Secrets I have held in my heart (are harder to hide than I thought)E.M.
⭐︎ Warnings: 18+, mdni! idiots to lovers, best friends to lovers, smut smut smut, lots of pining, mentions of unrequited feelings (they're not), slight angst, unprotected sex, breeding kink? kinda. alcohol and weed consumption. high sex?
⭐︎ Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader
⭐︎ Word count: 20.4k
⭐︎ Summary: A weekend alone with Eddie at Steve's cabin reveals all yours and his deepest desires, feelings you were too afraid to act upon bubbling to the surface, leading to a steamy night that might change you and your best friend forever.
⭐︎ Author's note: I've been meaning to write a best friends to lovers with Eddie for a while now (especially after writing ikyllatk, if you know you know. this is Cheer and Eddie to me in a different universe hehe). @hellfire--cult and I went feral over this idea and we've been talking about this since foreverrrrr and here we are finally! thank you for inspiring me, love ♡
⭐︎ the library
divider made by @cafekitsune
The sun is beating down on your skin, kissing it with warmth as the cold water from the lake is still clinging to your body, making goosebumps appear as you shiver the slightest bit. Your eyes are closed, a content smile rests on your face, despite the way your blue lips tremble. Birds are chirping all around you, the trees rustle whenever the wind blows, the water splashes when your best friend makes his way out of the lake, cursing a few times when he steps over the sharp rocks on the ground.
You don’t open your eyes just yet but you listen to him moving closer and closer to where you’re laying on the pink towel you threw on the grass earlier. You don’t have to take a look to know that he is staring at you, he always is. Like a weight on your body, his stare always feels like a warm blanket, heating up your insides and making you feel something you shouldn’t.
Eddie’s eyes are roaming your body, your glistening bare skin, the skimpy bikini bottoms that are only held together by the strings on the sides, the little bow coming undone slowly. He kneels down before you, making a gasp fall from your lips when the water from his hair drips on your belly and his cold hands touch your hip, fingers reaching for the strings so he can fix the little bow.
You open your eyes to find him looking down with a smug smile as he plays with the strings on your bottoms, re-tying it for you. Your breath hitches in your throat from the touch of his hand and the closeness of him, if you were to sit up, your noses would bump together but you stay in place, only pushing yourself up on your elbows.
“I’m sorry, sweets,” he chuckles softly, taking his sweet time as his fingertips graze your bare hip, “didn’t mean to get you wet,” he smirks, a look of mischief flashes in his eyes as water continues to drip from his body onto yours.
“Are you sure?” You challenge him the way you always do, blinking at him innocently as you bring your knees up higher and bite your lip, making him gulp and blush instantly.
You always know how to break him.
Eddie is oh so confident and flirty, throwing looks and comments your way that are a little too suggestive for someone who is considered a best friend, but the moment you join in on his game, even if only subtly, he turns into a blushing mess, no longer the confident, cocky guy he wishes to be.
But even when he turns into this, blushing and nervous, you can still feel that one certain energy radiating off him and it makes you squirm, it fills you with curiosity and the urge to cross that invisible line, your deepest desires, the ones that are locked away begging to be released. You never let them, you never even looked or paid attention to what you really wanted or craved. You played his game, you flirted back, you teased him but you never admitted to yourself that there was… something.
“Hm, no,” Eddie murmurs, suggestively. He ties the knot, strongly and then, he hooks his finger around the strap, he pulls it back and lets it snap against your skin, making you jolt in your place, a tiny gasp falling from your lips once more as a bigger smirk appears on his face. His eyes roam your body, he takes you in fully before he leans back and plops down on his own towel, laying down, he places his arm behind his head, closing his eyes to the sun, he lets out a sigh of contentment, acting as though he didn’t just touch you the way best friends normally don’t do. Asshole.
“This is nice, I’m glad we came out here.”
You hum in agreement, taking advantage of the fact that his eyes are closed, you allow yourself to take a closer, better look at the man who had become your best and closest friend. He is attractive, very handsome, you aren’t blind, you never have been but he is your friend, you never allowed yourself to look at him a certain way but lately it’s become harder to stay so… blind, to not let his lingering touches make you weak in the knees, to not let his comments fill you with giddiness, to not feel something when he holds you in his arms, when he plays with your hair or places his hand on your thigh when you’re in his passenger seat.
You don’t know where this sudden change has come from, it’s always been that way with him, from the very beginning, he’s been touchy and affectionate with you but it didn’t always make you so excited, it’s been a recent development, something that Nancy and Robin teased you about, they saw your reactions whenever he kissed your cheek and called you pet names, whenever he walked into a room only smiling the moment his eyes would meet yours.
You never noticed it before, the feelings he left you with after all his sweet gestures and touches, only when your friends had brought it up to you, leaving you a blushing and a confused mess, did you start to open your eyes… a little, and suddenly things started to change, your reactions to his comments, no matter if they are flirty or sweet, your reactions to his lingering touches, the way his fingers would play with yours, the way they would drum against your skin, so very close to the hem of your skirt or your shirt, the way he would tuck your hair behind your ear or wipe the foam off your upper lip after taking the first sip of your morning latte before taking his thumb into his mouth and licking it off, moaning while doing so – what was normal before, suddenly wasn’t anymore, everything he did, everything he does now drives you crazy and leaves you yearning for more but you never dared to be the one to take another step forward, to cross that daring line, to make the first real move.
He is still Eddie, your best friend, your soulmate, the person you don’t want to lose, especially over something like this, over reading into something that might not be there, over losing control of your own feelings. After all, this could all just be a part of… him. Maybe it’s just who he is, affectionate, teasing, flirty, daring. Maybe he is like that with everybody, not just you.
But maybe not, maybe you are the only one and maybe, just maybe he is waiting for you to be the one to make another move, to take another step, maybe he has been waiting, maybe he has been waiting for a while now.
You bite your lips so hard, you almost rip the skin open, your eyes are glued to his form, to the way his chest rises up and down, his wet hair a mess around him, lashes fluttering as his eyes are squeezed shut, your fingers itch to touch the ink on his pale skin, you lick your lips as your eyes follow his happy trail, mouth watering at the way his swim trunks are so low on his hips, his bulge so… god, you need to stop – but how can you? Your best friend is just so pretty. And his hands are so big, fingers so long and you have felt them on your skin before but you would be a goddamn liar if you said you didn’t think about them in other places.
Your cheeks heat up at your own thoughts, though it doesn’t stop you from daydreaming some more and the longer you do, the more you start to lose yourself in them, wondering about all the different what if’s, wondering what would happen if you just made the move your friends have begged you to make, to be more daring, to be more teasing, to break him enough for him to do something you both clearly want.
A bravery you don’t usually have, surges through your body, taking over completely. The urge to tease him back the way he teases you is so strong, so before you chicken out, before you think too much and too long, you reach behind you, undoing the bow he tied on your bikini top, you turn away from him and take the skimpy black thing off, throwing it down next to you, the cool breeze kisses your skin and if Eddie opened his eyes right now, he’d be met with the sight of your bare chest.
You press your lips together and turn around, flipping your hair over your shoulder, you lay down on your stomach, stretching your arms out and letting out a sigh of contentment. You turn your head into his direction but close your eyes, even though you’re dying to see his reaction to you being topless but you are trying to play it cool, like it’s nothing.
Eddie peeks one eye open after listening to all your movement and he almost chokes on his spit when he does, jaw falling slack, both eyes shoot open as he takes in the sight of you, of the skin that wasn’t bare only seconds ago – how, when, what?
