30s. Taken by my fucking champion. INTJ with a soft heart and a naughty streak. I do what I want, so fanfic, funnies, scathing commentary, me screaming into the void. Appreciate these artists bc they deserve the world. Also just try to be nice to others. Okay bye.
Warnings: this fic is set in a dystopian world with suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 7th’s fic! (Sorry it's lates)
Steve Kemp + “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
"Don't embarrass me." Your husband warns as he fixes his dark red jacket in the mirror.
You peek over your shoulder as his derision radiates from the reflection of his light blue eyes. You dip your chin and resume fussing with belt of the velvet dress. You can't quite make the bow look anything but droopy and depressed.
You focus on that small struggle, one battle you might prevail in. You can never win with your husband. Without reason to fear it, he's paranoid about your every breath and word. You've only ever done what you're supposed to... Including marrying him.
"Turn around," Hugh demands.
You obey without hesitation. He clucks as he approaches you. He snarls under his breath as he loses the pathetic bow you've looped at the side of your waste and reties it effortlessly. It's perfectly straight and set.
"This is important. The magistrates' dinner could determine everything for me." He pauses, fingers lingering along your belt and slowly creeping up the front of the dress. "Don't forget your charms.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Magistrate,” he chides. “Remember who you married.”
“I’m sorry–”
He presses a thick finger to your lips. “Don’t be sorry, be silent.”
He taps your chin then turns away. You put your shoes on and grab your stole. You do as he bid and don’t say a word.
When he’s ready, you depart. You sit in the back of the car, the driver blocked out by the tinted divider, as your husband taps his leg and his lips move in rehearsal of the night to come. You sit stiff and still, staring ahead, just as you’ve trained yourself.
You arrive to the usual reception. The deference of others does little to nurse the powerlessness of your own position. You hand over your stole as the staff take Hugh’s jacket. Not Hugh, Magistrate Drysdale.
You let him lead, as always. You’re just another emblem of his status. Just like the medal on his ceremony jacket and that signet on his pinky ring.
“Our seats should be better than last year,” he mutters as he keeps his arm through yours. “Don’t expect we’ll be sitting at the end with Brenner and his gaudy side piece.”
Sure enough, you’re led to the head of the table, right there at the corner. Your husband takes the first seat and as always, you take the secondary. You sit and thank the staff as they push in your chair. Hugh sends you a sharp glance for that courtesy.
The other guests straggle in to join those already arrived. There aren’t many empty chairs left at your arrival as your husband is rarely in a hurry. You wait patiently, staring ahead at nothing in particular. You’ve disciplined yourself to exist in that void. The less you know, the less you feel, the safer you are.
Finally, the table is full. There is but one seat left. That at the very head, to the left of Magistrate Drysdale and Magistrate Fowler across from him.
The host enters. All go silent as they watch the Magistrate Primus approach. You turn your head without seeing, only mimicking those around you. You see only a hazy shadow step up to the chair.
“Welcome all,” Magistrate Kemp preens. “Firstly, I must thank you all for attending. It’s not often we get all of us in one place. Better for it, likely.” He pauses for effect and a hearty chuckle rolls over the table. “Secondly, I need to apologise on the behalf of my other half. She remains ill and continues her treatments.”
There’s a low drone of manufactured empathy. You let your face form the expected mask but make no noise.
“Let’s not dwell on the latter. We should enjoy this rare occasion. Enjoy the calm amid the storm. Our work never ends, does it?” There’s a rabble of agreement and Magistrate Kemp claps his hands. “Alright, without further delay, I’m starving.”
He sits, the scrape of his chair breaking your trance. As Kemp sits, your eyes meet. His cheeks dimple in his perfectly practiced grin. His blue eyes swirl like a stormy ocean. You bend your neck humbly and focus on the table setting before you.
“Drysdale, already into the scotch?” Kemp leans into your husband.
“I have to make up for being sober for so long,” your husband retorts.
“Ah, are there not better ways to unwind? You’ve a lovely wife.”
“Mm, she goes well with scotch,” Hugh scoffs.
You don’t react. You keep your hands folded in your lap and stare at the table. The voices around you rise to a steady buzz.
“Goodwife Drysdale, you look wonderful in that colour. Much better than your husband.” Kemp snags your attention.
You must appease him. You simper in his direction. “Thank you, Magistrate.”
Your husband is obtuse to the compliment as he leans back and orders a servant to fill his plate with mini quiche and crab cakes. Kemp runs his fingers up and down the stem of his glass and watches you. You nod again and look down.
“I must admire her manners, Drysdale.”
“Hm?” Hugh grunts.
“Your wife. She’s well trained.”
“She does what she’s told.” Your husband shrugs.
“Oh, I’m sure your demands are endless,” Kemp chuckles.
“Speak for yourself,” Hugh counters playfully.
“You,” Kemp points to a servant, “this lady needs a drink. Champagne with frozen strawberries.” He flicks his finger. “Now.”
The servant rushes away. You chafe in your dress and make yourself look at the magistrate. Hugh reaches to pinch you under the table. You’re drawing too much attention. He is trying to get in with the most powerful man in the republic.
“Thank you, Magistrate Kemp. That sounds delicious.”
“Oh,” Kemp arches a brow. “I do have a taste for the delectable.”
👄
“Let us speak somewhere less… well, less.” Kemp insists as he sneers at the drunken guffawing of Magistrate Bodecker.
“Let’s,” Hugh agrees triumphantly. “I have some thoughts on the Western Territory.”
“I’m sure you do. I however have my own proposal in mind.” Kemp intones.
“Goodwife,” Hugh squeezes your forearm. “I won’t be long–”
“Bring the Goodwife. Don’t leave her to these wolves.” Kemp insists.
You sense your husband bristle. He doesn’t need you getting in the way. This is his chance to get himself above all the others.
“Sure. I suppose it wouldn’t be a good look for a Goodwife to be wandering alone.”
“Not one as lovely as her,” Kemp steps closer and offers his hand. “You’ve never seen my reading room, Goodwife.”
You resist the urge to look at your husband. You can feel his discontent. The Primus Magistrate leads you across the room as your husband strides at your other side. Your heartbeat picks up. That well-honed numbness slowly dissembles.
Kemp takes you from the large front room and up the east ascent of the curling staircase set against the wall of the foyer. You take your steps cautiously, intent on the movement of your body over the fragility of your predicament.
Down the corridor and to the right, three doors down, and he leads you through double doors. He sweeps you inside as he gestures widely with his other arm. “I come here and read by the windows.” He brings you across to the large arched window that opens to the immaculately curated gardens. “Or I simply watch the world outside.”
“I’ve always admired your taste,” Hugh praises. “Is this a first edition?”
Kemp doesn’t look back. “They are all original prints.” He shifts closer as he lets go of your hand and runs his fingertips up your sleeve. “Do you see how the fountain reflects the moonlight? It’s like the sky looking up at itself.”
“Very pretty, Magistrate.” You murmur.
“About the West Bridge…” Hugh begins.
“Ran,” Kemp addresses your husband by his informal pseudonym. “No work tonight. I didn’t put this whole thing on to sit through another council.” Kemp huffs and plays with the bow at your waist. He turns to face you, standing close. You feel his gaze on you. “You require a break as well. All that fretting over the West…”
Hugh exhales. “I… guess you’re right.”
“Drysdale,” Kemp drawls. “How can you be so uptight when you have this creature attached to you?”
“What?” Your husband scoffs. “Primus?”
“You have a beautiful wife. So soft, so pliant. She would do anything for you and you can hardly look at her.” Kemp brings his hand up to pet your cheek. “Do you even fuck her?”
Hugh snorts. “Kemp.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“She’s my wife–”
“Fine. She is honest. Let her tell me.” He strokes your hair. “Goodwife, when’s the last time your husband made you cum?”
You shift and shiver. You stare out the window. You’re choked in horror. You can’t not answer the Primus Magistrate, but you also can’t shame your own husband.
“I am happy with my goodhusband–”
“That is not what I asked.” Kemp trails his fingers down your spine. You quiver. “I can feel it in the way you shake that it’s been a while. If he’s ever made you cum.”
Hugh growls and you hear his knuckles crack. Silence roils around you as Kemp continues to feel you up, brushing his hand across your ass as he presses himself to your side. You bite down as your vision blurs.
“Primus,” Hugh utters quietly. He struggles to continue. “You can have her for the night… if you give me the West.”
Kemp snickers and runs his hand up your side. He takes your arm and turns you to him. He grabs your hand and toys with it admiringly. He places it on his shoulder.
“I don’t need your permission to fuck her. But I’ll let you choose; stay and watch or go cower with the rest of those dogs.”
Silence, stillness. Kemp’s hand comes up under your chin and he forces your head up. “Look at me, goodwife.”
Hugh harrumphs and shadows shift in the edge of your sight. Something clatters and he stomps off, the doors slamming after him. You tremble as your hand slips down to the magistrate’s chest.
“Don’t be scared,” he coaxes.
“Magistrate, my husband–”
“Tut, tut,” he swipes his finger across your lips. “Firstly, don’t speak of him. Second, you will call me by my name.”
You bat your eyes. “Yes, Magist– Um… Steven?”
“Steve…” he traces the shape of your lips.
You stare up into his eyes, layers of azure and cyan dancing around his growing pupils. You gulp. “Steve,” you whisper.
He licks his lips and pushes his finger inside your mouth. “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes widen. He pushes down on your tongue. You seal your lips around his fingers and instinctively suck. He purrs as his other hand tugs free the bow on your dress.
“I want you to scream it every time I make you cum.”
I want to run away with Kemp 😭 though, not sure if he's better than Ransom in the long run...but at least he'll be good in bed lol. And hopefully treat us nicer.
Warnings: this fic contains arranged marriage and suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 8th’s fic!
Andy Barber + “I'm tired of repeating myself.”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Andrew takes his jacket off. Andy. That’s what he told you to call him. The metal on your finger presses into your flesh and you look down. You pinch the white stone through the lace glove and quickly pull your hands apart.
You exhale and look up as you sense movement. He puts his jacket over a hanger then tugs at his bowtie. Your eyes wander around the room. Dark hardwood and ivory curtains. The bed has canopies draped from the tall posts and the edges of the pillow cases are scalloped. From what you’ve seen of the massive house, it’s all intricately decorated. Nothing is out of place… but you.
He slings the bowtie over the bottom of the hanger and unbuttons his vest. Petals from the corsage still on his jacket flutter down to the carpet. He strips off the vest and you watch how his shoulders strain his white shirt.
He hangs the vest too as you stare at his thick neck and the neat trim of his beard. Your ankle bends. As you fix your stance, your heel clunks and draws his attention. He looks at you and you wince.
“Relax,” he says as he pulls free the tails of his shirt from trousers.
You nod. He nears as his shirt hangs slack. He stops in front of you and takes your hand. He peels off the lace gloves, tugging each finger delicately. He strips them both away and sets them aside. You tremble.
“Honey, please… relax.” He says again.
You’re trying but you can’t even say so. Your chest is so tight. This is the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with and you just met him five hours ago.
He takes your hands again. He kisses each knuckle, each time looking at you. Your hands are heavy like stone. He squeezes them, rubbing his thumbs along the back.
