads onto your ribbons.

“What song?” There’s a confused frown on Law’s brow.

All he receives in response is silence, and it isn’t the least bit comforting.

The song begins with a soft drum beat, then Sanji joins in with the guitar, and finally Brook brings them all together with the violin in a beautiful introduction to a folk song that Law had never heard before. As the instruments rise in intensity, he expects to hear Brook’s voice open the song despite the rather high key, but he is pleasantly surprised to hear your sweet voice begin the vocals. You sing with a confidence Law has never seen from you before as you have always been quiet around him, and he turns to mention this to Zoro, but stops short upon seeing the look on his face.

Here is one of the biggest pirates in the world, a member of the worst generation, Roronoa Zoro, staring at you with a bright pink nose and slightly less pink — but still rosy — cheeks. His eye is lit up, not by the fairy lights creating the almost fantastical atmosphere aboard the Sunny, but by the absolutely unparalleled eloquence of your voice.

When Nami and Robin sing their part they harmonise so well that they sound like one being. It’s almost as beautiful as your part, the main part, but Zoro’s ears seem to shut off when you aren’t singing so that he can focus on widening his one good eye to get a better look at you dancing. You’re leaping in the air now, the music having complete control over your body as you flip and pirouette and perform all these other feats which every time amazed Zoro more than the last time he saw you do it.

As the pace of the song increases, Luffy and Usopp join the dance, weaving through the three of you girls with a skip in their step and the dance trained into their bodies. Zoro grunts slightly when Sanji stands up, seemingly an expert on the guitar now, and finds himself wrapped up in ribbon like a Maypole.

Nami and Robin are singing about how horrible an idea it is to love a sailor, trying to trap you in their ribbons, and all the while you’re ignoring them, telling your tale about running away from home and right into the arms of your sailor paramour. Zoro can’t help but feel like the song was written for the two of you, even though it’s at least three hundred years old. Every verse, every chorus, every word is a confession of love from you to him.

The instrumental begins and Brook plays this spectacular dance-y tune during which you place your hand on Luffy’s and the two of you perform a partnered céilí dance. He’s stumbling over his feet and laughing as he tries to justify himself to you while you loudly complain that he’s not practising enough (but you’re laughing, too, you can’t stop yourself from enjoying this moment).

And then the tempo slows and the instruments go quiet until the players have nearly stopped entirely. Oh! And here comes Zoro’s favourite part!

You run over to him, your ribbons flowing behind you like a cape and the bells jingling like you’re a fairy. Law is caught off-guard by your appearance in front of them, he pronounces your name and you giggle, telling him to stop being a loser and join in.

“I’m a swordsman and a doctor, not a dancer,” he claims.

You scoff and Zoro turns to Law with a lovestruck grin, his arms are wrapped up in your ribbons and his knees are on either side of your thighs. He’s lost to the music, he’s lost in you.

“I’m sure you know a dance or two,” Zoro says teasingly and elbows Law so hard that he trips right into Luffy’s outstretched arms and is pulled into the centre of what would look like a Bacchanal to any outsider.

“Are you being hospitable to our guest?” You ask Zoro once it’s just the two of you alone and before you’ll be beckoned to start singing again.

“You’re the one who called him a loser, woman,” he chuckles.

You laugh with him and bite your lip, “Are you gonna come dance with me?”

“How could I say no to that voice?”

The bridge erupts from your lungs to serenade Zoro as he stands up and allows himself to be taken by your siren song, dragged into the dance. The song ends with another instrumental, just as powerful as the last, and he escapes your ribbons to raise you up into the air, spinning you around as a prince would a princess. At the very end, you repeat the refrain half a dozen times, each time letting the song fade a little more until there is no more music left to sing or to dance to.

[evergone]

Love you

Rindou Haitani x reader

Warnings: swearing, violence (arson, allusions to kidnapping and killing), short and sweet.

Description: Rindou calls the reader on his first night back in jail.

The first night is always the worst. Gangsters go crazy when they hear that Roppongi’s top spot is up for grabs. They go even crazier when they hear that Roppongi’s top girl is up for grabs.

Everyone who’s anyone in the criminal scene of Tokyo knows where you live. You suppose that’s why your lawn has been torched so many times that the grass has turned to soot. The regrowth always comes back greener than ever, but for the extent of time that your boyfriend and his older brother are behind bars their enemies will make sure it stays pitch black.