He blinks, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted as he is gawking at you, at the way your boobs are pressed against the towel beneath you, at the softness of your skin, at the single drops of water still clinging to your body that he wants to touch oh so badly, your hair looks so shiny and soft, your face so content as you lay half naked next to him.
Eddie’s cheeks heat up when he realizes that he would have seen you bare if only he opened his eyes a few seconds sooner. He licks his lips, nearly drooling over the sight of you. Suddenly, his trunks feel tighter than before when his mind takes him to places he only reserves for late nights when he is all alone and not afraid to risk to pop a boner.
He tries to look away, he really does but he can’t, not when you look this hot. He allows his eyes to roam again and it only makes his case worse, his breathing quickens, his skin heats up, his hands itch to touch your soft skin, his lips long to trail kisses down your body, to have a little taste of you.
If you were his, he would, he would start on your neck and he would kiss down to your shoulder and then your back, and he’d take it lower and lower until his lips would reach those skimpy panties, he’d take them off and taste you the way he always dreamed of, he’d lick a stripe up your pussy, suck on your clit, eat you out like the starved man that he is and he would get lost in your moans and your whines, in the pleasure that only he could make you feel.
Eddie clears his throat, he nearly curses when he feels his dick twitching in need of you. He clenches his jaw, even more so when he sees your lips twitching into a smirk. Oh… Oh.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise, his breath halting for a moment when he realizes what you did, you did this on purpose, you aimed to tease him.
It’s not exactly something new, you being a tease but you have never taken things this far, you have never stepped up to his level.
But now that you did… he can take things further as well, right?
If you decide to tease him like this, then he will tease right back.
He pushes himself up, adjusting his trunks, he nearly lets out a groan when you wiggle your butt a little, pretending to get more comfortable.
He bites his lip as he looks around in search for the sunscreen you have brought with you, he finds the bottle peeking out of your bag. He presses his palm on the grass beneath him, leaning over your body to reach for the yellow bottle.
“What’re you doing, Eds?” You murmur, rather seductively
A smirk tugs at Eddie’s lips, the tone in your voice tells him that you believe you are in charge here and… maybe you are, right now, but he won’t let you win so easily.
He chuckles lowly when a gasp tears from your pretty lips after he squirts the cold cream on your back.
“Don’t want you to get burned, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the cap of the bottle, he throws it on the ground before he lays his palms flat against your hot skin, spreading the white cream all over your back.
You grow flustered and you start blushing, your breathing gets heavier and you visibly gulp when he starts massaging the sunscreen into your skin. You suck in a sharp breath when his hands move up to your shoulders, gripping you there for a moment before he moves back down, the coldness of his rings making you shudder a little.
Eddie can’t even hide the smug look on his face after feeling your reaction, pride swelling in his chest when you sigh so beautifully because of his touch.
You easily get lost in this, eyelashes fluttering, soft breaths and sighs falling from your lips as his strong hands move up and down your skin, touching you in ways that make you squirm beneath him.
“Feels good,” you whisper as you arch your back a little, not knowing that just a small movement like this is enough to drive him insane, once again.
“Fuck,” he curses softly under his breath, he swallows harshly.
“What was that?” You ask, not hiding the smugness in your voice, very well.
“Nothing,” he lies, “nothing, sweets.”
“You sure?”
He hums, shaking his head at your teasing, at the way you think that you will win the game that he started.
Eddie moves his hands down to your sides, making sure to get the cream everywhere, so you won’t get burned, of course. His fingers dip dangerously low to the side of your boobs, and while it was only meant to tease you, to get a reaction out of you, he realizes that it was a mistake, only a little too late – it only makes his case worse when he feels just how soft and smooth your skin is that is usually hidden under all your clothes, when he feels himself craving to touch a little lower, to feel more of you, to make you feel–
“Mmmh.”
Eddie freezes, hands halting at your sides, his big brown eyes widen and his lips part once again, he stares at the back of your head, stunned.
You moaned at his touch, whimpered even, making those butterflies in his stomach feel stronger than ever.
“Why’d you stop?” You mumble, wiggling your butt as though to tell him to keep going.
Do you even know the power you hold over him?
Do you even understand what you do to him?
Eddie bites his lip, he bites hard, hard enough to taste iron. He sucks in a sharp breath, biting back the growl that threatens to fall from his mouth when he adjusts behind you, the rough material of his swim trunks rubbing against his dick. He is fucking rock hard and if you only turned around to take a look at him, you would see it.
“I’m sorry, got a little distracted,” he says lowly, voice getting a little shaky.
He feels so hot, and it’s not the sun that is making him sweat, it’s all you.
He can see the way your lip twitches, the way your dimple shows when you smirk at his words.
“Oh? By what, the birds?” You giggle.
He chuckles, shaking his head at your question even though your eyes are still closed. He takes a moment to look at your surroundings, at the beautiful scenery, the trees and the big lake in front of Steve’s cabin – well, his parents cabin.
God, he wonders where this weekend will take him, you and him.
A weekend you were both supposed to spend with your friends, turned into this. Just you and him, and no one else.
It’s only day one, and you are already close to making him cum in his swim trunks, like some pathetic teenage boy who couldn’t handle his crush’s teasing or touching.
This will either be the best weekend of his life, or this might kill him – if you are only teasing, then this will surely kill him but if you are not, then he owes your friends a lot, for pretending to be sick or busy. He knows that they were lying when Robin fake coughed on the phone after telling him that she couldn’t make it, that she and Steve couldn’t make it, cause he got sick too… apparently.
And Nancy forgot that she promised to help her mom with something, and if Nancy couldn’t come, then Jonathan couldn’t either of course – which led to Argyle staying back as well, cause where would he ever go without his best buddy?
Eddie looks back down at you, at his best friend, who is laying half naked before him so comfortably, teasing him so freely. Another sigh escapes your lips and you squirm beneath him once again.
Yeah, no matter how this will end, you will be the death of him.
“Yeah, the birds,” he mumbles, snorting at his own words.
He leans down closer to you, squeezing your sides which makes you jolt a little, a giggle falling from your lips.
“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, eyes lighting up at the sweet sound, “I forgot how ticklish you are,” he teases, as if.
“Mhmm sure you did, Eddie.”
With a mischievous smile, he decides to take his teasing further, playfully digging his fingers into your waist, he begins to tickle you, making you yelp and jolt in surprise as you start squirming beneath his touch, giggles now falling freely from your mouth as his name rolls off your tongue so effortlessly, awakening those butterflies in his stomach. God, he wishes he could make you call out his name in different ways.
You jump up, with your arms covering your front, one hand pressing against your boobs, hiding only just a little as you turn to face your best friend. You watch the way his eyes widen as they instantly fall to your chest, lust flashing in them, jaw dropping as his cheeks redden right this second, his expression makes you giggle even harder, even more so when you push him back and he falls onto the grass, flat on his butt, wet curls hanging in front of his hair.
Eddie is so stunned by you, he can barely move as he stares at you, at your half naked form. God, you are so beautiful it hurts.
The afternoon sun begins to turn golden, kissing your glowy skin and all your curves, your hair cascades down your shoulders, your hand that barely hides anything pressing against your boobs, he wishes it was his own. Licking his lips, he pushes himself up on his elbows, letting his eyes roam your body, shamelessly, dreaming about the way he would love to get between those delicious looking thighs of yours, the way he’d kiss every inch of your body, leaving no trace unmarked, the way he would nuzzle his nose into your neck and inhale your sweet scent, not playfully the way he usually does, but with a trail of kisses that he would leave behind.
He would worship you in ways he can’t even begin to describe. Oh, how often Eddie finds himself up at night, working on yet another song about you, thinking of words that haven’t been created yet, strong enough to describe you.