“Re-lax.” He insists.
You curl your fingers and straighten them. You just can’t get the tension out. He lets your hands fall and gets even closer. He traces the off-the-shoulder neckline down to your body and trails down to the skirt. He pinches the fabric and purrs.
He drags his hand around your hip as he circles you. He stands behind you. You shiver. He undoes the top button of the dress. You gasp.
He continues down the buttons, plucking each one free of the loop. He stops halfway and grips the fabric. He jerks you.
“I’m tired of repeating myself.” He growls. He yanks and the rest of the buttons scatter as the dress slackens entirely. “I said relax.” He pushes the bodice down to your waist. You pull your arms free of the sleeves and squirm. “I’m being nice.”
“I’m sorry,” you eke out and clasp your hands in front of your lacy strapless bra.
He shoves the dress until the skirts heap around your ankles and calves. You look down as you twist, the lacy thong high on your hips and exposing your ass and most of your pelvis. He touches your bare back and drags his touch up your sides. He squeezes and growls.
“You said it. You made the vow.” He drawls into your hair. He reaches to touch the gem-covered clip. “You said you’re mine.” He strokes down your cheek and opens his hand to frame your chin. He nuzzles the rim of your ear. “So why are you acting so scared?”
You shake as he presses himself to your back.
“It’ll only hurt more if you don’t relax.” He enunciates the last word harshly, his other hand slipping down along the front of your panties.
Pairing David!Clark Kent x Wife!Reader
Summary It started with one strawberry. One chocolate. One kiss. While Clark was called away for Superman duties, you indulged. Now, you’re in the bath aching, breathless, and burning waiting for his return. (Home + Chocolates/Strawberries)
Tags 18+, MDNIN Smut p in v (unprotected), Accidental Aphrodisiac, Bathtub Sex, Underwater Oral (f receiving, Clark my celestial munch), Praise Kink, Size kink, Dirty Talk, Reader acting stupid horny as hell
WC 4.5k
thank you @maiamore for the gif!
Galentine's # 5 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace| Mrs. Kent Diaries
The bath started as a distraction.
Something mindless. Something warm. A way to pull yourself out of your body, out of your head, and away from the pulsing ache that had been growing between your navel since dinner. But now, the water was too high and not hot enough and still somehow everything felt too much.
Clark’s name echoed in your head. Unprompted, but so loud and clear, and your whole body clenched.
What the hell did Kara give you?
Your back stuck faintly to the cool porcelain. Your skin prickled despite the cooler temperature, flushed and oversensitive. Your nipples were stiff, darker than usual, puckered tight. And your thighs, God, your thighs hadn’t stopped pressing together, knees drawn up, trying to trap some kind of friction between them, even if it hurt. Even if it made it worse.
The candles didn’t help. Neither did the low, elegant hum of the classical station drifting in from the living room. Everything felt like it was vibrating.
You reached blindly for another strawberry. Ripe. Cold. It burst between your teeth, and juice dribbled to your chin. You sucked it off with a small, breathless sound, heart hammering, eyes fluttering closed as heat pooled lower.
You hadn’t touched yourself. Hadn’t fantasized or flipped through old photos on your phone or even let your hand wander below the waterline. All you’d done was rest one palm over your stomach, slide it down slowly, tentatively, and whisper his name into the crook of your elbow, cheeks burning imagining his face, his hands, his abs. Sweet, steady, devastating handsome Clark. Your Clark.
And that was enough to light you up.
Okay, so you weren't just horny. Not just restless.
You were needy. Desperate. Aching and wet and floating on the edge of something that didn’t make any sense.
A quiet whimper left your lips, breath catching in your throat. The sound echoed louder than it should have in the tile-lined space. Curling forward, you rested your cheek against the rim of the tub, arms folded, your index finger drawing absent circles over the condensation on the tile. Your other hand trailed down to a piece of chocolate resting on a folded napkin beside the tub. The square was soft now, warm from the heat of the bath. You pressed it to your lips
Again, what the hell did Kara give you?!
Let's review: Dinner had been… normal. Sweet. Ordinary, if not for the way it had ended. The two of you tucked into takeout containers on the couch, hips brushing, laughing at the story Clark told about Jimmy leaving a single red rose on the new intern’s desk. It was 'anonymous', but obviously him.
Kara’s gift had been sitting in the fridge all week.
She’d stopped by the weekend before, dropped the box on your kitchen island with a shit-eating grin:
"Got these for you guys," she beamed. "Very rare. Total mood boosters. Or so I’ve heard!"
You hadn’t thought anything of it. The packaging was heart-shaped, the box glossy and red with little floral foil detailing. Just festive enough to be cute, just foreign enough to be intriguing. You figured they’d be perfect for dessert.
So you’d peeled the lid off, popped one of the rich chocolates into your mouth, followed it with one of the bright red strawberries.
And moaned. Loud. Instinctive.
"Dear God, this is almost better than sex," you’d declared, half-laughing, eyes fluttering closed, licking juice from your fingers with puckered lips. You tilted the box toward the light to read it.
It read: "Eltaea chocolates and Solari strawberries — Assortment!" A heart-shaped sticker was slapped on the center, and just below in Kara’s blocky handwriting: "Happy Valentine’s Day! Enjoy, bitches!"
Clark quirked a brow, arms crossed over his chest in mock protest, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
"Here—" you grinned, already crawling into his lap, "—you need to try."
You’d fed him the same pair—one chocolate, one berry—your fingers still sticky, your grin too wide. He’d caught your wrist when you pulled back, kissed your fingertips slowly, then kissed you, just as slow. The taste of him mixing with the sugar still hadn’t left your tongue, even after he was called away.
A collapsed bridge. Gas leak. People trapped in traffic under debris. An emergency.
He’d kissed your temple, forehead, and mouth again, tapping your ass as he motioned for you to shift off his lap. He whispered, "I’ll be right back, sweetheart. I promise."
That had been… what? Thirty minutes ago?
You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed.
Your thighs squeezed together again, and this time the pressure made your back arch. You felt slick even under the water, hypersensitive everywhere, your skin flushed and buzzing. You weren’t imagining this. This wasn’t nerves. Wasn’t routine desire.
Clark wasn’t even here. You rubbed your burning cheek against the cool tub’s edge and moaned loudly from frustration and ache, thighs twitching, nipples brushing against the cool porcelain.
You needed Clark.
.
The balcony door slid open with a dull, echoing thud ten minutes later.
"Sweetheart?"
A familiar voice carried down the hall. Fractured, pitched too high, like they had been running purely on adrenaline. "Where are you?"
Your throat was bone dry when you answered, voice coming out harsher than you meant it to, breathless and needy even to your own ears.
"In here," you called. "In the bath."
There was a pause. Then his quick footsteps thundered toward you.
He appeared in the doorway a heartbeat later and the sight of him stole the air from your lungs.
Soot streaked his jaw and collarbone. His suit was already peeled down to his waist, the top half hanging loose like he’d barely bothered with it, cape dragging behind him in a dark red spill. His curls were wild, pushed back from his forehead by frantic hands, damp with sweat. His chest rose and fell like he’d just flown through hell and back and hadn’t bothered to slow down once he’d crossed the city line.
And the second he saw you bare, lips caught between your teeth, knees drawn, and an expectant, longing look etched on your face.
"Oh," he breathed, bracing one hand on the doorframe. His jaw dropped just a hair, but his pupils were blown so wide there was almost no blue left. "Oh, baby. There you are. Nothing feels as good as coming home to you."
His voice cracked on the last word.
Crossing the room in two steps, he dropped to his knees beside the tub. His large, warm hands slid into your hair, thumbs pressing gently at your sweat-damp temples, fingers massaging behind your ears the way he always did when he was grounding you.
You leaned into him without thinking, forehead tipping toward his touch, breath shuddering.
"Your heartbeat," he whispered, voice husky. "I heard it. Out there. I felt it the whole time. It kept getting faster and I—" He swallowed hard, gaze flicking helplessly over your face, your throat, your chest, the way your breasts strained with every shallow breath. "Gosh, you’re burning up."
"Yeah," you murmured. "I feel… weird. Hot. And empty. Like something’s missing and it hurts." Your fingers curled weakly around his wrist. "Clark, do you feel weird? Because I think—"
You swallowed hard as another wave of pleasure rolled between your legs.
"B-because I think there was something in those treats Kara gave us."
Lifting a hand, you pointed clumsily at the open box perched on the side of the tub, unmistakably lighter than it had been earlier.
Clark’s eyes followed the motion. His brow creased.
"How many did you eat?" he asked, frowning.
You blinked, trying to think past the fog. "I—I don’t know. The strawberries would’ve gone bad. And those chocolates are… Clark, they’re the richest damn chocolates ever." A breathy, almost-hysterical laugh slipped out. "I think I’m losing it. Oh, fuck."
He stared at you for a long moment, your pulse pounding loud and erratic in his ears, your sweet, warm, unmistakably you scent, just… amplified. Sharpened.
Then quietly: "I feel like I’m losing my mind, too."
He cupped your cheek, palm broad and steady, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. He leaned in close, nuzzling the side of your face like he couldn’t stand even the inch of space between you.
"You smell like sugar and skin and—" His breath hitched. "Hon, you smell so, so sweet. I could just eat you up."
"Well why don't you eat me out first? See how really sweet I am. My pussy misses you."
Before he could answer, shocked by your brazen vocabulary, your mouth was on his.
The kiss was desperate. Messy. All tongue and teeth and need, like you were trying to breathe him in. His lips dragged away from yours, trailing down your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again and again, chasing the taste of you like it might feed his ache, too.
You whined into the kiss, wet hands scrambling for him, gripping the remains of his suit at his hips, and pawing his growing arousal. You could see him, feel him, hard already, thick and heavy and right in front of you, and proximity made your whole body clench tighter.
"T-take your suit off!" you begged, patience running thin.
Brows furrowed, Clark's worry flashed through the haze. "You sure? If you’re not feeling well, we should—"
"No," you panted sharply, shaking your head, already rocking forward without realizing it. "No, I’m sure. I need you. My pussy needs you. Please, Clark."
Your eyes dropped to his chest, so broad, solid, and familiar, and still somehow devastating every time you saw it. To his large, farm-and-battle hardened hands. To the size of his beautiful cock, even still hidden, even restrained.
"I need you to touch me. Need you to kiss it better." Your pleaded softly. Filthy. Unfiltered. "Fuck me all better, Clark."
For half a second, he stilled.
Not because he didn’t want to. Because he wanted to too much.
His hands tightened at the lip of the tub, his gaze sharpened, listening, measuring, feeling the way your pulse fluttered too fast to his touch. The way your scent clung heavier in the steam. The way your body kept tipping toward him like he was a black hole.
"You’re definitely more affected," he murmured, low and strained.
You nodded helplessly, breath catching.
"Yes, yes, I ate more," you admitted. "I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About how good your tongue feels. How big you feel inside me, especially when you've made me cum and you still fuck me. About how empty I was without you. It kept getting worse."
His eyes flashed dark and devoted and tender all at once.