There have been a few close calls that were just that little bit too close for comfort. The worst was probably the man grabbing you off the street and managing to get you all the way to the door of his car before a handful of Rindou’s loyalists noticed you weren’t where they left you. Rindou says it terrifies him just as much as it does you, but you aren’t sure that’s true. If it were, he would make sure he never got put in jail again.

He loves you and you know this, but you just wish that for once he’d stop, think, have your best interests at heart before following his brother into a murder scene. Or at the very least be smart enough about it not to get caught!

That first night, somehow, he manages to get on the phone. He’s probably stolen someone’s call time. Typical.

“Hey, babe. How you doing?” His voice is quiet, soothing to your ears which have been on high alert all day.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say back.

“Is Kakucho there yet?”

“Not yet. He texted that he’s on his way about ten minutes ago.”

“Bit late… It’s already dark.”

“Don’t you go worrying.” Your heartrate almost doubles, but you let out a soft chuckle as if you’re joking. “I’m relying on your calmness to keep me calm.”

Outside, the wind is picking up, and you pull the cord of the landline over to the window with you as you hold the blinds apart just enough that you can see out with one eye. There aren’t any clouds in the sky yet but a distant rumble anticipates a steadily approaching storm. Hopefully Kakucho can get to you before the rain starts to come down. You see a bright white crack shatter the perfect blue-black of the night sky just outside of Roppongi.

“Okay, okay, sorry.” There’s a smile to be heard in Rindou’s voice, but you can hear the tremble in it too. “What’ve you been up to today, hm?”

“Oh, you know: work, lawyer for you two idiots, work again to pay for the lawyer.”

“Work at the club or the music store?”

The club where you sing to follow your dreams, and the music store where you work to keep your house together. The Haitani brothers may very well work you to death — if they aren’t careful they’ll have your murder on their hands, too.

“Music store. Sold thirty of Ayumi Hamasaki’s album, you know the one, yeah?”

“Yeah. Didn’t know it was still popular, how long’s it been now?”

“Months.”

A knock on the door makes you jump halfway out of your socks. Rindou asks you to keep him on the line while you open it, just in case, so you pop the phone down on the kitchen bench and make your way to the door. Before opening it, you grab the baseball bat you leave in your umbrella stand and wind it up over your shoulder.

“If you’re not Kakucho you better get the fuck up out of here!” You shout, and Rindou lets out a half-laugh overhearing you.

You unlock the door, and whoever is on the other side immediately forces it open. Panic strikes you just as loud thunder growls outside and you swing the bat at the intruder as soon as you see their foot take its first step inside. A shriek slips out as the intruder grabs the bat with a strong hand. You can’t hear Rindou on the other end of the phone calling your name. You can barely feel your body as your knees give out to terror. You fall downwards, inwards, into the mighty, muscular arms of the intruder.

It takes at least a minute, but what feels like hours for Rindou who is shoving his brother towards the other phone in the jail and trying to give him Kakucho’s number while simultaneously trying to make sure he can still hear you, before you realise whose arms these are.

“Madarame?” You whisper.

“Kakucho got bogged, fucking dipshit, so he called me to drive ‘round to keep you company tonight,” says Shion as he slips the baseball bat back into it’s usual place and chews on the toothpick between his teeth. It’s a habit he’s picked up to stop smoking, but as he makes his way to your kitchen window, opens it, and lights a cigarette, you can tell it’s not working. “You using the phone?”

Your eyes widen as you scramble over to the phone and pick it up, “Rinnie?” Shion crinkles his nose as he mockingly mouths Rinnie at you, you return the favour by poking your tongue out at him.

“Y/n!”

“It’s just Madarame, sorry!”

“Oh, okay. Good.” Rindou paused for a moment. “Stay safe, Y/n/n.”

“Yeah, always do. You stay out of trouble, Rinnie.

“Always do.”

"I love you."

There’s some shuffling and snickering in the background of Rindou’s call. You recognize some of the laughter as Ran’s, another, deeper, belly-level laugh is Mocchi’s.

“Rinnie, I said I love you~ You gotta say it back~” You muse.

Shion is watching you with an amused smirk on his face and he says, “Do you reckon he’s gonna say it in front of all those guys?”