He feels uncomfortable in his swim trunks that are getting a little too tight, his skin feels on fire, not from the sun but from you. He lusts after you, yes, but there is also more than that, so much more. It isn’t just the lust that makes these feelings so intense, it’s all his deepest feelings for you, feelings that only his notebook filled with song texts know about… and maybe your friends, who aren’t as oblivious as you are.
“I’m gonna take a shower, and you should too,” your voice pulls him out of his thoughts.
Eddie clears his throat, watching you get up, not bothering to pick up your top or your dress that you wore earlier, you simply keep your chest hidden by your right arm.
“You’re helping me cook dinner,” you give him a pointed look before you turn around and begin to walk back to the house.
Eddie smiles cheekily as he pushes himself up further, eyes glued to your butt now.
“Are you telling me to get into the shower with you?” He calls after you, unaware of the butterflies that he caused in your stomach now.
You don’t turn around, you keep walking, hiding the flustered expression on your face from him. You flip him off without looking back, biting back your smile when he laughs loudly.
Eddie watches, craning his neck to see more of you, the way your butt jiggles as you skip up the stairs. He bites his lip, groaning at the sight of it.
“Goddamn.”
You will be the death of him.
-
It’s dark outside by the time Eddie comes out of the steamy bathroom, the cabin is mostly dark too, candles illuminate the living room and the sound of music fills the space. A smile lingers on his face as he makes his way down the hallway, his wet curls bouncing with each step that he takes, he throws on a clean shirt, his gray sweatpants hang low on his hips.
A groan almost falls from his lips when he walks into the kitchen to you standing there in nothing but one of his shirts, now that sight is nothing new to him but it never fails to take his breath away, though usually you have on more than just the shirt. Your bare legs are glowy beneath the dim lights, from hours in the sun and that delicious smelling cream you always put on your skin after showering, you sway your hips to the music, shirt riding up in the process. Eddie can’t help but wonder if you are wearing any panties at all beneath his shirt. Fuck. He shouldn’t let his mind go there, you have done enough teasing for the day, he almost jerked off in the shower and maybe he should have, maybe that would have released some of the tension in him but he wouldn’t have been able to stay quiet, he never is.
God, this really will be a long weekend filled with torture and teasing. He knows he should probably stop playing this dangerous game but he just can’t help but play into it.
He slowly makes his way to you, you’re humming to the music, knife held in your hand as you cut up vegetables, an opened bottle of beer on the counter before you, your damp hair is braided loosely, falling down your back. He can smell your body wash from here, the sweetness of it – of you is so intoxicating to him, he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around your waist, pull you into him and bury his face in the crook of your neck, inhale your scent and kissing your soft skin, he craves it so very badly, even more so, he craves for it to be something normal.
Eddie wants you to be more than just his best friend.
Everybody knows it, everybody but you.
And maybe it’s better this way, maybe he would lose you if you did find out.
You might be a tease, you might let him touch you in ways no one else is allowed to, you might give him hope sometimes, the hope that you could feel more than just something platonic for him but at the end of the day you are still best friends and he can’t lose that, especially not because he can’t control his feelings.
Because what happens when you do find out and you don’t feel the same?
What happens then?
What happens if it drives you away?
What happens if he loses you?
And he can’t allow that to happen, he can’t lose you, not you, anyone but you.
Eddie knows he should do himself a favor and stop being so touchy and affectionate with you, it does him no good, if anything, it makes him want you even more but he can’t help it, he has to take what he can get… right?
He comes up behind you, snaking his arms around your waist, he breathes in your sweetness, chuckling when you tense up for a second before a cute giggle falls from your lips.
“You scared me,” you whisper, tilting your head back, you look up at him as you ease into his touch.
“Sorry sweets, didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, teasing you with that pretty smile of his as he snatches a piece of the cucumber you’ve been cutting and bites into it, winking at you as he steps away again and takes a look into the large pot on the stove.
“Pasta?”
“Pasta Arrabiata,” you say, imitating the Italian accent that Steve always makes whenever he is cooking.
Eddie chuckles, “wow that was horrible.”
“Shut up,” you giggle, scrunching your nose at him.
If you knew how his heart flutters at your laughter and at your cute nose scrunches.
“Since when do we put cucumber in pasta?”
The disgusted look on your face makes him laugh again, he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyes you up and down.
“I’m also making a salad, it’s for you, you need to eat more veggies.”
His lips curl into yet another smile, warmth blooms in his chest.
You take care of him, you always do. From making sure that he eats enough when he gets a little too lost in writing songs or working on campaigns to making sure that he wears a hat and a scarf when it’s cold outside, whether it’s something small or big, you are always there to look after him, you’ve always been there.
“Alright, I’m eating the greens just for you, sweets.”
He licks his lips as he eyes every inch of your exposed skin, tracing your soft features with the longing look in his brown eyes. The way his shirt looks on your body, the way your hair falls in front of your eyes despite you tucking it behind your ear just moments ago, the way you bite your lower up as you give him a disapproving look.
“No,” you shake your head, pointing your knife at him, “you gotta eat them for yourself.”
“Are you threatening me?” He smirks, closing the gap between you both again, you instantly lower the knife and place it on the counter.
You shrug, teasing him with a sweet smile, “what if I am?”
Eddie licks his lips, inching closer and closer to you, a smile tugs at his mouth, he hums as he raises his hand up to your face, combing his fingers through your wet hair before he tucks the fallen pieces behind your ear again.
He is unaware of the effect he has on you, of the fluttering in your chest, of the burning in your skin, of the shaky breaths you suck in.
“Then I think that’s really hot,” he winks at you as he moves his hand down your neck and then your shoulder, sliding it down along your spine, lower and lower until he’s holding your hip and pressing himself against you as he moves onto your other side, slower than necessary.
Your lips part in surprise, every trace that he has touched starts to burn, your knees grow weak and your heart starts beating faster – how much longer can you deny the emotions he causes inside you?
“So, how can I help?”
He is teasing you, you can hear it in his voice, and you don’t have to turn around to face him to know that there is a smirk on his face.
“Set the table, pick a movie to watch later, dinner is almost ready.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs into your ear before he walks away without another word, giving you a moment to take a few deep breaths.
You take a sip of your cold beer, closing your eyes for a moment, you listen to your beating heart, you feel the goosebumps on your skin, you feel the rush of blood to your cheeks, the weakness you feel for your best friend.
How much longer can you deny what is really inside of you, that it’s not just physical attraction?
Your heart flutters when his deep voice sounds through the dining room as he sings along to the music, your lips curl into an adoring smile. You can hear him rummaging through the drawers, trying to find the table cloth you assume.
Picking up the knife again, you continue chopping your vegetables, finishing up on your salad, though you quickly get lost in this… domestic energy you both have created. It feels so warm, so safe, so familiar. A feeling you can’t imagine sharing with anyone other than your Eddie.
He comes back into the kitchen, humming, he grabs two plates and cutlery and places them on the counter before he passes by you, without a teasing smile or comment, he places his hand on your lower back, he reaches over your shoulder to retrieve two wine glasses from the shelf and steps away again, leaving the kitchen once more.
It all feels so natural, so normal and yet, it makes you struggle to breathe because the butterflies in your stomach go wild – just the way they always do, but now it becomes harder and harder to not pay attention to them.
You take another deep breath, willing yourself to calm down, to push aside your feelings, to keep doing what you did before… be unaware of what is buried deep within your heart. So, you move along and distract yourself with finishing cooking dinner, not allowing your mind to take you further into this pit of hell as you call it, because that’s what love and feelings are, hell.