"Okay," he said quietly, decision settling into his bones. "Then I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you alone in this."
His thumb brushed over your lower lip, tender. Possessive.
"But if I get in that tub," he warned, voice rough. "I’m going to take care of you first. All the way. I need you to tell me if it’s too much, yeah?"
Your thighs trembled as you nodded, whispering, "It won’t be. It's all I want right now."
Clark exhaled, slow and shaking, started peeling off the rest of his suit.
You watched his hands first. Big, steady, trembling slightly as he dragged the rest of the suit down his hips, his thighs. The cape fell behind him in a heap of crimson, forgotten. Every motion exposed more of him. Each shift of muscle made your mouth water. His abs flexed and rolled as he knelt, skin streaked with soot and heat, chest still rising like he’d been crossing galaxies to get to you.
Then his cock. Hard already. Thick. Leaking. Dark at the tip and heavy with want.
You whimpered, couldn’t help it, couldn’t hide it. Licked your lips before you even realized. Your thighs rubbed together beneath the water, desperate for friction, slick with want, and suddenly so loney and empty.
His eyes locked on yours, ravenous.
"Gosh, hon," he rasped, dropping back to his knees, stroking his shaft in front of you. "You want this?"
Unable to look away, you nodded frantically. Your mouth parted on instinct, rolling a little onto your knees ready to beg.
"I want you everywhere. I want your mouth—want to ride your tongue, baby—make me cry on your cock, please—"
Cutting off another string of obscene words, he kissed you slow, open-mouthed, heat and tongue and something desperate all over again. Then he pulled back, hands smoothing down your arms, over your hips, into the water.
"I’ve got you," he murmured. "I’ve got you, sweetheart. I'm here. Just let me…"
Clark climbed in. The water shifted around him, flowing up the sides of the tub, rushing over your hips as his weight displaced everything else. Too much man for the narrow porcelain space. Too much of your Clark.
His knees pressed to the porcelain. His chest hovered over yours. And still, he sank lower, fitting between your thighs.
His hands found the back of your knees and liften them up gently, water cascading down his forearms. He peered up at you beneath his lidded gaze, licking his lips.
"My poor girl," he whispered. "You’ve been like this—so needy—for how long? Remind me?"
You almost sobbed.
"A while," you whined, throwing a forarm across your eyes. "Since you left. I’m sorry, Clark—I couldn’t stop I—I tried, but—"
"Shh, honey." He soothed. "It's okay. I'm here now."
You let your head fall back against the tile. Exposed. Thighs wide, trembling. Your fingers wove into his curls without thinking, tugging him closer.
And Clark, sweet, steady, starving Clark, moved his grip from your knees to curve the shape of your ass, lifting you up, mouth hovering over your pubic bone just above the surface of the bathwater.
He sank.
The water shifted again, and then it was silent.
Soundless, thick pressure wrapped around you as his head disappeared beneath the surface. The air left your lungs in a rush. All you could hear was the frantic thud of your own heartbeat, the faint ripple of water against porcelain.
His tongue met your clit.
You gasped, loud, broken, shocked. The sound rang out against the tile, echoed once, twice, then faded into something small and sharp as your hips jolted clean out of the water.
Clark groaned, bubbles rising between your thighs, and held you down.
You clutched at his hair, fingers tangling tight, your body floating, weightless and trembling, as his mouth dragged through your folds again repeatedly.
There was no mercy. No pause.
Just your Clark anchoring you down with strong hands, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs open, his mouth sucking you clit like he’d been starved for this. He licked slow and deep, savoring, then flatter, broader, faster until his nose was nudging your clit and your mouth was falling open with a scream you couldn’t stop.
The sound of your own voice ricocheted off the walls.
"Oohhh fuuuck, right there! It—Ah! Feels—so good!"
He couldn’t answer. Could only hum, moan enough to vibrate through your cunt, lick deeper, faster all beneath the water.
"Clark—fuuuck—baby, please—"
It obscene in how good it felt. Every muscle in your body jerked. The bath splashed over the edge, water trailing down your spine as you thrashed, hips bucking against his face.
You came so hard you nearly sobbed, heat tearing through your stomach and bursting between your legs as your thighs squeezed around his head.
Mouth sealed to your cunt like you were the only thing he’d ever needed to eat again, he kept going. His fingers squeezed your ass, held you while his tongue kept working you through your high.
The next orgasm hit before the first had fully ebbed.
You cried, shaking, floating in the water, your grip in his hair and the tub tight and frantic, head tipped back against the tile as your body seized and sang. It was too much and not enough. You wanted more. You needed him deeper. Harder. Inside.
Finally, he resurfaced.
His face glistened. His lips were swollen and wet. His curls were plastered to his forehead, and his breath was ragged as if resurfacing the Mariana Trench, and his pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked black.
"You taste like heaven," he rasped, water dripping from his nose, his chin, splashing onto your chest. "So soft, so darn sweet. Like the perfect, juicy strawberry."
You were still heaving. Still floating. Your thighs trembled as you barely nodded.
Surging up, he kissed you deep, open-mouthed, tongue dragging against yours until you moaned and rutted against him, clinging to his shoulders like you were about to fall through the tub and through all the apartments below.
"I have to be inside you, sweet girl," he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. "I need to be. I’ll lose my damn mind if I’m not—please, sweetheart—let me have you. Make love to you."
"Y-yeah, make love," you whimpered, pawing at his chest, nodding frantically. "Please, Clark, just—I can't wait any more—"
He cut you off by kissing you hard again, restraint barely there, teeth grazing your lip, tongue pressing deep. Then he leaned back, breath shaking, shifting until his spine met the other end of the tub.
His cock stood hard and heavy between his thighs, the fat head dark and swollen beneath the rippling water, twitching like it already knew what was about to happen.
Your breath hitched.
God, he was big.
You always praised him, worshiped this delightful perk being his wife, but like this, bare and waiting, framed by white porcelain and aromatic candies and steam, it felt insane. Like your body had never felt this hungry wanting all of him before.
He lifted his arms, beckoned you, an invitation.
You crawled into his lap, knees sliding into the water on either side of his waist, skin brushing skin, heat everywhere. Your hands found his shoulders, solid and familiar, your mouth slack with want as you reached between your bodies, guiding him home.
When you sank down on him in one motion, the stretch punched the breath right out of you.
A broken sound tore from your throat as he filled you thick and unyielding and perfect. Your walls clenched around him like your body couldn’t believe he was finally there, like it was terrified he might disappear if you didn’t hold tight enough.
Clark’s head hit the back of the tub with a sharp thud, his hands flying to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.
"O-oh, sweetheart—"
Your moan echoed off the tile, loud and unashamed, your whole body trembling with relief as you sank fully down, hips flush to his thighs.
"Yeah," you panted, dazed. "Yeah, baby—feel—feel good?"
You were soaked, frantic, tight around him, clenching like your body couldn’t bear to be empty another second.
You felt impossibly full. Stretched. Aching in the best way. The drag of him inside you made your spine arch, your nails scrape helplessly across his chest. He filled every inch, pressed deep enough to make your vision blur, like he was holding you open from the inside.
He was saying something. Trying to murmur soft reassurances, gentle pet names, something about taking it slow? But the aphrodisiac heat was roaring now, flooding your veins, making you reckless.
"No, fuck slow," you gasped, riding him hard. "I need you. Fuck, I love—absolutely fucking love your cock—"
Clark groaned, deep. "Honey—baby—slow down—"
"I can’t!" You moaned again, loud, breathless. "I feel like I’m gonna die if you’re not fucking me—harder—"
You slammed down again, the water rippling up your spine as you bounced on him, the edge of the tub creaking beneath you.
You sobbed.
He touched them again, cupping you, and you rode him harder, whimpering, "That’s it, baby. That’s so good, god—touch me there again—yes—yes—"
His hands trembled as he obeyed, rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, watching your face break open in pleasure as your pussy clenched down around him.
"You’re incredible," you babbled, barely coherent now. "So deep—so full—I love how you feel inside me—fuck, Clark—you were made to fuck me—ohh, I wanna make love to you—"
His mouth fell open, breath coming in ragged pulls as he let you take him faster, wetter, louder. His hips bucked helplessly beneath you, cock throbbing inside your tight heat, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his whole body shook.
Your head lolled to your side, lids heavy and unfocused when you saw it. The box of strawberries and chocolates still perched on the edge of the tub. Something sharp and greedy sparked behind your eyes.
You reached for it with shaking hands, water sloshing dangerously as you leaned forward, the movement grinding you down on his cock in a slow, filthy roll.
Clark tried to say your name, tried to ask what you were doing, but you were already plucking another piece of chocolate and popping it into your mouth.
You moaned, loudly.
"Oh fuck," you breathed, eyes rolling to the back of your head. You leaned down and kissed him, chocolate dissolving between your mouths, your tongue sliding against his as you ground down again in one slow filthy circle.
"It tastes even better like this," you whispered. "Like sex and candy."
Clark whimpered—actually whimpered.
You picked up a strawberry next and fed it to him, your voice gone syrupy and twice as needy.
"Eat f’me, baby. You’ve been so good. Such a damn good husband, letting me use you like this—filling me up with your cock—working so hard—taking good fucking care of me—"
He bit into it helplessly, juice ran down his chin, glistening pink against the stubble of his jaw. Your tongue lapped it up, following to suck on his bottom lip.
"Fuuuuck—Claaaark—"
You barely remembered grabbing a piece of soft chocolate. You only knew it was melting between your fingers, sticky and hot from your skin. You were high on the way he filled you, on the way his cock curved inside you like it had been molded for your body, and without thinking, rubbed the piece across your breasts.
Chocolate smeared across your skin, across the curves and peaks of your pebbled nipples.
"God," he groaned, dragging his mouth across one chocolate-streaked breast, licking a path through the mess with obscene hunger. "You taste—hon, you taste incredible."
He closed his mouth over your nipple and sucked hard.
Your entire body snapped, spine arching, hands gripping his shoulders as your hips kept rolling, frantic and needy and utterly soaked.
"Yes—ooohh yes— Right there, right there!"
He groaned around your tit, licking and sucking until your nipple was red and aching, until the chocolate was gone and all that remained was spit and love bites.
Greed overpowered him, and he moved to the other breast with the same passion.
"Can’t—can’t stop," he panted, dragging his tongue across your skin, open-mouthed kisses pressed between your breasts. "You’re driving me insane—"
His hips bucked violently, cock slamming deep throughout, and you sobbed, dizzy with sensation and still craving more.
"I’m gonna —come again," you panted. "Gonna come on your big, beautiful, cock, baby, and you’re gonna give it to me, right? Gonna fill me up like I need, Clark—fill me—right, baby?"
"Yeah, I'll f–fill you up," he choked. "Sweetheart—if you keep saying things like that I won't last— you'll leak for days—"
"I want it," you begged, trembling all over. "Want you to fuck me full and keep it there—god, I want it so bad, want everyone to know—fuck a baby into me, Clark—I love you, Iloveyou, love you!"
Your nails raked down his chest, your rhythm faltering as you started to come again. Your whole body locked up, heat exploding through your stomach, your mouth falling open to chant his name that echoed through the whole damn apartment.