You nod. He always says it back.

On the other end of the call there is more shuffling, and all the laughter sounds like it has been put behind a veil or something.

“Love you,” Rindou whispers so quietly you can barely hear him.

The laughter erupts ten times worse this time, not just snickering, but full-blown hilarity overcoming at least four different people. You let Rindou hang up, then you dish up some dinner for Shion and yourself. It was bound to be a long night.

[evergone]

Black Swan, White Swan

Yamato Endo x Reader (slight x Chika Takiishi)

Warnings: 18+ content (sex), swearing, usual Takiishi-Endo violence.

Description: Takiishi can be really awful to Endo, so the reader tries to show him what he's really worth. Too bad Endo's infatuated with Takiishi to the point where the reader's not sure who he loves more.

“He’s so mean to you,” you pout as you place a kiss on the red, hand-shaped mark on your boyfriend’s face.

Endo hums, and responds with, “And yet I love him anyway.”

With a frown, you pull away from his cheek to stare at him judgmentally. He shakes his head, rolls his eyes, and leans back on the couch, moving in just the right way to make his bulge slide across your clothed pussy as you sit in his lap. Knowingly, you lay down on top of him, pressing your breasts against his chest so they push up in the low-cut top you’re wearing. This way, he knows you can tease him, too.

“I don’t get how you can love him,” you sigh sensually, “Not when he gives you nothing, and I give you all this.”

You begin to slowly grind your hips against his, building the tension between your lower parts. His breaths instantly become more frequent, the desperation and the excitement taking control of all his bodily functions. You wonder how long he’ll last. After meeting with Takiishi, Endo always comes home hot and bothered. It’s so much easier to get what you want from him — what you need from him — if Takiishi’s started him off. And you try to think of that in some platonic way, but you know better.

“You can touch me however you want, but you can’t touch me like he does,” he says.

This infuriates you, and you place a hand on each of his pecs, and push yourself off him. Your arms cross, and you give him a look of complete and utter disgust. Still, your pussy is pulsing, begging to be satisfied because it has just been so damn long. Endo isn’t ignorant of this either, and he takes advantage of your weakness by gripping your hips, and forcing you to roll over his bulge again, and again, and again. You’re like clay, so ready to be molded in his hands.

Eventually, you give in to your impulses, and unzip his jeans. You pull them down his legs, planting kisses on the inside of his thighs as you go, and the tent in his black underwear grows even bigger. Then, you kiss his tip, and lick his length, drenching his underwear. He grows impatient, and takes them off for you, his dick springing out eagerly, obsessively.

Just the sight of it, in all it’s glory, makes you drool, and you indulge yourself in the salty taste of his precum. He wants you to take it in your mouth, so you do. You let him tangle his fingers in your hair, and force his dick so far into your throat so many times (without even considering that you might need a little more air) that you’re teetering too close to the line between gagging and vomiting. You throw you head back against him, he releases you from his ravenous hold, but he complains about not getting to come in your mouth.

“I’ll let you fill me up somewhere better,” you say proudly, and place your knees on either side of his waist.

He grabs the centre piece of fabric of your underwear, and tugs until they tear apart. You whine something about them being really expensive, but he doesn’t care to listen. In moments, he’s balls deep inside of you, pounding against your cervix like your nothing more than a cumrag or a flesh light. You take his right hand, and press one of his fingers against your clit, and he lets out a few words that sound very suspiciously like ‘I forgot about you.’ It makes you hiss, which he assumes is a sound of pleasure, so he stays rubbing circles on your clit at a rapidly increasing pace.

You force two of your own fingers into your hole alongside his dick, and he groans at the contact. He’s so vocal — always groaning, and grunting, and moaning. It’s atrocious, and you love it. When you pull your fingers out, they’re covered in your slick, so you shove them into his mouth. His tongue makes a figure eight around them, lapping up every last drop of you, then you draw them out, and run them along his body. You kiss him again, and in the swap of saliva, you taste yourself. So fruity, so sweet.

“Can he touch you like this?” You ask him.

“No,” he replies.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” you say.

“No! He can’t touch me like this!” He moans, and you smile proudly to yourself.