There is no good in love, there is no peace in having feelings.
It’s a rollercoaster ride that ends no matter how long it lasts, pleasant or not, it ends.
And you refuse to let feelings get in the way of yours and Eddie’s friendship, he means too much to you to risk taking a step further into something that your stupid heart desires, you love him too much to let your lingering feelings ruin what you both have, besides… who is to say that he could feel something for you?
You are his best friend and he is yours, that’s all you’ve ever been and it’s all you’ll ever be, best friends, nothing more or less, best friends who are affectionate with one another, who tease each other, who sleep in each other’s arms and do things that other best friend’s might not do… Though when you step into the dining room with the heavy pot in your hands, you halt in your tracks, freezing at the sight before you.
The table is set but not like usual, it makes you struggle to keep pushing away those feelings that have been sneaking their way to the surface because why did he place the plates so close to each other when the table is so big? And why did he place candles on the table and light them up instead of keeping the lights on? And why did he change the channel on the radio? Why is slow music playing instead of the rock channel he usually settles for when there is no better option for him?
You can handle his teasing, you can handle his touching, his flirting, his suggestive comments and looks he gives you so often.
But this is something else, this is something that would have normally made you run, a table set up so romantically, a dinner that seems to become something intimate. Yeah, if someone else had set this up, you would’ve definitely ran, you would’ve felt anxious, suffocated.
Those feelings don’t exist with him though, it’s quite the opposite, even with the lingering fear inside of you for what you feel for him. You feel giddy.
“Picked the movie, sweets,” Eddie calls from the living room, snapping you out of your troubled thoughts. He enters the room with a grin on his face.
You clear your throat and finally take the final steps to the table, putting down the pot in the middle, you glance at your best friend.
“Yeah? What’d you pick?”
“Something neither of us have seen yet,” he winks at you, moving closer and closer until he is right in front of you again. He grabs the chair and pulls it back, gazing down at you with his dark eyes, “sit.”
“I gotta get the rest of the food–”
“I’ll get it, now sit down, princess,” he murmurs.
Whenever his voice gets so low, your knees feel like they’ll buckle at any moment, shivers run down your spine and your cheeks grow hot.
“Alright,” you chuckle, plopping down on the wooden chair, you gaze up at your best friend, batting your eyelashes at him.
Eddie sucks in a sharp breath, there is not much you have to do to drive him crazy.
“Smells really good in here,” he comments, the mouth watering smell of pasta sauce and garlic bread makes his stomach growl.
“Thanks Eds, now get the rest of the food before it gets cold.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he winks at you, squeezing your shoulder before he turns around and makes his way out of the room and into the kitchen.
You take a deep breath when he’s gone, rolling your shoulders and trying to calm your nerves, your heart is racing and it makes you feel ridiculous. You are here with Eddie, your best friend, Eddie. You got nothing to feel nervous about, you’ve been here plenty of times before, at dinner alone with him… though, it was never like this, you never had candle light dinners with slow music playing in the back. And his touches, his smiles, his voice never drove you this crazy before, he never made your heart flutter, his hands never made your skin feel hot, he never made you feel like you’d fall to the ground because your knees felt like jelly, he never made you feel those things before until recently… or did he?
“I’m starving,” Eddie says dramatically as he places the salad bowl and the garlic bread on the table. Before he takes a seat, he opens the wine bottle and reaches for your glass, he glances at you as he starts pouring it in your glass, he notices your flushed cheeks and how fidgety you are in your seat as you eye him up and down, it makes his heart flutter.
“We can’t have that,” you chuckle, reaching for his plate, you start filling it with salad first to which he protests, claiming that it will only make him starve even more. “You need some healthy food!”
“Not too much of it though,” he shakes his head as he lifts the lid of the pot, inhaling with a smile on his face, “I need that.”
Your giggle makes his smile widen.
“Alright.”
“You know I love your pasta,” he grins as he watches you fill the plate.
“That’s Steve’s pasta,” you chuckle.
“Nah, that’s his recipe, you cooked it,” he retorts, tilting his head to the side, “besides, you do it better.”
Warmth fills your chest and your cheeks, your smile gets even bigger now.
“Don’t tell him that! He’ll be distraught!”
“Don’t worry, it’s our secret,” he mumbles with a grin on his face as he finally takes the seat across from you, taking the plate from your hands when you hand it to him with a soft ‘thank you’.
He waits for you to fill your own plate before he picks up the fork or even takes a sip of the wine you picked when you went grocery shopping together this morning. He leans back and takes a look around, your surroundings are so different than usual, so unlike the small apartment he recently moved into where you eat your dinners at his tiny kitchen table. He appreciates the home cooked meals you always bless him with and the way you always want to take care of him, it makes him feel warm, it makes him feel safe.
Eddie wants to do the same for you, he wants to make you feel the way you make him feel but he believes that he can’t measure up, that he can’t give you what you give him, that he can’t provide you the same feeling of safety or warmth and maybe that is the sole reason why he hasn’t made a move on you yet, not because he is scared of ruining your friendship – god, he wants to ruin it so bad. But because you deserve more than he can give you, you deserve this, a big house with a stupid fireplace, a big garden, stability, someone who can take care of you, someone who can give you more than a small, shitty apartment, someone who can give you more than just the flowers he gives you or the pastries he brings you when you’re taking your lunch breaks at work.
Yeah, your friendship is very precious to him, he is scared of losing you, every goddamn day he wonders if this will be the day where you don’t show up for him but it isn’t the reason for his lack of effort in fighting for what he actually wants, it’s the fact that he believes that you deserve better than him, someone less like him, someone more like… Steve.
So he settles for loving you from afar, he tries to spoil you, he tries as best as he can. He teases you whenever he gets the chance to, he becomes giddy when you react to it, when you blush and giggle or even tease him back the way you did today, it sparks something in him, maybe it’s confidence or maybe just an illusion that you could feel the same, whatever it is, he basks in the feeling in those moments.
His eyes soften and the beating of his heart becomes stronger as he watches you, the way you dig your teeth into your bottom lip, the way your beautiful eyes shine in the dim light, the light flush in your cheeks making you look so damn cute, the way your smile only widens when you glance at him, a small huff falling from your mouth.
“What are you looking at?” You tease, putting down your plate before you.
You.
He always looks at you.
Eddie knows he won’t have this forever, someday you will meet someone who will give you everything that he wishes he could, someday he won’t be the one sitting across from you enjoying your dinner, someday he won’t be the one in your life.
“At your shirt, is it new… or?” He teases, acting like he didn’t just get lost in his head, thinking of your future that he might not be a part of.
You look down at his shirt, smiling proudly, you stole it from him the last time you stayed over, “mhm got it from this store called the drawer.”
Eddie snorts, though he adores the look on your face, “you’re so lame, the drawer? Really?”
“Mhmm,” you nod, picking up the fork you start eating happily.
“Who sold it to you?” Eddie asks, squinting his eyes at you.
“Oh, this uh… really handsome guy, said he’s in a band, corroded coffin?” You raise your brow, pretending to think. “Yeah, that’s what it was.”
Eddie’s stomach flips in excitement at the compliment. You’ve called him handsome plenty of times before, but it never fails to make him blush.
“Damn, he sounds really cool,” Eddie says, laughing.
You nod, a serious and adoring look now flashing in your features, no hint of amusement behind those eyes, no teasing, just pure adoration for him, “he is, he is the coolest actually.”
He gets flustered easily when he’s with you but when you look at him like this, with that sweet smile and those soft eyes, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he doesn’t know what to say or how to act, so he hides his face by looking down at the delicious food in front of him, a sheepish smile resting on his face, one that makes your own even bigger. He finally takes a bite of the pasta and his eyes instantly close as he moans at the taste of it, making you giggle yet again.