Clark was almost gone.
He surged up into you, loud, broken grunts spilling from his mouth as he chased his own release, and one–two–three—he pulsed deep inside, cum thick and hot, flooding you full and still not enough.
Your hips kept grinding through the aftershocks, both of you too far gone to stop, both of you moaning, panting, clinging.
He stayed buried inside, arms locked around your waist, mouth pressed to your shoulder, chanting sweet nothings and I love you's.
.
The bathwater had gone lukewarm without either of you noticing.
Chocolate smeared softly along the rim of the tub, half-melted and forgotten. One of the candles guttered low, wax spilling down its side, the flame trembling like it was tired of watching. The air was thick with steam and sweat and the lingering sweetness of strawberries crushed between fingers and mouths.
Clark’s arms cradled you close, one hand firm at your lower back, the other cupping your hip, keeping you settled. You were pruning, and you didn’t care. You didn’t want to move. You wanted to stay right here, boneless and full and buzzing, his body still anchoring you to the world.
You were still full of him.
Still warm and stretched and sensitive.
Still trembling in those aftershocks that never quite faded all the way out.
Your fingers traced lazy, distracted patterns over his chest, following the rise and fall of his breath, the faint scrape of stubble at his jaw when he dipped to press a kiss into your hair. The burn lingered in your blood like an ember that refused to cool.
Not satisfied. Just… softened enough to breathe and think again.
He shifted slightly, careful, one thigh braced, making sure you didn’t slip. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your hairline. "You okay?"
You nodded, dazed and blissed out, cheek tucked into the crook of his neck. Your body gave a small, involuntary squeeze around him, and you felt him suck in a breath.
"Never better," you murmured. And it was mostly true. Because some part of you that still wanted more. Still throbbed and buzzed and reached.
Clark glanced toward the counter. The box sat there, damp at the edges, its lid askew. He reached for it absently, brows knitting as he tugged at the heart-shaped sticker plastered across the center.
It peeled away with a soft rip.
He squinted. Read. Once. Twice. One more time.
Then out loud, incredulous, voice climbing with each word:
"Eltaea chocolates and Solari strawberries…" He paused. Blinked. "Aphrodisiac Assortment?!"
Your head snapped up.
"Oh—oh no." You groaned and buried your face against his collarbone, mortification flooding hot through your chest. "There’s—there’s more—" You lifted your head just long enough to recite it with him. "‘Happy Valentine’s Day! Enjoy, bitches!’"
There was a beat of silence.
Then laughter. Wild, breathless, uncontained.
Clark laughed first, a disbelieving bark that shook his chest. You followed, shaking and helpless, pressing your face into his neck again as the absurdity of it all hit at once.
Kara. Of course, it was Kara. Your interstellar menace.
"Kara, what the fuck?" you wheezed, dragging your hands down your face, cheeks burning for a whole new reason. "We should—uh—probably not finish the rest, right?" You squinted up at him. "Take another bath. A proper one."
Still staring at your mouth, still swollen, still glossy; at your breasts, heavy, flushed, nipples dark and sensitive; at your thighs, splayed and distorted beneath the water, still trembling, still open around him, Clark's eyes narrowed, head tilted.
Then his gaze lifted back to your eyes.
"Nope," he said simply, a little pop on the 'p'. "We’re definitely finishing the rest."
You laughed, half-dazed, half-thrilled, and then yelped as he scooped you up without warning, water streaming off both of you. He held you with one arm under your ass, the other firm between your shoulder blades, his body still deep inside you, careful not to pull away.
"Clark—" you giggled, clinging to his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist.
"I’ve got you," he murmured, already kissing you, already moving. "And I’m taking you to bed."
He stepped out of the tub, slow and deliberate, keeping you tipped just enough so nothing spilled where it shouldn’t. You squirmed against him, still too sensitive, still buzzing, still aching in that delicious, half-satisfied way.
As he walked out, you reached back with arms outstretched towards the damp box of sweets still at the lid of the tub with a pout.
"Oh Gosh," He chuckled, shaking his head. He turned back and crouched until your fingers snatched the box with a triumphant little "Ah-ha!".
"You’re ridiculous."
You grinned at him, delirious and shameless, securely tucking the treats flushed to your chest. "You’re the ridiculous one for letting these go to waste!"
He carried you toward the bedroom, still inside you, still holding you close.
"Hon, you're absolutely right. We’re not wasting a thing," he said, chuckling.
You tugged him into a deep kiss and sighed, already burning again.
.
Thank you for reading! Any reblogs, comments, likes are forever appreciated, and keeps me motivated!
Absolutely in love with the idea of Bucky fucking you so good that your brain gets all fuzzy as you seep into subspace little by little, and he’s just so gentle with his sub. He whispers sweet prayers into your ears, coxing you further into that sweet space in your brain where all you can think about is him. Your brain is soft while he rocks into your heat, a gentle smile cracking at your lips while you whimper and moan as Bucky licks onto your sweet neck. After he creams inside you, he leaves soft subtle kisses on your thighs and pussy/rim, letting the warm stickiness of both of your arousal cling to his plump lips. He cleans between your thighs, changes the sheets, and brings you something to eat. Petting your hair, kissing your forehead - he knows your head is still full of soft static so he takes good care of you until your fully back into your head again, but for now he watches as you drift into a blissful sleep full of your dom’s warm seed and his soft kisses on your body.
you know what's hotter than din djarin burning down the world searching for you? din djarin burning down the world searching for you, but he can't even admit to himself that he's in love with you.
there's an iron focus to how he moves that scares everyone who is unfortunate enough to cross his path. he's usually stoic, difficult to read, easy to submit to, but it's like a flip switches in his head when he's trying to get information about your whereabouts. there's rage behind every step he takes, slicing through doors and holding up informants with just an arm pressed to their throats.
dozens of bridges lie burnt in the wake of his disappointment and he doesn't even care.
it's an obsession, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't eat, he doesn't allow himself a single moment of rest, not when he knows you're out there waiting. every second counts. and he'll be damned if he lets you sit in fear and anxiety when you could be—should be—with him.
he almost convinces himself that he would do it for anyone. leave no stone unturned, reconnect with everyone that has ever owed him a favour, work leads until he's bloody and beaten and bruised.
and no one dares tell him otherwise—to point out the glaringly obvious emotion behind his unnerving focus.
have you considered that if you keep talking to me while i'm cumming my go-to fantasy is gonna be sitting on your lap while you hold the vibrator?
which basically means i won't be able to stop thinking about you using your legs to keep mine spread and how you'd toy with my cunt before even considering using the toy. spreading it open, gingerly touching around, rubbing my clit and trying to get me embarrassingly wet with just your fingers.
and then, when you finally decide to use the toy, we talk about mundane stuff. a normal conversation except i'm getting less and less coherent because you keep praising me and i just love your voice so much.
need!!! to make a mess on your lap and for you to keep going until i can't form one single sentence and am completely covered with your marks. teeth, fingers, scratches, hickeys... i want everything <3
Summary: Tony's soundproof tech protects people's ears, not their eyes.
Warnings: some smut, poorly written story, unprotected sex (wrap it up), pet names (Sweetheart, baby), proofread but i'm not good at that
Word count: 455 (flash-fic)
Fandom: Marvel
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
[A/N] Just a slight idea I wrote. I started off on a roll but it quickly fizzled. I wanted to post something though so I might extend it later when inspiration strikes again.
Bucky was good in bed. Everyone in the tower knew that by now because you weren’t exactly quiet. How could you be though? You had never been fucked this good in your life. You’ve truly been missing out. You’re making up for lost time with all those exes of yours and climbing on Bucky every chance you get. It got so bad that Tony actually soundproofed both of your rooms.
Of course, sometimes you didn’t make it to either of your rooms which caused you to be temporarily banned from that area “until further notice”
Bucky actually preferred to have you in one of your rooms, cause then he could see if he could make you scream any louder. One of these days he is actually going to split you in two. At least that’s how it felt.
Today was no different. Bucky had you faced down on the mattress, relentlessly pounding into you. His fingertips gripping your hips so hard they were surely going to leave permanent dents.
You were boneless. Sprawled over the mattress, your ass only now slightly in the air since your knees gave out. You were gone. As far as you were concerned right now, you were in space due to how many stars you were seeing. All you could do was moan and scream and let out the occasional heavy breath.
The soundproof system Tony built worked for the ears of the people on the outside. But there was a slight flaw. Some people just don’t think before entering.
You were too lost in pleasure to even process what was happening other than the feeling of Bucky’s thick, long cock buried deep between your thighs but you felt him slow down.
"OH MY GOD!" the intruder yelled.
“Can I help you?” you heard Bucky’s deep voice say with a tinge of irritation laced in it. You felt a cool piece of fabric get draped over your sweaty bare skin and a hand placed gently on your lower back to keep it from moving.
“Can you lock the door?” you heard the other person say but you still couldn’t tell who.
“The door was locked!”
“Bucky,” you whined, moving your hips against him.
“I know, sweetheart, I’m here,” he whispered, his other hand reaching to gently stroke your hair. His head snaps to the intruder, “Get out, Wilson!”
“You two need to calm down,” he said before rushing out the door and slamming it behind him.
“Now” he started as he removed the sheet. He flipped you over onto your back and hovered over you, “Where were we?”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you. Bucky let out a deep chuckle at your neediness.
“Don’t worry, baby. You know I’ll take care of you,”
i DO indeed want to hear about you jerking off to me and all the perverted stuff you thought of you must inform me about it expeditiously. how is it fair that you get to jerk off to me and i don’t get to jerk off to hearing about it 😒
Playlist Prompt: Right Place, Wrong Time - Dr. John / “But I'm having such a good time”
Warnings: Implied arranged marriage, tension, possible soft!dark vibes if you squint, pet names (sweetheart, angel), drinking, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 4 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You sipped your drink, watching your friends from your table as they danced. A faint smile touched your lips. They were having fun. So were you.
But then the air shifted.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The low timbre wrapped in affection sounded stronger than the bass of the music.
You didn’t turn your head when Bucky Barnes took a seat, his thigh pressed against yours. You felt his eyes on you anyway, watchful and warmer than how he looked at everyone else. Some days you forgot that he was a dangerous man with power, reach, and a reputation.
My fiancé.
“Hey, yourself,” you replied, hoping your voice didn’t betray the emotions swirling inside you.
“It’s time to come home,” he said.
Home.
“But I’m having such a good time,” you teased, finishing your drink in one gulp.
He snatched the glass from your hand and forced you to meet his gaze. Your breath caught. He was always handsome, but the trimmed beard was really doing it for you. And he was staring at you like he was a heartbeat away from spreading you out on the table and taking you right there.
He had waited long enough.
“It’s midnight,” he said, his breath brushing your lips. “Time’s up.”
You swallowed. One year. You asked for one year of freedom before you had to marry him, and he shockingly obliged.
But you should’ve realized he’d know right where to find you tonight.
He never stopped watching you.
His expression softened. “Angel, come home with me.”
Your stomach flipped. “So it’s ‘angel’ now?”
“Well, I know you behaved during your year without me, so that’s pretty angelic,” he answered with a hint of possession. “But we can talk more about that at home.”