But then, the door opens, and the speed at which he’s pounding into you starts to become more frantic, more wanting. You almost manage to avoid glancing at the door, but you can’t help yourself. When you see Takiishi standing there with that vacant look in his eye, you scoff, and stand up off your boyfriend’s dick. A web of fluids connect the two of you, but snaps when you take a step back. Endo whimpers as he tries to beckon you back onto him with one hand, and waves half-heartedly at Takiishi with his other, and you roll your eyes at it all.

“Why did you stop?” Takiishi says.

Instantly, Endo is pulling you back, and you sit down on his dick with an annoyed look. He offers you a pout that silently begs ‘please? for me?’ and you start to bounce on him, only slightly amused when the sound of your skin slapping against his reverberates through the room.

With Takiishi watching, Endo is a much more attentive lover. Despite all his attention being on his friend (for lack of a better word), he seems to crave Takiishi’s approval, and thus, focuses hard on proving that he is the world’s best lover. His pace slows, he breathes warmly into your neck as he places kisses all over your collarbone, his eyes stuck on Takiishi’s. His fingers are pinching your clit, and making your eyes close as tears start to prick at the edges. For the first time in weeks, you let out a string of grunts interspersed with ‘Yamato, faster!’ (which he ignores in favour of prolonging this for you, but more so for Takiishi), and ‘Fuck!’, and ‘More! More!’

Finally, your entire body tenses, the walls of your cunt clench on his cock, and your hands ball into fists as you reach your climax, and fall softly on top of his body. He continues to use you until his thick, hot cum fills you up, and you don’t spare another thought about whether or not you took your pill this morning.

“I love you,” he says, but neither you nor Takiishi answer.

[evergone]

Rumours

Theodore Nott x Reader

Warnings: swearing.

Description: Theo and the reader aren't particularly close friends until a storm terrifies the reader, and Theo has to take her to her room. Scandal ensues.

Night began to ride in on the back of a storm and through the large windows looking out into the lake you could see schools of fish swimming further down to hide amongst the weeds and mud below the dungeon. Wrapped in a large cream coloured goat’s wool blanket, and layered in both a brown cotton jumper and your green-lined robe, you found warmth by the crackling fireplace as you sped through your Potions homework, well aware that you would never get it completely finished by Monday when it was due. Vanilla and chamomile candles lit themselves around the long common room and their scent wafted through the space, mixing with the smell of the burning wood and adding to the all-encompassing sense of home.

Lightning struck the lake, the first of what would be many times that night, and you waited anxiously for the oncoming thunder. It broke out from a whimper to a roar, so loud it shook the common room, and the two green glass bottles sat atop the elaborate stone mantelpiece of the fireplace swayed into each other with a quiet ‘clink!’ as if making a toast. Stress seized your mind, and while you contemplated moving away from the windows, you couldn’t find it in yourself to get up. Just about frozen from phonophobia, as well as from your complete mortification at the thought that someone unkind could discover this fear, you scribbled over your homework parchment absentmindedly.

As another bolt of lightning met with the lake, the entrance to the common room swung open and the ever-familiar voice of your dearest friend, Pansy Parkinson, and some of your other housemates disturbed the mostly silent space. Gaze transfixed on your homework, you didn’t notice them make their way across the deep green and shining silver mosaic floors until Theodore Nott overly fondly pushed you further to the edge of the lounge you were on and stole half of the blanket from you as he sat down. Thunder raged again in the gloomy, storm-charged atmosphere, twice as loud as the groups’ conversation and your body tightened to a tense.

As Theo made himself more comfortable, he threw you an awkward smile as a swift apology for invading your personal bubble.

The two of you were hardly friends, just friends-of-friends, and it was for no reason other than the convenience of the group that you were ever in each other’s company. Occasionally, there would be a free period that you’d both spend in the library and whoever had gotten there first would wave the other over and you’d sit together, but you’d only ever do your homework quietly across from each other. No chatting, no socialising, not even a ‘how are you liking the weather?’ You were fine with this, though, as both Theo and yourself were private people. Or, at least, you pretended to be fine with the unspoken arrangement.

“You okay?” he asked, interrupting your train of thought when his hand met the section of blanket covering your knee, and the earthly wonders he had for eyes met yours.

He must have felt you when you tensed.