“Fuck me, yeah I’m sorry sweets, but I ain’t letting you get married, you’re stuck with me,” he jokes as he takes another bite, completely forgetting about all the anxious thoughts that swirled in his mind just moments ago.
“Oh, you mean I’m stuck being your private chef?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
You raise your eyebrows at him, chewing on the garlic bread slowly, you try to ignore the heat building up in your stomach as you look into his chocolate eyes, waiting for him to say that word.
“Oh, then what would you call it?”
Eddie looks at you through hooded eyes, a teasing smirk tugging at his plump lips.
“Housewife.”
A surprised giggle falls from your lips, though your cheeks start burning, especially under his gaze. Something tugs at your chest, something strong, something warm. Housewife. You never craved to be that, you never had such desires. Sure, you always dreamed of finding the one, finding true love, finding someone who will love you the way you can love, the way you always wished to love but that’s it, you never imagined yourself past the dating stage, you never daydreamed of weddings and a husband, you never thought of becoming a wife, a housewife at that but… when you think of yourself as that with Eddie by your side, with your best friend, with the one who had always been by your side through thick and thin, something in you beats a little stronger.
You clear your throat, lowering your gaze to his ringed fingers, you can’t help but let your mind take you to sacred places.
Eddie watches you intensely, eyes lighting up at the flustered state you are suddenly in, a state he only ever sees you in when he teases you with touches, with pick up lines, with his flirtations but never this. There is a little spark in him now, the sparkle of hope.
“Well that would make you my husband.” Your voice is shaky, filled with nerves and something else that he can’t decipher at this moment.
Oh, Eddie would put a ring on your fingers right this second.
He never really planned his future, he never really saw one, especially not one in which he would be happy with a wife and kids by his side but he would be lying if he said that he doesn’t want these things with you. You make him crave things that were never even a thought of his before he met you, you make him want to be that for you, a husband.
He doesn’t believe that he can give you what you want, what you need, what you deserve but he knows one thing for sure, if he was given the chance, he would make you so damn happy.
“Would that be so bad?”
You look up again and into his eyes, something in them is different now, something in the way he looks at you is so… intense and raw, there is a softness in them, one stronger than usual.
Would that be bad?
You shake your head before you can even come up with the right words to say, or with words you should say. Something has changed, perhaps a long time ago or just now, but you know one thing for sure, your heart never beat this strongly before and your hands never itched to touch his so badly.
You know the truth is hidden behind the walls you have put up, but that wall started crumbling a long time ago, long before you had the chance to even notice.
The energy in the room has shifted into something more… intimate and it’s not the candles or the music, it adds to it, but those aren’t the main reasons, it’s the energy you both have created, it’s the lingering touches, it’s his foot touching yours under the table, not playfully like usual, it’s different, it’s all so different but it’s good. A comfortable silence takes over the room as you continue eating and as the seconds and the minutes pass, and you both sip on your wines, pouring a second glass, you both get a little bolder when the alcohol hits you.
Your hands inch closer and closer to each other, your eye contact becomes a little more intense, making your breathing stutter and your heart skip several beats.
And when he is done with his food, he pushes his plate aside and leans his elbows on the table, he clears his throat and takes a deep breath and then, he brushes his fingertips against your own before he envelopes your hand fully, taking it into his large one.
You can’t describe the feelings rushing through you, he held your hand plenty of times before but until now, you never let yourself feel the rush of it, you never allowed yourself to pay attention to the electric feeling cursing through your veins but you allow it now, slowly… you allow it.
“They’re really missing out, aren’t they?” You speak the first words that come to your mind as you stare into your best friend's beautiful eyes.
Eddie looks around the dining room, shrugging when he looks back at you, his eyes roaming your face, his lips curl into a smile.
“I don’t know, I kinda like it just being the two of us, we never really get the chance to be alone like this.”
You nod in agreement, “that’s true, I like it too,” you murmur before you reach for your glass and take a big sip of wine.
“More wine and weed for us,” Eddie jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at you.
You roll your eyes playfully, setting the glass back down, you tilt your head to the side, “speaking of weed, wanna roll us a joint?”
Eddie doesn’t want to let go of your hand just yet but he nods, he could use that relaxation anyways, maybe it will calm his nerves around you before he does something that he might end up regretting later on.
“Yeah, I’m gonna clean this up first.”
You shake your head, “no, I can do it–”
“Sweetheart,” Eddie says sternly, glaring at you, “I know I said housewife, I hope you know that doesn’t mean slave.”
You can’t help but giggle at the seriousness on his face or in his voice, “Eddie, I hope you know that that’s exactly what most men think of when they want a housewife.”
He frowns in disgust, scoffing at that, he begrudgingly lets go of your hand and pushes his chair back.
“Well, most men are pigs who don’t even deserve a wife in the first place,” he says, getting up, he glares at you and points at you to stay seated. “You don’t have to do all the work, you cook, I clean up, it’s simple.”
A smile graces your features, you tap the table before you reach for the wine bottle, pouring yourself a third glass, “well then, whatever you say, husband,” you giggle and get up as well, holding your hands up in surrender when he gives you a warning glance, “don’t worry, I won’t lift a finger, I’m gonna grab my wine and wait for you in the living room.”
“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs as he gathers the dirty plates, “sit your pretty ass down.”
You definitely feel the wine in your system now, that fuzzy feeling and the slight dizziness feels so welcoming though.
“Yes, sir.”
Before Eddie can stop his mouth from running, those words tumble out of his mouth just like that.
“Good girl.”
You nearly choke on your spit and trip over nothing, his words rush right to your core, your cheeks start burning hotter than before.
Good girl.
He called you a good girl, with that raspy, deep voice of his that never fails to make your insides crawl with need, that never fails to ring through your head when you’re in your bed with your hand between your thighs, imagining him and his voice calling you just that.
You don’t know how you manage to keep your composure but you do, only allowing a soft giggle to leave your lips as you continue your way out of the dining room and into the living room, you round the corner and rush to the big couch where he luckily can’t see you, your knees almost buckle before you can even take a seat.
You close your eyes and sigh out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Pressing a hand to your chest, you nearly gasp at the beating of your heart.
“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself.
Eddie will be the death of you, you are sure of it, if not tonight then tomorrow, and if not then, then on the last day of your trip.
The veil that was hiding all your truths was already being lifted when you were still in Hawkins, slowly everything was coming out, all the feelings you were denying, all the things you were so afraid of admitting, you lost control and power a long time ago. The moment Robin opened her eyes to what was there this whole time, the moment she confronted you about your feelings for him was the moment you could no longer hide. The veil is no longer there, it’s long gone and lost with the wind.
You run your fingers through your hair and lean back into the soft cushions, taking a big gulp of the red wine that will surely give you a headache tomorrow morning, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, you begin to curse her out in your head because all your reactions to his words and touches just now only confirmed all her beliefs.
Fuck Robin for saying all that shit to you that changed your feelings and opened your eyes completely, a month ago. Fuck her for telling you that you indeed have feelings for Eddie, for your best friend. Fuck her for making you start realizing it and be self conscious for it. Fuck her for making you feel scared of losing Eddie because of it.
“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, you open your eyes and look around the lightly dimmed room, you take in the sound of Eddie’s voice, of his humming to the music, of the way your heart flutters more and more.
You are so fucked.
You will ruin the friendship, you are sure of it.
If only you knew that this is exactly what he wants.