Talk. Plan the wedding. Become Mrs. Barnes.
Your fate was sealed.
This could be fun to expand on. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️
Summary: After 5 years of being single, you find your new roommate worming his way into your strictly planned routine. Suddenly, you aren’t the only one pulling all the weight, and you’re not sure what to do about it. The guard you carefully placed around your heart feels close to breaking, and you’re surprised to find you aren't entirely opposed. One romance novel and one rehearsal dinner later… the truth will come out.
warnings/tags: No use of Y/N. Post-college roommate AU. Not canon compliant. Mentions of romanogers or whatever their ship is called. Roommates to lovers. Idiots to lovers. Brief mention of the notebook by Nicholas sparks (cited in APA bc I didn’t know how to cite that in fanfiction lmao). Hyper independent!Reader. Anxious!Reader. Mention of past relationship. Light trauma and attachment styles. Angst because it’s my drug of choice. Smut (I’m scared). Soft!Dom!Bucky. Praise and dirty talk. PinV. Unprotected smut- please do not treat this like a sexEd class. Oral (F! Receiving). Fingering. He has a kink for taking care of you? Idk let me know if I missed anything.
MDNI !!! 18+
wc: 10k
Disclaimer: first time writing smut this detailed. Go easy on me, or don’t. I’ll be anxious about posting this either way lol. Proofread by me and only me (I have no friends to talk abt this with so like we should totally be mutuals tehe)
It really seemed like a no-brainer to you when the topic came up at the engagement dinner. Steve and Natasha weren’t trying to kick him out. In fact, it wasn’t even their idea. He was the one who said it made the most sense, that they needed their space and he should find his own. Sam joked that he just didn’t wanna hear the bed banging on the other side of the wall, if they “knew what he meant.” Bucky’s face, and the red on Steve’s cheeks, told you he wasn’t too far off.
So, when he mentioned to you that he wanted to keep a roommate, you didn’t hesitate to offer that he move into your apartment. After all, Wanda had moved out a year ago when her and Vision found a house on the outskirts of the city. You had the extra room, and you didn’t mind offering him help. You had known him for years throughout college, if only through mutual friends, but you enjoyed his company. He was the type that didn’t expect anything out of you during conversation. It flowed naturally, or if it didn’t then you simply sat in comfortable silence. You had discovered through several discussions that you shared the same taste in literature, and you both preferred the night to the morning.
You knew living together would be easy, and you were nothing if not capable of adapting. If need be, you’d just work around each other's schedules and respect the other’s space. You had never had any expectations of your roommates, not since you became used to your own capability. If you needed something done, you’d figure out how to do it. Wanda had said several times that she often wasn’t even aware you were around, given your nature to tending to yourself. You understood what she meant, because there was a point in time where you had to force the habit. Your last relationship was happy, you really had no right to complain… it was only that he never wanted to do any favor you asked. Something as simple as taking out the trash could turn into a huge argument about you “suffocating” him. Which was fine, you had found in the recent years that you liked your independence more than reliance on others.
So, when you offered, you assured Bucky that you knew how to pull your weight. You were not simply asking him just because you thought it’d be useful to have a man around.
You figured you were on the same page when he gave you an easy smile, a teasing scrunch of his nose, and leaned over to say, “Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart.”
Oh, you were wrong.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
It started small, with chivalrous things you hadn’t realized you missed until he did them so easily. There was no show about it, no performance. It wasn’t grand or mind blowing.
He opened your door.
The day he moved in, you had been out grocery shopping, getting home right as he finished up. He had gone back outside to park his car. You beat him up the stairs, grocery bags making red indents in the skin of each of your arms. You didn’t mind, until you came to the door and found you couldn’t even reach it. You mumbled several curses while trying to maneuver for your keys and not drop the bags, this was a weekly occurrence after all.
“Let me,” came that familiar voice from behind you, two hands reaching for the bags on your arms before you had a chance to even respond.
He glanced down at your arms with a frown, looking at you as if disappointed. Then, bags in hand, he reached for his key and opened the door, waiting for you to enter first. You blinked at his steady smile, looking between him and the entrance to the apartment. When you walked in, he followed behind and came to set the bags on the counter.
“You don’t have to do that,” you stopped him as he began taking things out of the bags, “I’m sure you need to unpack.”
He simply scrunched his nose as if you were just being silly, “I am capable of both, you know.”
And you supposed you did know, given his success on the college hockey team. The strength and stamina shared between him and Steve was a highlighting topic among many broadcasting channels. Not that you paid attention, or anything. Still, though it was a helpful gesture, something about it made you uncomfortable enough to stop him again. “It’s just that…” you offered a smile, “I’m kind of crazy about organizing everything.”
He glanced between your eyes and the fidgeting of your fingers, stepping back with an easy smile and a, “Whatever you say,” before retreating to his room to unpack.
It continued like that, small things that you didn’t know how to feel about. After all, opening the door for others was just polite. It spoke to how introverted you were that it was a novelty. The same applied to carrying heavier objects, or offering to do your laundry when he was already putting in a load. You were baffled to have them returned to you perfectly folded.
You supposed you were just good friends who enjoyed each other's company, even if his accommodating attitude set you off balance. You enjoyed how he paid attention. Getting to know each other was a simple exchange of observations, where you learned that you mirrored the other often. Except for a few things.
It was late afternoon on a sunday, you had just stepped out of the shower and thrown on a long shirt and shorts. You stepped out of your room, into the living area where the golden New York sunset seeped through the windows. There was Bucky, haloed by the light, setting a book back on your shelves only to take another off. You stopped and watched as he ran his finger over the spine, then split the pages. His brows drew together, but his lip turned up.
“What is it?” You spoke up.
He looked up to you immediately, only his eyes seemed to drag up from your bare legs to your wet hair. That smile grew into a smirk, his tongue darting out over his bottom lip. He took his time, like he always seemed to. Like he didn’t know what it meant to rush. Yet he never left you hanging, “You’ve annotated every book on this shelf.”
It wasn’t a question, just an observation, lifting the book in his hands as if to prove the point. He was holding Pride and Prejudice. Your eyes widened as you took sight of your neat scribbles in pink ink, taking several steps forward and opening your mouth to respond.
Only, he beat you to it, eyes flickering back to the page, “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of Mr. Darcy described using the word ‘daddy.’”
Your mouth fell open completely, in fact your jaw might have unhinged itself altogether. The way he read the word aloud with no shame whatsoever? You remembered feeling embarrassed just writing it across the page.
You forced yourself to stand straighter, crossing your arms and clearing your throat.
“Well, you obviously haven’t been on booktok very often, then.” You raised your brow, turning the challenge onto him.
He only took it in stride, leaning a shoulder against the bookshelf and giving you a deliberate once over. “Oh really? You’re telling me there’s an entire community out there for the kinds of things you write in these margins?” He turned his attention back to the flipping pages, muttering more so to himself, “interesting.”
You scoffed, finally reaching out and snatching the book from his hungry eyes, “Oh, give me that!” You turned to place it back where it belonged, next to Emma. “And for your information, no. Not all of them are annotated.”
You expecting more teasing from where he stood, still leaned on the shelves. Like he was right where he wanted to be. Only, his smug expression softened into something closer to curiosity. “Yeah, I was wondering about that…” then he reached a corded arm over you, almost caging you between him and the bookshelf. You lowered your eyes immediately, because seriously, he wasn’t even flexing, were his biceps naturally that large? Was that normal? It felt disrespectful to even look. But he brought it back down soon after, holding in his hand the one book you hadn’t touched with a pen.
When he still didn’t move away, you took it upon yourself, taking a considerable step to the side. He only thumbed through the pages, as if to prove his point, “What’s so different about The Notebook?”
What couldn’t be more different? You wanted to say. You simply turned your eyes to the shelves, exhaling a dissatisfied breath. “It’s unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic?” He laughed, pointing to the top shelf, “More than The Chronicles of Narnia?” Which was littered with your takes on favorite moments and quotes.
You rolled your eyes, “It’s unrealism disguised as realistic.” You shrugged, trying not to sound bitter, “I mean, what kind of man genuinely asks a woman what she wants, and then vows to give her all of it?”
He didn’t miss a beat, “A good one.” His voice was softer then, and you didn’t like the look in his eyes when you met them again. Like he was reading you now, like you were a puzzle he was slowly piecing together. He looked as if he just found another fitted piece.
“Yes, well,” you tried to sound unbothered, because you were unbothered. It didn’t matter. It never had. “Sometimes you have to be ‘a good man’ for yourself.”
The conversation ended there, because you felt exposed under his gaze, and plucked a book before retreating back to your room. The Hobbit this time.
You hadn’t noticed the book was missing until you walked into the apartment a week later and noticed the unbalanced lean of other books on the shelf. Some had fallen over into the empty spot it had left. Your mouth turned into a frown, but you quickly brushed it off. Maybe he wanted to read it. Maybe he’d feel the same way you did in the end, that it was a pointless kind of fantasy, and you would laugh together about it.
When it returned to its spot, however, you felt your palms itch immediately. For what reason, you didn’t know. You asked him if he liked it the following morning, and he gave a simple “yeah,” that somehow made you more antsy. He didn’t give anything else but a shrug, before turning the conversation to teasing you about your inability to get a pancake to the perfect temperature without burning it on one side.
When you were alone in the apartment, you finally groaned in frustration and picked it up. You didn’t know what you expected, because you knew he didn’t so much as highlight his books, and yet…
You found quotes highlighted in marker to match the cover, small annotations written in black at the edge of the pages.
“She would tell him what she wanted in her life--her hopes and dreams for the future--and he would listen intently and then promise to make it all come true.”
“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.” (Nicholas Sparks, 2000).
And off to the side: You deserve all of it. Everything.
You shut the book immediately and put it back, stepping away with a hand over your chest. It was as if you actually heard alarms go off in the back of your brain, red sirens flaring. It was unfair of him to plant any idea of that in your head. You wringed your hands and turned away, not liking the chasm that formed in your chest. The ache it created. Within minutes you had your bag and were out of the apartment, trying to get as far from that bookshelf as possible.
Then it became… more. He took notice of your work schedule several weeks in, noting when you would usually come home late and when you usually went without dinner as a result. Suddenly, you were coming home to dinner on the table and a Bucky who only smiled and asked about your day. Suddenly, the dishwasher was emptied before you had a chance to get to it. Suddenly, the washer wasn’t making that horrible noise anymore and the volume on your TV didn’t randomly move up and down. But he never mentioned the bookshelf.
You didn’t let it affect your expectations. He was just being nice, trying to make a good impression. It was sweet. Gentlemanly. You continued your routine as you had before he moved in, only more deliberately. In hindsight, you might not even have noticed yourself doing it. Anything you said you would do, you made sure it got done early. Even if he brushed you off and said he would take out the trash in the morning, you would wake up early and do it, responding innocently when he eyed the new bag in the can.
You worked hard at your HR internship, then came home and worked some more. You liked the space clean and organized, probably more than you even realized. It’s only that you were used to relying on yourself; not even your maintenance men were helpful–
“What are you doing?” Bucky said from somewhere above you, his tone sounding like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
You slid out from under the sink, wrench in hand, “There’s a leak.”