Simplicity was an attribute of Theo’s that you truly admired and adored. He never said a word more than he needed to. You shook your head meekly like a shy child on her first day in kindergarten. Mascara seemed the only barrier stopping you from turning your lashes into a lawn covered in morning dew — you wouldn’t be seen having it run down your face, how would you possibly hide that from the judgemental eyes of the Slytherin population? Seeming to disregard your nonverbal response as a lie, Theo waved his wand and the snake-patterned blackout curtains fell over the windows, putting a distance between the common room and the outside world.

“Is it the noise?” he guessed in a hushed tone, careful not to draw the attention of any of the others.

“Mhm,” you hummed as your cheeks reddened (Merlin be damned for letting him of all people figure you out), “Could you get Pansy to walk me to my room?”

Over on the other lounge, Pansy sat preoccupied in Draco’s lap, twiddling her short black hair between her pointer and her thumb, and laughing in an obnoxious manner at a story Blaise had started to tell almost twenty minutes earlier in the courtyard. It was some long reach piece of gossip about one of those Weasley kids — Fred? George? One of the other ones whose names Theo couldn’t remember for the life of him? He hadn’t really been paying much attention. Rested in the back pocket of Pansy’s jeans was Draco’s hand, holding her firmly on top of him. Safe to say, Theo wouldn’t be pulling those two apart inconspicuously.

“I’ll take you,” he told you.

Softly, he abandoned the blanket that once sheltered you from the nibbling chill of the late-Spring air and stood up. Both Blaise and Draco noticed this and each raised a pitch black or platinum blonde brow respectively as a questioning gesture of Theo’s motives as he held his hand out to help you up. With Theo as your guide and support, you made your way up to your room, stopping halfway up the stairs when another bang of thunder made you jump and he had to grab your forearms to make sure you didn’t fall over. You apologised awkwardly, and avoided his gaze as best you could while cherishing every moment in which his hands were on you.

At your door, you made sure to thank him profusely and honoured him with an I-owe-you which he refused to acknowledge. After ensuring you would be okay, he returned to the common room and sat in the seat he had left. Blaise had made himself comfortable where you’d once been, and the entire group stopped their conversation in favour of silence.

“The fuck was that?” Draco asked loudly.

Thunder continued to rumble overhead in the grey of the storm, adding to the grandeur of the Slytherin common room that Draco’s obscenity disregarded. Unbothered and unwilling to explain your personal troubles to the king of being the opposite of understanding, Theo just shrugged in response, and focused in on the black-furred cat that had made its way into their area as he listened to the storm as if it were music.

“Oh, shit…” Pansy said, the realisation that you had been scared by the storm finally hitting her, “I gotta go.”

Leaving Draco with an affectionate peck on the cheek, Pansy retreated upstairs, likely to go take care of you, Theo presumed. In her wake, Draco and Blaise erupted into questions. A muddle of ‘are you guys dating?’s and ‘actually what the fuck’s and ‘I didn’t even know you liked her’s were thrown at Theo who had no ulterior motives behind taking you upstairs, he had just done so out of the simple kindness of his heart. Slytherins being Slytherins, however, couldn’t fathom that he would do anything purely out of kindness. Kindness didn’t come naturally in a house dedicated to ambition and self-preservation.

“You like her, Theo, admit it.”

“Shove off, Draco,” Theo spat, pulling the blanket back over himself, “You don’t know anything.”

“Defensive!” Blaise laughed and poked his friend’s shoulder, “You are the closest to her out of all of us guys.”

Truthfully, you and Theo did spend an awful lot of time together. But that was only out of consequence, the fact that you both thoroughly enjoyed reading meant you were both always in the library looking through the hundreds or possibly thousands of leather-bound books, and you seemed to frequently happen upon each other. Outside of the library, your time was limited only to group activities because you sat next to Pansy or Daphne Greengrass in almost every class you shared with Theo and never spoke to him. He didn’t think anything of your time together. Surely, there wasn’t much to think. Right? The pair of you — no, there wasn’t any “pair” to begin with, say, the individuals of you, yes, that’s right, the individuals. The individuals of you were just happy acquaintances, nothing more.

The fire was hardly big enough to keep Theo warm against the backdrop of a fiercely windy night that had turned even the secluded dungeons cold. Even under all its fur, the cat who had made itself comfortable right up next to the flames looked still to be shivering in the crisp air. It jumped up off the floor, where the stone mosaics weren’t warming up at all, and squished itself between Blaise and Theo.