You keep yourself busy with your wine glass, staring into blank space as you continue letting your thoughts eat at you, letting the insecurities and the doubts creep in, when all you want to do is get lost in the feeling of what he gave to you at the dinner table, just moments ago.
You are so lost in your head, you don’t even notice the music being turned off, you don’t even hear his footsteps or his voice until he is standing right before you after throwing a bunch of different snacks on the coffee table.
“I know the munchies are gonna hit you,” your best friend chuckles as he finally sits down beside you, joint already between his fingers, lighter on the coffee table. He turns to you, wiggling his eyebrows at you as he offers you the joint.
Yeah, maybe this will help, maybe this will relax you enough to get a grip on yourself again, maybe this will stop you from doing something that will make you regret.
Your heart, your body, everything in you seems to be sick of living in denial though because before your mind can kill this moment, you are already moving forward, looking into his eyes, you lean down, closer and closer, you wrap your lips around the joint that is still snug between his fingers.
The widening of his eyes, the parting of his lips, snaps you out of whatever had possessed you, though not enough, not even in the slightest.
You raise your brows at him expectedly, waiting for him to light up the joint for you.
The flush in his cheeks, the rosy color taking over his face, his squirming makes satisfaction rush you.
You were teasing him all morning, all afternoon and every time you added one more, you wanted to risk more, but now things just have gotten out of hand, you got lost in your own little game and you let your feelings, your desires take full control of you.
Poor Eddie doesn’t know what to do with himself as he looks down at you, if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his system, he would lose all composure and stutter like a little kid around his crush. He manages to reach for the lighter and he never looks away from your pretty eyes or your lips, or the shirt that keeps riding up on your thighs, a little more and more.
He lights the joint and he is surprised when you don’t look away, when your eyes stay locked with his and a satisfied moan escapes you – only worsening his case. You inhale deeply and furrow your eyebrows in concentration, a lazy smile spreads on your kissable lips and you lean back further after blowing out the smoke. You bring your knees up to your chest and hand him the joint.
“That’s nice,” you sigh out in pleasure, “I needed that.”
“You’re starting to sound like an addict,” Eddie smirks, hiding his blushing cheeks behind his curls as he takes the joint from your fingers and places it between his lips, unaware of the way you follow his every movement as he gets comfortable beside you, resting his feet on the table, he stretches his arm out and wraps it around the headrest behind you.
“What… movie did you pick out?” You ask him and he doesn’t even notice your stuttering or the way your eyes are glued to his exposed skin as his shirt rides up, exposing his happy trail.
Eddie shrugs, reaching for the remote, he glances at you, “I dunno, one of the movies Steve recommended we should watch.”
“Oh?”
“Mhmm,” He nods and presses play before he throws the remote on the coffee table, “let’s see how good his taste is.”
“You already know he loves the cheesy shit,” you laugh and scoot closer to him with your wine glass still in your hand, you’re searching for his warmth.
“Yeah, he does,” Eddie chuckles.
He lowers his gaze to your thighs, noticing the goosebumps on your skin, he puts the joint into the ashtray and he reaches for the knitted blanket thrown over the couch, he spreads it open and covers your legs with it, “don’t want you freezing, sweets,” he murmurs.
Your eyes soften for him, a smile spreading on your lips. You lean forward and place your wine glass on the coffee table and then you scoot closer to him and throw the blanket over his lap as well before you place your head on his chest, snuggling up against him with a content look on your face… beside the blushing on your cheeks.
Eddie wraps his arm around you without a second thought – this is nothing unusual for you, neither is the hand holding, or the sharing of clothes or the intimate touches but everything you do today, that you usually do as well, feels so different, it makes him nervous, it makes you nervous, it feels like the first time.
And when you place your hand above his heart, he grows anxious that you might feel just how strongly it’s beating for you, he is scared that you will figure out his feelings and that that will make you run, run from him.
“Your heart is racing,” you whisper softly, causing him to tense up a little but when you press your chin against his chest and you gaze up into his eyes, he feels a sense of calmness bleed through him, safety.
Eddie blinks, not knowing what to say without giving away the truth, without giving away just how much he wants to kiss you right now, how much he wants to make you his, how badly he wants to confess and get it off his chest.
“Is everything okay?” Your angelic voice makes him feel weak, the candle light makes you look so soft, your scent makes him feel drunk, his lips yearn to touch yours, his heart screams for you.
God, he really wants to kiss you so bad.
And he wants to kiss you even more when he sees the way your own eyes flicker between his lips, his neck and his eyes. He tightens his hold on you, prompting you to scoot even closer as you lean your warm body into his as your hand slips down to his stomach, your nails grazing the sliver of exposed skin on his stomach, he nearly whimpers at the feeling. You truly know how to drive him crazy.
“Yeah,” he whispers, lips curling into a smile, “everything is perfect.”
Almost perfect.
It would be perfect if he could just grab your face and smash his lips against yours, kissing you breathless.
You bite your lower lip as you keep staring up at him, you look as though you want to say something, your eyebrows pull together whenever you hold something back, whenever you desire to speak up about something – he doesn’t pressure you to talk though, he never does, he gives you time, as always.
His eyelashes flutter, his lips part in surprise when he watches you move closer to him, closer and closer until your lips are pressed against his jaw, you peck him once before you shyly pull away and bury your face in his chest, turning your attention back to the TV right as the movie begins to play and he is glad that you do, because his eyes widen the way they probably never did before and blood rushes to his cheeks, no doubt making him look like a tomato right now, his heart feels as though it will beat out of his chest at any moment.
You were teasing him this morning, you were very clear about that, the smirk and the smugness on your face gave it away every time but you are no longer teasing now, this is different, this is something else, this is something new.
Eddie swallows the lump in his throat and he takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly and shakily.
He wonders if you know the effect you have on him, he wonders if you know how he feels for you, he wonders if you know just what he would do for you.
“Pass me the joint?” He whispers, not recognizing his own voice due to how shaky it is.
You do as he asks, pulling away for just a second, you reach for the joint and hand it to him before you settle back comfortably against his chest, pressing your cheek tightly against it.
Despite the nervousness in him, he keeps his arm wrapped around you tightly, and he even takes it a little further, becoming a little bolder, he sneaks his hand under your shirt and lays his plat flatly against your warm back.
You sigh in contentment and curl further into him, welcoming the touch of his hand, especially when he starts rubbing up and down.
“That feels so nice,” you murmur, moaning softly, “don’t stop, Eddie.”
Of course it wasn’t the greatest move to make, of course it would backfire, of course he would be the one with the problem. It’s already not helping that you’re almost fully on top of him, hand underneath his shirt as your nails scratch against his skin and now you are moaning because of him.
He places the joint between his lips and takes a long drag, needing it desperately.
“Your hands always feel so nice, Eds.” The words tumble fall from your lips just like that, like you no longer find yourself caring about the consequences of your words or your actions, maybe it’s the alcohol and the weed in your system that makes you so careless and bold, or maybe it’s the reassuring touch of your best friend that gives you the confidence to let you say what’s on your mind.
Eddie freezes, shocked he stares at the movie playing on the screen, his hand stops moving as well for a moment, he wonders if he really heard you right. You press against his hand again, wanting more.
“And you don’t know what they can do, sweets,” he rasps into your ear, confidently and like he isn’t losing his mind over you.
A whimper sounds through the room, your whimper. You try to conceal it by coughing into your hand but he heard it, and he felt how you tensed up at his words.
He swallows harshly, squirming beneath you, he tries his hardest to hold back that growl. His hand slips from under your shirt and down to your thigh when you lean forward to reach for the joint in the ashtray.
“Rolling good joints?” You murmur, trying to hide your nervousness and how flustered you really are.