The crease in his brow was obvious, his mouth opened as if you said something offensive, “Didn’t you just get back from work?”
“Mhm.” You figured you could work and talk, leaning back under the sink.
“And you didn’t think to–hey!” Before you knew it, a hand was wrapped around your ankle, and you were tugged across the tile until you were no longer laying under the sink. Bucky had knelt down, like getting closer would get his point across, “I’m right here.”
Yes, yes he was. Right there. Close enough that you could lean up and you’d be sharing the same breath. You could pick the grey out from the blue in his eyes, the hint of something solemn, yet all you did was look at him with a questioning expression.
He sighed, shaking his head, “You’ve been working all day, let me fix the sink.” He held his hand out for the wrench.
You didn’t give it to him, “You’ve been working too.”
“From home,” he said simply, “You have been on your feet–”
“This doesn’t require me to be on my feet.” You motioned to the fact that you were very much on the floor.
He turned his head away, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “unbelievable” before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes again, “Why won’t you let me help?”
You didn’t want to open that topic at the moment, so you decided to hit him with the biggest card you had, “Do you not think I’m capable of fixing the sink?”
The look he gave you told you he was not going to fall for that game, but he only said: “I think you’re incapable of relaxing.”
You shrugged, “I’ll relax when the sink is fixed.”
“Or,” the wrench was plucked from your hand when you least expected it, “You go change, get settled, and I will have this fixed in thirty minutes.”
“Or,” you growled, reaching for the wrench he held high above your head, “you could let me–” you huffed, shifting to reach higher, “just give it–” you didn’t even think before using his shoulder as leverage, and your sentence turned into a squeal as you fell forward. Directly onto him. Your thighs split across his abdomen as you landed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale as he hit the tile. You hadn’t had much time to catch yourself and focus on grabbing the wrench, meaning you fell directly onto his chest.
You were certainly sharing air now.
The look on his face was… you didn’t have time to read the look on his face. You scrambled off him so quickly, muttering several “I’m so sorry”s and “oh my god”s because you were splayed completely across him and you felt way more than you should have and–
You only breathed once you got back to the safety of your room, realizing then that you basically just surrendered the battle. Your pride swelled, scolded you for losing focus all because you forgot what it felt like to be pressed up against…
You shook your head, not the time.
The next morning, you would turn the faucet to find the sink working perfectly. No leak at all. And Bucky wouldn’t mention a thing.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Somehow, it got worse after that. You noticed the vase on the coffee table, the green one you found thrifting, had a new bouquet every week. Now, when you came home late, he wouldn’t have just made you dinner, but he’d wait to eat his with you. At the table, without a phone in sight. When you went somewhere, found yourself cold halfway through whatever event you were attending, he’d appear with an extra jacket he’d brought, “because you were too stubborn to grab one, doll, even though you always get cold.” It was so… domestic. So unlike the life you had made.
So much so that at times, you panicked. Wanda and Natasha didn’t understand it, no matter how much you tried to explain it. They told you to lean into it, and you didn’t know how to tell them you couldn’t. You had been pretty certain that you were happy as you were. You enjoyed your alone time, your career, and the community you had made. You didn’t need romance. You had once been told that love was a disease to a woman with ambition, and you had believed it wholeheartedly.
Now, you weren’t so sure.
You found yourself conflicted once you realized that no, James Barnes was not going to turn around at some point and resent you for all the helpful things he had done. You weren’t sure when it became such an obvious part of his character. Maybe somewhere between him knocking on the door while you showered to place towels—fresh from the dryer—on your counter and him calling every clinic in town on a Friday night to see who could fit you in when you were sick.
“Fuck—“ he threw the phone down on the couch next to your hip. He was crouching in front of you, hand running over his frustrated face. “Every clinic closed at 5.”
You only hummed in acknowledgment, too achy to care. You had been in and out of sleep the entire evening, going between shivering with a fever and breaking into a cold sweat. You only became more aware when you noticed him standing, reaching for his coat, “What are you—“
“We’re going to the ER.” He said as if he wasn’t, in your opinion, half mad. He shrugged on his coat then did a once over for you, turning to your room to presumably grab your shoes.
“What?” You croaked in the most astonished voice you could muster, sitting up on your elbows, “Buck–no, there’s no reason–”
He looked over his shoulder at you as if you were the crazy one, motioning to your form spread across the couch, “You’ve been like this all day. You can barely walk, you won’t eat, you’re feverish–”
“Listen to me…” You pushed yourself up slowly, your heart thundering like each movement was equivalent to a mile, “It is just a cold, I’m sorry–”
He stepped forward then, “Why are you apologizing?”
“I didn’t mean to take up your day, and I don’t want you to have to spend your evening taking me somewhere or nursing me back to health.” You gave him a kind smile. You appreciated him, so much so that something else was blooming next to that ache in your chest. A sort of… fluttering. But this wasn’t his job, “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you.”
He was silent for the time it took him to close the remaining space, his expression looking as if you had spoken a different language entirely. He crouched next to you, shaking his head and gently wrapping his hands around your shoulders to help you lay back down, “I don’t have anywhere else to be…”
“Still, I–”
“Why do you apologize for existing?” The words seemed to spill out of him, as if he couldn’t quite keep them in.
“What?”
“You’re human,” he whispered your name, absentmindedly checking his watch. It was time for medicine again, he reached for the pain reliever and your water. You had to give it to him, he didn’t look the least bit burdened. “It’s natural to need others.”
You took the medicine, laid your head back down, “I’ve taken care of myself this far, I can handle a common cold.”
He gave you that same look from the engagement party, but this time you read his smile as something akin to pity, or maybe affection? He lifted a hand to slide over your cheek, curling in your hair and smoothing it over your pillow, “I know you have, but now I’m here too.”
It didn’t matter when, just that you knew. This kindness was who he was, only that didn’t make him yours. The sweet words, soft touches, helpful gestures… James Barnes was a good man. Perhaps one of the best you would ever come to know, and that in of itself was more difficult than anything. You couldn’t brush him off as incompetent, or ill-mannered, or drowning in toxic masculinity, which had been so easy when dating up to that point. Only you weren’t dating, he wasn’t yours.
It became apparent when, a year after moving in, he announced, “I’m thinking of looking for my own space.”
You were eating takeout on the couch when he said it, curled up on opposite ends of and talking about nothing in particular prior. Then suddenly every nerve in your body lit, your focus zeroing.
Had you been wrong? Did he think you were taking advantage after all?
All you could say was, “Oh.” You set your carton down, suddenly not hungry. Suddenly the quiet atmosphere of the room felt as if you were suffocating.
He seemed to track the movement, as if assessing. His mouth pulled into a frown, “Yeah.”
You pulled your lips inward, biting down on them as you looked literally anywhere else. Which time had it been? When your laundry was done in the dryer, and you hadn’t noticed because you were knee-deep in paperwork, so he folded all of it for you? You hadn’t known what to think when he handed you a pile of your neatly folded panties with a slight blush across his cheeks. Or was it when he noticed your books were overflowing, so he surprised you on your birthday by building in an entire new section to the shelves?
The apartment was practically screaming his name at this point, filled to the brim with his actions. The flowers, the late night dinners, the shelves, all of it. If he had been trying to worm his way in, he had done it.
“It’s just… I saw some listings go up down the street,” he continued, picking at his chow mein, “figured I’d give them a look. Couldn’t hurt, right?”
Right.
You forced your throat to clear, planting on a supportive smile. This was your best friend, moving onto a new chapter of his life, you should be happy. You nodded eagerly, “Yes, that sounds great… um,” you unraveled your legs from below you, “I think I’m ready for bed actually…”
He furrowed his brows, “Already? We’re not even through the first Scream.”
You scrambled for words, “It’s been a long day.”
“Ah, I see,” bless him and his ability to bounce right back, “Natasha said you’re an easy scare, but I never thought–”
You smacked his shoulder, “I am not! You’re the one who was so focused on your book the other day that you jumped at the sound of the doorbell!”
He waved his finger at you, “Not fair! I was reading Stephen King!”
“And what? You were scared the pages were going to jump out at you?”
His mouth fell open, “Oh, you’re not going anywhere–”
Bucky jumped up at the same time as you, blocking your exit from the living you. You squealed, trying to get around the coffee table, but fuck him for being a goalkeeper. He follows you around, and you resort to trying to step onto the table for a fast exit, only to find his arms wrapping around you from behind. You screamed, the giggle in your throat making you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“Got you!” His voice was rough with laughter, and you felt him step back, easily picking you up completely.
“Oh my god,” you slapped his arm around your waist, “put me down!”
“Nope,” he fell back on the couch, bringing you with him. It was unfair, the way he held you, like your previous conversation never happened. His breath tickled your neck as he promised, “Not until we get through at least the first two movies.”
You did eventually make it back to your room that night, shutting the door and falling against it. Your hand came up to cover your mouth. You weren’t proud of the sobs that followed shortly after, or that chasm in your chest that now felt as if it had doubled in size. You groaned in frustration, pulling at your roots.
“There were rules, I had rules…” you pleaded to the ceiling, as if someone would hear you, as you sank to the floor. “I said I wouldn’t change my expectations… that I wouldn’t let it go too far.”
But at some point… it had. At some point, that fluttering you had felt began to wrap around the discomfort like a balm over your heart. It soothed, forcing your guard down. Letting you dream before you even realized you had been. Thinking about what it would be like to trust someone again. To have… not a man to babysit, but a partner who was equal to you in character and intelligence. You thought the girls who said they wanted a man they could turn their brains off with were naive, stupid even, until you started imagining how easy it would be with him. Not all the time, but like an even exchange. Being able to trust that he had you, just as he would trust that you had him.
It was becoming increasingly obvious what had happened.
“Damnit.” You sobbed, your forehead dropping to your knees.
You were upset, but also so angry. So pissed off at yourself for letting this happen. You were smarter than this, stronger than this. They said the most intelligent women didn’t fall for this bullshit, and here you were.
You let yourself cry quietly for another thirty minutes, then you forced yourself up. Off the floor, away from the door. You got ready for bed, and didn’t let yourself cry again. You had felt this before, and you had overcome this before. Yet, as you laid down, closing your eyes, you had a nagging feeling that one realization wasn’t going to go away.
You didn’t want to be alone forever, not anymore.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
Claps rang out around the room, a few people drying tears on the corner of their napkins. Yelena’s maid of honor speech was funny and lighthearted, and yet still made hearts swell as she recounted childhood dramas and memories (or lack of) of late nights in college. She was even biting her lip at the end, trying to hold in a smile as she explained how Natasha never thought she’d find her person, until she met Steve. The cliche lines earned raised glasses, and knocked back champagne.
It was a gorgeous rehearsal dinner, with a small party. Both families had pitched in on the decorations. The colors were muted, but no less beautiful, with red roses centering each table. Candles lit up the entire room, washing everyone in a romantic, golden light. All of the guests were asked to wear colors while Natasha and Steve sat in white. It was everything Natasha had said was dumb before, and you enjoyed seeing her lean into it.