“You know, she barely even talks to us,” Draco started, “We’re her friends, of course, but when Pansy or Daphne or you aren’t there she goes all quiet.”

“And she clearly trusts you, whatever that whole thing was—” Blaise made circular motions with his arms to refer to Theo taking her to her room— “She didn’t trust any of us with it.”

Theo huffed, “She wanted Pansy, but she was busy with his hand on her ass, I had an…” He searched for the right word, “Obligation to help.”

“Because Theodore Nott is renowned for helping people,” Draco scoffed, his tongue dripping with sarcasm.

By the time you were crouched over a table in the library the next morning, making a desperate last-ditch effort to complete that Potions homework before third period, the storm had subsided. Unfortunately for you, your most outspoken friend, Daphne, had brought with her a storm of her own.

“I heard a rumour,” Daphne began as she pinned her blonde side fringe back behind her ear.

“Oh, here we go!” Pansy sighed.

Numerous scrolls of parchment were littered over the desk in the library that the three of you had made your own and Pansy was sorting frantically through them looking for all the ones with her handwriting on them — she couldn’t even remember the amount she had written on. Stacks of books on the fundamentals of potions, charms and transfiguration threaded themselves between the scrolls and threatened to fall as her inattentive sorting had her reaching over and around them sloppily. With a creak, you leaned back in your chair taking a blind gander under the desk to find another three scrolls forgotten on the elephant print, medieval-style rug that covered the wooden floors and handed them to her.

“According to hearsay, you and Theo are having some kind of fling,” Daphne continued, “Care to comment, Y/n, my dear friend?” She held a fist out towards to mimic a reporter holding a microphone.

“Who told you that?” You asked, furrowed brows adorning your face like a weighted crown as you slapped her hand away.

She shrugged then took her own scrolls which were contained in a pile on a separate but close-by desk, and put them into the spacey grey-black satchel slung over her shoulder. Clock striking the hour, your two companions bid you adieu as they headed for Ghoul Studies. Unsure whether she had found all her scrolls, Pansy took one last glance at the desk before giving up altogether, stating that if she didn’t have it then it surely wasn’t important.

Left alone to drown in your inability to finish this Merlin-darned homework, your mind wandered to the somewhat unsavoury rumour concerning yourself and Theo that was supposedly making the rounds. Details of the night prior came back in sections, split up by bursts of terror ignited by the loud storm. Most of your memories were from the latter half of the night, curled up in Pansy’s arms singing to the wizarding hits of the last five or so decades. However, the earlier moments lingered on your side and your hand — the everlasting effects of Theo’s touch. By Salazar, what you wouldn’t give to feel him again.

As if your thoughts were summons, the very boy with whom you were engaged in the beginnings of a tumultuous scandal entered your space in the library. Drawing back the chair Pansy had once claimed beside you, Theo sat down, and set some parchment and ink on the desk alongside your books and half-finished assignments. He ran a hand through his tawny brown curls, breaking his near-perfect side part as his chest rose and fell with every heavy breath.

“You look exhausted,” you smiled, taking notice of his sweat slicked forehead.

You’d never started a conversation with him before.

“I spent the morning playing quidditch with Draco,” he said with a hint of anger.

You laughed gently and missed as the sound lit a spark in Theo’s eyes, convincing him to move his seat closer to yours. Surrounding the two of you was an air as warm as a campfire at school camp, or the fireplace under stockings on Christmas Day, or the oven after baking a fresh loaf of bread. Burdened by your workload, you dug straight back into your tasks, but Theo had other ideas. Parchment was less hardy than paper, and so your homework scroll was starting to fray, piquing his interest as he took a lose thread between his fingers and toyed with it. Eyes slimmed, brow raised, you sent him a look of confusion.

“Let’s not do our work today,” he announced.

“And do what instead?” You questioned, already having disregarded your quill in the inkpot, turned wild by the promise of adventure.

Easily, Theo stood up and raised his arms to stretch out his tall spine letting a set of cracks run down it from his shoulders to his hips. The black band of his underwear exposed itself as his white button-up school shirt lifted above his belly button, and you caught yourself mid-stare at his happy trail. He made a place for himself behind your chair, his upper body leant over your head like a tree you were using for shade as he inspected the shelves full of ancient books before you. If you had died right there, you would certainly have died happy.