Eddie can’t help but snort, mumbling a soft ‘sure’ to your question.
Despite the tension in the room and your unwanted awkwardness, time keeps passing and the night goes on, the movie continues playing, moving into a direction that neither of you expected at the start of it – what begins with an innocent scene of the beautiful lead getting ready for her date with the guy she is keeping a secret, develops into something different, something more, something that should not have the effect on you that it does right now but when they start kissing in his car, slowly and sensually at first, her fingers buried in his long hair as his slip under her shirt, you can’t help but bite your lip. Your skin grows hot, your thighs clench together, your grip on his shirt tightens as your mind flips this scene into you kissing Eddie in his car.
The wine was supposed to help, the weed too, but neither of them did, neither of them managed to give you the calming effect that you were hoping for, if anything both only heightened your senses and intensified absolutely everything in you, because suddenly, his body feels so much closer, his cologne so much more intoxicating than usual, his touch heating your skin on fire, his breath on your skin tickles you and those evil thoughts in your head make you wonder what it would feel like to feel his breath elsewhere, to feel his lips on your skin and his hands holding you tightly, keeping you in place as his lips touch parts of you only your hands did before.
Your heart starts beating faster and you begin to lose composure, the rational voice in your head is gone for good, desire and need taking over now, a confidence you didn’t know you had rushing through you as you move your leg, pressing the heel of your foot against his shin.
And while you are getting bolder, Eddie is trying his best to stay calm, to not act upon his feelings and ruin the one good thing in his life, despite the clear signs you are currently giving, he makes no move, even when he wants nothing more but to bury his face in your neck and suck on your skin until you are marked up by him. The smell of your perfume drives him insane, the feeling of your skin pressed against his makes his stomach flutter with no end near in sight, his heart hasn’t stopped racing yet.
The blanket slips from your lower half, his shirt has ridden up on your body, revealing the panties you are wearing, the black lace resting so perfectly on your soft skin. He clenches his jaw at the sight of it, biting back the moan that wants to fall off his lips so badly.
Something else flutters now, not just his heart or those butterflies in his stomach and it makes him so uncomfortable because he won’t be able to hide it, not right now.
Soft moans fill the living room, along with the sounds of lips smacking together. You bite your lip even harder, hold onto him even tighter as your eyes stay glued to the screen, watching intently as the couple undresses each other slowly, their hands becoming more and more desperate on each other, whimpers getting louder.
You are so lost in it, you let your body move on its own, your foot continues to slide up his shin and his knee, hip angling as you twist your body further into him. As the scene gets more and more intense, the thoughts in your head do too.
The coil in your stomach grows, burning hotly, you are throbbing between your legs, growing wetter and wetter each passing second as you imagine yourself moaning like the girl on the TV – moaning for him, with him.
Eddie is frozen in place, stunned at everything that is happening this very moment, not only is the scene very erotic but the moves you are pulling now are just about enough for him to get hard – and he can’t exactly conceal anything, not when he is wearing grey sweatpants and you are tightly pressed against him.
Do you even know what you are doing to him?
When Eddie shifts beneath you and his fingers dig deeper into your skin, you lower your head and tear your eyes from the screen to his lap and your mouth waters in an instant, eyes growing wide and the burning in your stomach only worsens.
“Got a problem there, Eds?” You blurt out as you stare at the very prominent bulge.
He wants to crawl under the blanket and hide his flustered face but instead he rolls his eyes, trying to act cool, averting his gaze from you and back to the screen, pretending that it’s the girl in the movie that caused this.
“I am just a man, leave me alone…”
A giggle escapes you, and you look up at your best friend to find him blushing furiously. His long lashes kissing his skin every time he blinks, his dark eyes shine so prettily, his lips are just so… so kissable. His neck is so perfect to be marked up by you. His dark hair cascading down to his shoulders so perfectly, but you want to make a mess of him.
“Aw, poor man,” you tease him before you finally let go of any doubts, of any fears or anxious thoughts, you grab the joint from between his fingers and put it back on the ashtray and then, you lean back to him and do something that you always craved to do, you press your lips against his jaw, kissing him.
His lips part in surprise, heart stopping for a moment, he stares into blank space now as you repeat the motion, pressing your lips against his skin again and again, humming in contentment.
His legs feel like jelly and if he wasn’t sitting down already, he surely would’ve felt his knees buckle at this electric touch. Words can’t describe the feeling of this, of you. He imagined this so many times, your lips on his skin, just the imagination of it had him feeling giddy but this, he can’t even function.
You move closer and closer, your hand finding the chain around his neck, your breath kissing his skin, you gaze up at him with those pretty eyes that could make him do anything you would ask for.
“Sweetheart, what are you doing…?” He finds his voice again.
You shrug, looking at him innocently, “I don’t know, I just want to kiss your face, is that so bad?” You ask before you lean in again, not waiting for an answer from him, you press your lips back against his jaw, finger hooked around his chain and your other hand moving from his chest and up to his hair, giving it a slight pull.
Eddie’s eyes flutter closed, the soft smile that rested on his features before slowly falling now. He clenches his jaw when you kiss it again and again, his heart races like crazy now, the feelings in him, the love he feels for you bursting in him as he finally gets a taste of what things could be like if you were his girl.
You light up a fire in him, but make him weak at the same time, you make him feel safe but he also burns for you, he desires you in ways he wasn’t even aware existed, only a taste of this, of you, could kill him because if he can’t have you again after having you once, he surely will die slowly and torturously as he forever will be reminded of this, of what could be.
He breathes in shakily as his hands fall to your waist, gripping you tighter than ever before, it takes everything in him not to grab your face and kiss you senseless but it takes even more to stop you.
He wants this, he wants you so bad, he wants to keep feeling your lips, your touch, you.
But what is this to you?
His hand moves up to the back of your neck, he wraps his fingers around it, pulling you away softly with a deep inhale.
“Don’t do this to me now, darling,” he whispers weakly, not caring about how vulnerable he sounds, how vulnerable he must look right now.
You ignore his pleading, and you move closer again, straddling his thigh as you wrap your arms around his neck, you look into his eyes as you inch closer and closer to him, no longer caring about anything. You kiss his cheek softly and then the other, noting the soft sigh falling from his lips, the grip of his hand on you becoming tighter and stronger.
Eddie is breathing heavily now, he doesn’t even know what to do with himself as your lips are so close to his own.
“You’re killing me here, sweetheart,” he whispers.
You pull back to look at him, taking in the intense emotions flashing in his eyes as he stares at you with nothing but hunger, his eyes flicking back and forth between your lips and your neck.
“Why?” You whisper innocently as you lean in again and without thinking, you press your lips to the corner of his mouth.
Eddie’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, a curse word falls from his lips as he clenches his jaw again.
“Because I’m trying to hold back.”
“Who says I want you to?” You ask softly and he opens his eyes again, tilting his head to the side, he furrows his brows at you.
“Don’t do this to me, baby, you know how bad I–”
The brush of your knee against his bulge as you throw your leg over his thigh completely leaves the words stuck in his throat, you straddle him the way you only ever did in his dreams.
“How bad you what?” You whisper as you slowly lean your forehead against his, letting your lips brush against his own as you gaze into his eyes.
You can see the way he is holding back from doing what he wants, what you both want, so you give him a little push. You nuzzle your nose against his, giving him that soft look that gets you anything you want, that makes him weak.
If only you knew just the feelings you cause inside of him.
Eddie takes a deep breath, he shuts down all the racing thoughts in his head and finally, he cups your cheeks, holding your face gently.