You enjoyed all of it, so much that it made that ache in your chest feel the size of a canyon. It was the same ache that had been building for a year, and you hated yourself for it. It was their day, and you wanted it to be perfect. But as you watched Steve pull her in, kiss her cheek, and the tension fall from her shoulders… all you could think was that you wanted that. That softness, that intimacy. Falling into someone and not wondering if they’d catch you.
But you’d been doing this for so long on your own, you weren’t even sure how to appeal to someone anymore. You weren’t necessarily flirty, or even playful unless you really knew the person. You also rarely found yourself attracted to strangers, so how would you even pick someone? There were too many variables, you wondered how anyone figured it out.
Bucky rose from the chair next to you a few moments later, after Yelena sat down. You watched him, in his blue suit, go to pick up the mic and smile to the room. He opened with something that made the room laugh, but you found yourself in a daze. There was nothing surprising about him, nor how he was dressed. You had seen him walk out of his room, had driven with him on the way here, had plenty of time to adapt to the way he seemed to take up the entire room, and yet… suddenly it felt as if he was the only one in the room.
You watched his eyes scan the room, “…Folks, I’m just the best man. I can’t speak for Steve or his feelings but, I believe love isn’t about lust or attraction… and yes, it is about friendship. About finding that woman who you want to share everything with, who you can’t get off your mind. But more importantly,” then his eyes landed on yours and he paused. Like it was just him and you and that wide smile, with eyes that matched his suit jacket. Then he found himself, cleared his throat, “it’s about finding the person you want to take care of for the rest of your life. The person that makes effort feel like a privilege…”
His eyes snapped away as he kept speaking, but you felt like you were about to throw up. This was the only variable. Every missing data point combined into one. Everything you wanted, right here.
And he would be leaving soon. Soon, you would be coming home to an empty apartment that still felt like him. You would have to move on and rebuild each wall, knowing all it took from him was a single look to knock them down.
Glasses raised, people cheered, the couple kissed. Bucky found his seat next to yours right as you swallowed a lump in your throat.
“How’d I do?” He leaned into your space, his arm coming around the back of your chair.
You managed a small smile, grateful for the steady and supportive tone of your voice, “Perfect, very romantic.”
Dinner was served, and everyone gathered. It was lovely, every single moment of it. The drunken laughter and kind remarks. Natasha and Steve fawning over each other. Sam teasing everyone in sight. Even Tony stood for a speech towards the end.
You chastised yourself every time the thought popped into your head: I want this. It wasn’t your day. It wasn’t yours to want. Even when your mind felt like it was racing a million miles a minute and you just wished that you had a soft place to land. A place to rest it all. Instead, you had driven away the one person who had been such a driving force in your life the past year. Now he was leaving too.
You tried to distract yourself by moving to the other side of the table with the excuse of visiting with Natasha to discuss bridesmaids plans for the next morning. It helped, for a moment. She was so lively about how she wanted everything done, and you were good with lists. Little boxes to check off, that was your area. The wine was a good call too, because two glasses in you were giggling and successfully avoiding glances from down the table.
It would only last so long though, you supposed, because once dinner was over you were out of options. You hugged every last person, even the family members you didn’t know, taking extra long on your goodbyes. But, finally, you met him back at the door with a tense smile.
Bucky stood with his hands in his pockets, angling his neck to get a better look at you, “You alright?”
You nodded, bouncing on your heels, “Yeah, ready to go?” The valet would be bringing the car back soon.
He only tensed his brows and raised the back of his hand to your cheek, “You sure, you’re flushed?”
“Oh,” you didn’t mean to flinch away, it was only a reflex, “I probably had too much wine.” Which you were regretting, just now remembering that wine did not get you tipsy in the same way vodka or tequila did. You were tired now, and every thought you had from earlier was rushing back. You turned for the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation and knowing he would follow. The valet had, indeed, brought the car around, and you hopped in the passenger side after thanking them.
Bucky took the driver's seat, adjusting his arm behind your head to reverse out of the narrow lot. He was mostly quiet, save for when he made sure you were buckled. You held your breath against the swelling emotions, trying to bat away the voices in your head. You felt at war, like the two different sides of yourself wanted very different things. One screamed it’s better this way, while the other responded it doesn’t have to be. Both had valid arguments.
In the five years you had been single, you had made the most progress in your career and financial independence. You knew yourself better, had built a better routine, and had become comfortable without the opinions of others. However, there had also been nights where all you wanted was a pair of arms wrapped around you. There were times you ate dinner, and wished you had someone across from you to talk about your day with. Someone to dance in the kitchen with… or even the more intimate aspects. Someone who took their time with you, learning every inch of your skin without a selfish expectation. Someone who just wanted to be with you.
That lump in your throat became too much, and you coughed into your elbow, trying to release some of the tension in your chest. You began to feel pins and needles breaking out over your skin, your hands feeling restless and unsure of what to do with themselves.
You felt his eyes glance over at you before focusing back on the road. You were on a backroad now, the dinner having been out of the city. After several moments of quiet traveling, he finally spoke, “I’m not sure if I told you, you look stunning tonight.” It was a soft compliment, his hand slowly reaching over to squeeze your knee, because of course he knew something was wrong. “This dress is lovely.”
It was too much, all of it. You couldn’t even remember the last time a man complimented something specific on you. When it was dangled in front of you like this, you found you enjoyed it too much. You felt greedy with the need for more, like you wanted this to be your normal.
But he was leaving.
The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, all of it suddenly becoming too much. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, turning away, but it was already too late. Bucky only squeezed your knee one last time before bringing his hand back to the wheel with a pained sigh. You noticed the car slowing, finding him pulling over to the shoulder. You grunted in disapproval, something like an apology. For causing a scene? For being selfish? For having agreed to this in the first place? All of the above?
Once the car stopped, you heard him unbuckle and turn to you. Then, a hand gently pried the one from your mouth, “Sweetheart? Talk to me.”
You only hung your head, your teeth clenching around more sobs. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block everything out.
He was persistent. He moved your hair behind your ear, trying to get a look at you, “What’s going on,” with a plea of your name he said, “please?”
You shook your head, “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know–”
“Don’t apologize,” then he was taking your cheeks in his hands, giving you no choice but to turn to him. He made a pained noise when he saw your tears, his thumbs brushing under your eyes, “Tell me what it is, pretty girl. Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”
That felt like salt on a wound, your breath releasing from your chest broken and cracked. You tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t let you. One hand slid to cup your nape while the other unbuckled you, tugging your knees till you faced him more. It only made you cry harder.
“You gotta talk to me, I can’t do anything if you don’t tell me.”
You finally broke with a, “You don’t need to do anything!”
He wasn’t having it, “Bullshit. You’ve been out of it all night, and now you’re bawling your eyes out. Best believe I’m going to figure out what caused those tears and–”
“I’m tired!” you emphasized the words, trying to give them more meaning than they had on their own.
His brows furrowed, “Of what?”
“Everything! All of it.” You motioned your hands as if that was a good explanation, “I’m so fucking selfish! It’s someone else’s night and all I could think about–all I’ve been thinking about–is how goddamn tired I am of doing everything myself.”
“You don’t have to,” a hand runs through your hair, smoothing it, almost lulling you.
“But I can! I was! For a long time! And-and then suddenly…” you trailed off, shrugging your shoulders and finally forcing yourself to look away from him.
He squeezed your knee again, “Suddenly?”
You shook your head again, but not necessarily to his question. More so, to the tone of his voice, the earnestness of it. He cared so much, and it was as heartbreaking as it was exhilarating to be the center of his attention.
It must have been the exhilarated side that quietly answered: “You.”
“Me?”
“You!” You repeated with more confidence, “You showed me something different and now you’re leaving and… I don’t know…” You searched for the words, “do you ever get tired of being alone?”
Your question seemed to send the car into such thick silence that you couldn’t stand to stare out the front dash anymore. Slowly, you turned to look at him. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were downcast, his mouth hung as if he had no clue what to say.
Shame spread across your cheeks. You’d really done it this time. In a matter of months, weeks for all you knew, he’d be gone. He wanted to leave, and here you were saying silly things. Embarrassing yourself. This was why you hadn’t dated.
But that was a lie. You hadn’t dated because you hadn’t felt this in a very long time. If ever.
When Bucky finally did move, it was to shift the car back into gear. His other hand moved back to the steering wheel at the same time that you said, “I’m sorry.”
It was his turn to shake his head, “Just…” his voice was rough, pained, “Just let me take you home. I think… I think you need to see something.” He pulled back onto the highway, careful of the speed limit despite the way his fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel.
The ride was quiet, save for your sniffles as you tried to quit crying. You had no idea what he meant, no clue what he might want to show you at home that you didn’t already know about. Or maybe it was something else… a lease he’d already signed? His bags packed neatly in his room? Maybe he just wanted out of this car before telling you how tiresome this past year has been for him. Either way, you were determined to pull it together by the time you entered the parking garage.
And you had, for the most part. To his credit, he didn’t seem the least bit angry getting out of the car. You both walked calmly up the stairs to the apartment, and you waited for him to unlock the door. When you walked inside, however, he did not lead you to his room to show you any documents or boxes. He did not turn and give you a piece of his mind.
He walked to the bookshelf.
Your face twisted in confusion as his hands went directly to the spine of the book he was after, not even taking a second to search. Like he knew the exact spot it lived in like the back of his hand. And when he turned, you saw the cover was the same book he had pulled months ago when you had stood against those shelves together. The Notebook. The same book he had annotated for you without a word, that you had put back before even beginning to flip through the pages.
Now, however, he was thumbing through them himself. When he stopped, three fourths through the book, he opened it fully and turned it to you. His eyes met yours again, the first time since you had spoken in the car, as he handed you the book. You took it without question, looking at him for a few moments before finally turning your eyes to the page. And right there, where highlight draws over lines of Noah confessing to Allie what is loving her has meant to him, is the only annotation written in your favorite pink ink:
When I read these love stories, about a man who cares for a woman until his dying breath, I only ever think of one person. Love at first sight might not exist, but I have cared for you from the very first moment. Then again at every party, every class, every dinner, and every night in this little apartment.
Oh.
You blinked several times, reread the words to the point that he probably thought you were illiterate, but you only wanted to make sure they were real. Then you looked up at him, with his bitten lip and puppy-dog eyes. You mouthed wordlessly for several seconds before landing on a single question, “James–”
“I was betting on you getting curious when the book was missing,” he shrugged, “I guess I was wrong.”
You shook your head, “You weren’t, I-I did look. I just didn’t get too far because…”
“You got scared.” He understood.
You finally met his eyes, “You don’t think I’m too much?”
The exhale he let out was soft and full of pity, yet he still stepped forward. “I think,” he said, “that you have been left alone for far too long,” he gently took the book, setting it on the arm of the couch next to you, “and I am sorry that anyone ever made you think you had to do this alone.”
You couldn’t breathe, “I—“
“I love you.” His hands cradled your face once again, tilting your head up so he could look at you properly. He was so close, close enough to do whatever he pleased, and yet he still waited.
Only until you said: “I love you too.”