He was looking for something to impress you (though he couldn’t exactly justify why he’d become suddenly inclined to do such a thing), something that would gain your attention, something he could recommend so you could go back to him to talk about it. For him to find that, you would have to leave the education section in favour of the leisure section. He held his hand out to assist you in standing for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, and you took it again; his high body temperature, and calm but bored aura encompassed you at the touch of your palms. When he let go, he waved the very same hand over your belongings to cast a spell that would pack everything into your brown leather shoulder bag that was leaning idly on the leg of your chair.

“Give me a sec,” he whispered, cautious of Madam Pince’s omni-audient ear.

There wasn’t a single book he could think of that he didn’t know you had already read. Always the avid reader, you were, from the moment you learnt the alphabet it seemed you couldn’t live without a book in one hand and a pencil for annotating in the other. When he finally came across something he thought you’d like, a compilation of poetry by some witch named Winters, he hurried back to lead you elsewhere.

You followed him like a stray puppy would follow the scent of food, and he took you outside to sit below two wych elms whose branches were tangled like lovers. Blooming expanses of creeping thyme coloured the soles of your shoes a pale pink-purple as you crushed them under your feet; you would be ever grateful for the house elves when they cleaned it off for you. Pollen tickled your nose and pricked your eyes, the sun’s rays created a sheen of light across the Black Lake, and the skies had cleared completely, leaving a blue vastness to watch over the castle.

Theo laid down and passed you the poetry book, “For you.”

Taking it from him and flipping through the pages, you nodded your thanks and rested your head on the ground next to him. Human silence overcame the little space you two had made for yourselves and the sounds of nature, birds chirping, bees buzzing, leaves rustling, were the only things left to be heard anywhere near. In the distance, there was a faint echo of classes being taught, but so far away that it you wouldn’t be able to hear it unless you strained yourself immensely.

“Did you finish that potions homework?” Theo asked.

Another laugh escaped your mouth, “When have I ever finished potions homework on time?” You said with a newfound confidence, “Snape takes five house points from me in every class.”

An amused close-lipped smile spread across his face, “And here I’ve taken you away from your studying.”

“I wouldn’t have done it anyway,” you sighed, content with your predicament.

Frost-speckled grass kissed your cheek as you turned to look at him, the remnants of Winter still lasted so far into Spring. Theo turned as well, taking in every scar, freckle and acne bump that was blessed by belonging to you.

“Let’s read this together,” you said, and opened to the first page of the book he had found for you.

“No!” He rushed out, stealing it back, and placing it on the other side of him.

Confusion danced a ballet over your soft features while a blush spun savagely over his strong, sharp traits. One of your arms, your right that was furthest away from him, reached across his body in blind hope to find the gift he had so abruptly rescinded. The mole above his mouth slinked forward as he bit his bottom lip, and slid the book under the curve of his back so you’d never be able to grab it. Nevertheless, you flipped onto your stomach and shot your hand underneath him, crumbling as you got stuck under his weight.

“What are you doing?” You giggled, “Why can’t I read it?”

“I want to get it right,” explained Theo, “I picked this out on a whim, give me some time to choose something better suited for you, yeah?” You frowned so he quickly added, “Please?”

Under long lashes that appeared almost naked without the layers of mascara you usually covered them with, your enthralling e/c irises stared at him, teleporting him into the mazes of your mind where he intended to get lost. Retracting your frown and wriggling your arm out from underneath him, you lazed the side of your forehead against his shoulder which, to both yours and Theo’s surprise, struck up an affectionate sensation in your chests. From your position you could feel the way his heart pushed and pulled the blood through his veins and arteries, the tender ‘dun-dun’ of his heartbeat causing his whole body to pulse to an organised rhythm.

Five years you had known Theo and while one wouldn’t be wrong to call you associates, I must reiterate that you were never really friends. Seeing him in the library during your corresponding free periods was nice, you supposed, but you suddenly realised that you hated how far you drifted outside of the library’s book-covered walls. The previous night had been the first time in what was likely forever that you had spoken exclusively to one another without the guidance of a third party. Really, you just wanted to get to know him better, see the sides of him that didn’t show during a dead-silent hour alone in the library.

“Well, since you asked so politely,” you said with a sincere smile.