Then he was kissing you without reprieve. There was no hesitancy in the way he took your purse from your shoulder, dropped it to the floor, and backed you against the door. You took no time in responding, your mouth matching his kiss or kiss. Your hands lifted to his shoulders, sliding down to fist his shirt in your fingers. It was a consuming sort of kiss, and not just for the fact that you hadn’t kissed someone in years. It was him, and it was overwhelming in the way that it felt right.
You forced yourself to pull back before you could melt into him, giggling when his lifts tried to follow yours. “I just…” you leaned against the door, looking up at him, “I thought you wanted to leave?”
His breath was already ragged, and you could practically hear his heart pounding. It didn’t stop him from shaking his head, “No, sweetheart.” The words were breathed against your forehead before his lips dropped to your skin, planting kisses on your forehead before reaching your cheeks, “I never wanted to leave, but being near you and…” his exhale was hungered, full of longing, “and not having you, it’s like torture.”
“I know the feeling…” you replied, voice no more than a whisper.
The groan he let out was like nothing you had heard from any man before, and then his lips were on yours again. There was nothing held back about it. He fisted your hair and tugged your head back, his tongue sliding along yours when you gasped. You didn’t need him to hold you there, you were more than happy to arch into him, and he knew it. His hands slid down next, over the fabric of your butter yellow dress, brushing your thighs right where the hem ends. He mumbled something against your mouth, but you were too focused on the taste and feel of him. His muscles were both hard and soft all in one, and it was the safest place you had ever been. And as you ran your hands down the definition of his abdomen, you found yourself dizzy with more than just love.
He pulled away when it was obvious you hadn’t heard him, and only then did you notice his fingers brushing up under your dress. Your breath hitched, fingers flexing against him. He nudged your nose with his, whispering again, “Will you let me?”
You knew what he was asking without any clarification, because your body was miles ahead. Still, you hesitated. Could you do this? Did you still even know how? What if you messed up? Or couldn’t please him? Or–
Bucky whispered your name, thumb brushing your cheek, “You’re overthinking.”
“It’s just been a long time for me.” You bit your lip, watching his eyes track the movement.
He nodded like he knew, because of course he knew. “I just want you to relax, okay? Let me take care of you.”
You weren't prepared for how easy it would be to listen to the gentle command, to uncurl your fingers from his shirt and let go of the urgency because he had you. One of his arms wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh as he pulled you up to wrap your legs around him. And then he really was against you, and you gasped once again against his mouth. He smiled as he turned to walk down the hall, undoubtedly knowing that you can feel all of him pressed to you. And judging by your perception of size, "all" was a considerable amount.
He entered his room, kicking the door shut behind him, and brought you to his bed. He kissed you once more before laying you down on the white comforter and leaning back to get a better look at you. Your hair fanned across the bed, your dress riding up your thighs. He smirked down at you, his hands coming up to your thighs.
"Gorgeous," he mumbled, more to himself, and ran his hands down to wrap around your ankles. You squealed as he gave a sudden tug, pulling you to the edge of the bed where your thighs fell on either side of him. Your dress was ridden up to your hips by that point, putting the cotton of your ordinary panties on display.
Not that it seemed to make any difference to him, he was still intent on looking his fill. So much so, you felt yourself start to squirm at the attention, letting out a whine.
He only tutted, shrugging off his suit jacket before his hands went to the buttons of his shirt, "Patience, sweetheart." Then he was shirtless, and you couldn't have formed a remark if you wanted to. He was all definition under soft, tanned skin. When he finally brought himself down, his body covering yours, you did not hesitate to run your hands along his chest and shoulders.
You could have stayed there like that for a long while, just feeling him pressed against you. But Bucky was the one losing patience all of the sudden, with his lips against yours and his hands at the hem of your dress. You moaned when he bit down on your bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth, and he used the moment to drag your dress up your sides and over your head. It had been wired, leaving you without the choice of a bra, not that you regretted it when you heard the groan he let out at the sight of you under him.
Then his mouth was on you, leaving nips along your collarbone before dropping down to your breasts. You cursed in response to the sensation, gasping his name as your fingers flew to his hair.
"Fuck," his lips let go of your nipple just to mumble against your skin, "dreamt of this, having you under me," he sucked a hickey onto your skin, "thought I was an awful man for wanting you at my mercy, but look at you," his hips rolled into yours, you arched and pulled at his hair, "you're loving this."
"Please," you breathed as his mouth closed around the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth.
"Please what, baby?" He trailed kisses down your stomach next, before he dropped off the bed. Next thing you knew, he was kneeling in front of you.
You could only squirm, feeling pinned under him, "I-I don't know..."
He hummed, still so pleased with you, "I know, I know what you need. You just lay there and take it, doll."
The very idea made your insides burn, pleasure licking up your spine as his lips ghosted along the seem of your panties. He kissed over them, completely shameless to the eroticism of his actions. You, on the other hand, were speechless. Your thighs were already close to shaking and he had barely touched you. He knew the effect he had too, if his smirk was any clue. He watched for your reaction as he brought his hands to the sides, slowly bringing them down your legs.
You closed your knees on instinct, but he wasn't having it. He pulled them apart with a warning look at you and placed one thigh over his shoulder, his other hand pinning your knee to the bed. You couldn't take your eyes off his expression though, seeing the hunger in his eyes when they finally fell on you. He exhaled, his voice rough, "look at you," then his thumb was pushing through your folds, dragging down the seem of your cunt. "Already so wet for me. I think I deserve a taste, don't you?"
You gasped, not even thinking when you started nodding, your hips already grinding against his thumb.
He hummed, nipping at the inside of your thigh, "So good f'me." Then he was on you, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit before his mouth sucked hard. It was your turn to cry out a curse, your hips coming off the bed. But he adjusted, an arm wrapping under your thigh and coming back up to hold your hips down. "So sweet," his voice vibrated against you, "can't believe you kept this from me."
"Didn't want to," you whined, words barely coherent, "didn't wanna--"
"Mm," he pulled back, thumb replacing his mouth and working your clit while he watched your reaction. "We're gonna make up for all that lost time, yeah baby?"
You nodded incessantly, muttering pleas as his pointer finger found your entrance.
"Gotta get my pretty girl ready," he mumbled, more so to himself, as he pushed the finger in and found immediate resistance. He wasn't discouraged, though. His mouth found your clit again, laving and sucking until your thighs began to shake. Slowly, you began to relax to the point that he was able to move the finger in and out, curving it into the spot that made you let out a needy whine.
"There she is," he smiled against you, and you thought you might have found heaven. When he used a second finger with his tongue, his arm pulling your hips flush against his mouth, you found yourself repeating words over and over. "Please"s and "I love you"s tumbling out. He talked you through all of it. The second your eyes rolled to the back of your head and your mouth opened with a scream, he was encouraging you with "good girl"s and "give it to me"s and "please, baby"s.
He didn't stop until you were tugging on his hair and trying to pull him back up. When he sat up, he was breathing heavily and his pupils were blown wide. And when he brought himself back onto the bed, you could so clearly see the evidence of his arousal. You bit your lip, hard, and looked up at him with an expression you were sure gave away exactly what you wanted. If it didn't, it didn't really matter, because then you were tugging him down over you.
His mouth met yours again, and you tasted yourself on him. It was consuming, but you didn't let it distract you from moving your hands to the zipper of his slacks. You weren't about to waste any time, and with the way he was grinding against you, he wasn't either. He kicked his pants and boxers down the minute you pushed them past his hips, both of you groaning at the feeling of skin on skin.
He kissed you hard once more, taking a moment to admire you, before leaning up on his forearm. Using his other hand, he brought your leg over his hip. His forehead dropping down to yours, he whispered, "You gonna let me take care of you?"
You could only nod, feeling him adjust and run the head of his cock up through your wetness and against your clit. You could barely see straight.
He smiled, pleased, "Breathe for me, okay? Relax." He waited to watch you obey, pulling in a deep breath and melting against him all over again. Then he pushed against you, the tip of him sinking slowly inside. He took the moment to pinch the nipple of one of your breasts, making you cry out and push against him. It made the pleasure of him thrusting into you sharper, better than you ever remember this being.
He cursed once again, moaning your name against your ear as he pulled out only to sink back in. "So tight. Perfect. And just for me, aren't you?"
You nodded, eyes rolling back as he set a rhythm.
But he grasped your chin, made you look at him, "Say it, tell me you're all mine."
It took you a minute to find your words, too focused on the feeling of him dragging inside you. There was no way it had always been like this, there had to be something different about James Barnes. Him and the way his cock pushed inside you, making stars dance in your vision.
"'m yours, Bucky, all yours. Please--"
"That's right," he pushed harder, his thumb dropping back down to press against your clit, "My perfect girl and her tight cunt, all for me." He dropped his mouth to your breast, sucking and biting down gently, "All for me to take care of."
The words mixed with all of the sensations happening in your body were too much. You felt your legs tighten around him, your hips lifting to meet his, mumbling his name and whining into his neck when you began to press kisses into it.
"Mhm, that feel good, doll?" the room was full of the noises of slapping skin and heavy breathing, "You gonna cum for me?"
You cried out, hands grasping at his back and nails dragging across his skin, "Uh huh, please!"
"Don't gotta beg me, I'll give you anything you want. As long as you keep letting me take care of you." He groaned, his thrusts turning sporadic, "Fuck, and letting me spread those legs and ruin this pussy. Please, baby..."
You felt your body tighten around the pleasure, the buildup from your first orgasm to your second feeling ten times more intense. And being pinned down underneath him while he whispered dirty words and promises of love only added to the pleasure as it hit you. You screamed his name so loud he was forced to put a hand over your mouth so the whole apartment wouldn't hear. He didn't last much longer either, his mumbles turning to whimpers of your name as he thrust through his orgasm.
You were both left with ragged breaths and sweaty skin after, letting out quiet laughs as your kisses turned lazy and sweet rather than rough. He ran his hands up and down your sides as you combed yours through his messy hair.
"Are you okay?" You found yourself asking.
He chuckled, "That's my line." Then he slowly began to pull out, watching your reaction as you winced at the soreness. He brought a hand to your hip, rubbing soothing circles into the skin.
You bit your lip, feeling a hint of that worry seep back in as he gave you a once over, "But... are you?"
He met your eyes again, reading you like a book. You watched as it dawned on him what you meant, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, swiping your hair from your cheeks. "I'm not sure I could be better," he pulled back, "I love you. I mean it, I'm not going anywhere."
You sighed, any last bits of tension seeping from your muscles, "I love you too."
He smiled, standing and scooping you up into his arms once more. You squealed again, securing your arms around his neck and bringing your lips to his for one last peck. He then buried his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent as he walked towards the bathroom.
"What are we doing?" You rested your head on his shoulder as you let him take you wherever he pleased.
"Taking care of you," he said simply, "You barely ate at dinner. So, I'm gonna get you cleaned up, then we'll eat something."
You hummed, and for once didn't worry about the where, or why, or how of it all. You let him take the lead, knowing he had you. You were safe. You were loved.
~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅
note: this might have felt a little daydreamy... and that's because it really was just me daydreaming about actually finding a competent man. As a hyper-independent, anxious girly, I won't be putting bets on it. But I sure can dream about Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. :)
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