Theo opened his mouth to respond but was cut off before he was given the chance by Daphne’s high-pitched, intrusive voice screaming at you from across the field of creeping thyme, “You whores are never beating these allegations!”

Her volume gave you half a heart attack and you jolted upright, deserting Theo’s shoulder, and glancing over your own to see Daphne approaching the two of you with Blaise, Pansy, Draco, Tweedledum and Tweedle-dee on her heel. Clearly, the bell had rung for break, but between your great library escape and book shenanigan, neither of you had cared to check the time. How the others had found you was beyond your capacity to think as you waited for your heart to settle and your forehead to cease sweating following Daphne’s ear-piercing entrance.

“What allegations?” He asked her, thick eyebrows glaring, not at her, but at the content of her conversation.

“Y/n didn’t tell you?” She said, “You’ve been swept up in a scandal. Everyone thinks you guys are getting it on.”

Vulgar motions were made with her hands, sending Crabbe and Goyle into a bout of immature laughter. Flushed red with embarrassment, you avoided the look Theo was more-than-likely throwing your way by connecting your own line of vision with Pansy’s. She bit her tongue, widened her eyes, and nodded harshly in Theo’s direction, urging you to look at him. But you were so terribly embarrassed that you took to your feet, and ran away from your friends, ignoring them as they called out for you to come back.

You found the first broom closet that would open at the utterance of ‘Alohomora,’ and found solace in the cramped, yet perfectly concealed hiding spot. As your hands came up to cover your eyes, the humiliation of, not only the rumour, or the fact that you were caught in such a compromising position with Theo, but of the fact that you had fooled yourself into starting to think that you and Theo were building something, overcame you. Once you decided the coast would be clear, and your friends would have all returned to their classes, you opened the broom closet door, your eyes stinging with the remains of tears.

Standing before you with a look of knowing and understanding that was so much beyond friendliness, was Theo. His hands were in his pockets, and he had slung both your bag and his own over his wide shoulders.

“How did you find me?” You said quietly, and wiped your eyes, hoping you could hide their inevitable redness.

“The others were headed to Potions, but I heard you sobbing, and thought I should wait until you were ready to come out,” he responded just as softly.

“Why would you do that? You know Snape doesn’t take late homework submissions! You’re coming third-in-class!” You exclaimed.

Worry flashed behind your eyes, and he quickly leant down, and reached out to cup your face in his large, calloused hands, “Hey, hey, it’s alright! I took you away from your study first, Y/n, it’s only fair that we both fail.”

That classic frown of yours graced your beautiful features, and Theo had to withhold the urge to sigh with infatuation. It was a blessing to behold you, even when your cheeks and eyes were so puffy and irritated, and your nose was beginning to run a little. However gross it was was eclipsed by how perfect you were.

“Why are you so upset, huh?” He asked you in a gentle tone.

A small sniffle preceded your reply, “There’s this tasteless rumour about us, and I was just starting to realise how much I like being around you, and now it’s all ruined!”

Theo laughed his mellifluous, musical laugh which frustrated you into an even deeper frown, then he said, “A stupid rumour couldn’t ruin us.”

Glancing up at him, you allowed your frown to soften. He had said ‘us.’ What in the world did that mean? What, or who, was ‘us?’ Did he mean the two of you? Your thoughts ran as rampant and crazy as they had earlier when he first proposed the idea of skipping out on your study period. Quickly, you began to hypothesise all sorts of meanings and justifications for his choice of words.

“And, for the record, I love being around you, too,” he said.

Without warning, your body became charged with that uncharacteristic confidence that had only started to appear the night before, and you leant in to place your forehead on Theo’s. He looked downright idiotic from that angle, but you saw firsthand how his line of vision flickered down to your lips, and back up to your eyes. And you thought, if people must think you’re messing around with someone, you wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.

“Would you like to — Do you want to…?” You had read hundreds of books on romance, but still you couldn’t think of the words.

“Can I…?” Neither, it seems, could he.

You placed your hand on the back of his neck, and pulled him in. His lips were were raging fires, yours were wax, melting at the touch of heat. Notes of nutmeg and cypress hit your nose — his cologne. His hands gripped your waist, just lower than could be written off as friendly, and he kissed you so passionately that any onlooker would think the rumours so obviously confirmed.

Eventually, he pulled away, and you just stared at each other in total wonder. There was no way you could possibly discredit those rumours now.