“Oh, fuck me,” he whispers and smashes his lips against yours, kissing you finally. He pushes all his fears and his insecurities aside, not wanting to dwell on them any longer, not wanting to think of them now when he gets the chance to do this and your whimper, that needy little sound that comes from you when you kiss him back only fuels his need to kiss you harder and deeper.
You press yourself against him, wrapping your arms around him tightly, you bury your fingers into his curls, taking a fistful of his hair as you move your lips against his, slowly at first. You get so lost in it, loving the way it feels to kiss his lips, to kiss your best friend. It’s everything and more than you imagined it to feel like, it feels so perfect, so right, so safe. You let yourself fall into him, melting into his embrace as his hands move down to your waist, holding you tightly the way you do to him.
The sound of your sighs and moans, lips smacking and the movie still playing in the back, whimpers coming from the girl on the TV makes it all a little more intense, because the burning in your thighs becomes unbearable, the feeling of his tongue brushing against your lower lip as he pushes you down against his bulge has you aching and yearning.
To Eddie this feels like a dream, like it’s something not real, not even close to being real because this is something that only ever lived in his mind, whether he was just thinking about you at work, while writing songs, while sitting next to you or while getting off in the middle of the night, this was only ever a dream but now it isn’t. The kiss is real, your moans are real, your body is truly pressed against his, you are sitting right on top of him, slowly dragging your hips along his aching dick and it feels so fucking good, better than he could ever even dream of.
Everything in him burns for you, his heart, his soul, every cell, every organ, you are like a drug to him that he was already addicted to before he even tried it, but now? He is gone forever. A kiss that could lead to nothing, that could only stay this, a kiss, perhaps a mistake for you that you will regret come morning, enough to break him.
What is it gonna be? The kiss that will lead to the start of something his heart screamed for since the very beginning? Or will this be his kiss of death?
He has to be sure, he needs to be sure so he pulls away, begrudgingly so, he pulls away from the kiss that he never wants to stop, breathlessly, he opens his eyes to look at you for the first time after this change between you both but you are not having it, leaning in with a whine, you peck his lips again, making his heart flutter.
“Baby–” You cut him off by kissing him again, desperately and he once again has to pull away reluctantly.
“Baby, hear me out first, fuck–” he groans when you peck his lips again, whining at him in a way that has him clenching his jaw but this time, he cups your cheeks and pulls you away from him and you finally open your eyes and look at him, pouting at him with a needy look on your face. Fuck. “Fucking hell, wait– you need to tell me if you really want this or if its the alcohol and the weed talking.”
You shake your head wildly, grabbing his wrists as you lean closer again, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his chin and finally his lips again, the way you always desired to, the way you always dreamed of, the way you always denied yourself of it when it’s all you ever wanted.
“Is it the alcohol and the weed talking for you?” You murmur against his lips, looking at him through hooded eyes.
With a frown he shakes his head, “fuck no, I’ve wanted this for so long, sweetheart, you have no idea for how long.” He admits openly, not caring about being vulnerable right now, about admitting his feelings for you – the friendship is ruined now.
Your lips twitch, eyes shining with nothing but love for him, for your best friend, your heart bursts in your chest, everything in you calms down yet screams in joy. You can see the anxiety in his eyes, the fear that lingers within him, you want to take it.
“Good, then we’re on the same page,” you whisper happily, nuzzling your nose against his.
Eddie blinks, staring at you, stunned. A shaky breath falls from his lips, his heart has stopped beating for a moment, the world has stopped moving, time has stopped. He had dreamed of this for so long, fantasized about what it would feel like to kiss you, to touch you, to hold you, to love on you but he had never thought of this, simply because he never thought it would happen, that it would be a possibility, you feeling the same. He thought he was doomed, cursed to spend his life loving you from afar and watching you slip through his fingers as the years would pass, he would love you while you would love someone else, while you would build a life with someone else, he would stay your best friend, the obsessed, lovesick best friend who would never move on, the best friend who would choose you over and over again even if he was given the chance to be loved by someone else, he would never love anyone the way he loves you, his heart belongs to you, fully. He is yours, he had always been yours but he never thought that you could be his, no matter how many nights he spent wishing for it. Life had never been kind to him so why would it grant him the highest wish he has? And yet, here you are, looking at him as though he hung the stars and the moon, as though he is the best thing that was ever created, like he is something pure, something beautiful, something worth loving. Have you always looked at him this way?
His eyes start burning as his heart starts beating again, the warmth he felt because of you, turning into burning desire, the desire to claim you like he had always wanted to, to rip his heart from his chest and give it to you.
You whisper his name sweetly, grabbing his hand softly, you move it down your shoulder, your chest and finally placing it above your beating heart.
“All for you, baby.”
His breath hitches in his throat, his eyes flicker between your face and his hand, feeling the racing of your heart that matches the beat of his own. His eyes soften, love taking over the lust that was flashing in them just moments ago. He doesn’t know what to say, the words are stuck in his throat, he is speechless.
You can see it, you can see the shock in his eyes, he stares at you like he wonders if this is real or not. He is breathing heavily, blinking slowly, his lips part, cheeks flushing.
“Eddie–”
Suddenly, he moves forward and grabs your cheeks again, slamming his lips against yours roughly, desperately. He kisses you hotly, strongly, more intensely than he did before, like he is scared that you might slip away if he doesn’t do it this way.
You throw your arms around his neck again, whining needily into the kiss, you part his lips with your tongue and slip it into his mouth, deepening the kiss further as you grind your hips against him, making him moan against your lips as he holds you stronger, gripping you tightly as though he is scared that you will slip away if he doesn’t.
This kiss is much hungrier than the first, so much deeper and intense, it’s filled with a desperation that was pent up for a long, long time – not weeks or even months, but years. He waited for years for this, you can feel it and your heart races wildly for him. The need to show him just how much you want him too, how you reciprocate his love burns so deeply within you.
You grind your hips against his, feeling just how hard he is for you, the ache between your legs becomes worse, unbearable, and he can tell, he can feel by the way you move your hips, by the sounds of your needy whines.
Eddie doesn’t know what to do with himself, never had he felt such desperation before, such an overwhelming amount of love. He feels stuck between wanting to cry out of pure happiness while making love to you and devouring you vigorously as he shows you just how much he needs, wants you.
His ringed fingers dig into your waist and he begins to push you off of him, guiding you down against the soft cushions without breaking the kiss, he groans against your lips when you spread your legs for him, tugging him on top of you before he can even do it himself. God, you truly want him just as much.
Eddie slides his hand up your body, cupping your cheek once more, he continues kissing you, clashing his tongue against yours, making you mewl as he takes control and grinds against you, a movement that tears out a different kind of sound in you, a whine so needy that it sends shockwaves through his body.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes against your lips heavily as he pulls away from the kiss and opens his eyes to reveal just how dark they are now.
You wrap your legs around his waist, causing your shirt to ride up in the process, your panties exposed to him now.
He clenches his jaw, trying to control himself but it’s becoming so hard when you are under him like this, looking up at him with those needy eyes as you grab each side of his neck, leaning up to kiss him, again and again, pecking his cheeks and his lips before you trail the kisses down to his jawline.
“I need you so bad, Eds,” you whisper into his skin, moving your hand down his shoulder and his arm, fingernails grazing his goosebump covered skin, you take his hand in yours and bring it back down to your body, placing it on your chest, “please?” You ask in desperation.
He takes a deep breath, making his heart flutter and his body burn when he grabs at your boobs for the very first time.
“Please what?” He murmurs as he presses you down again so he can latch his lips onto your jawline. “Tell me what you need, sweet girl. My fingers, my tongue… or my cock?” He surprises himself when those words fall off his lips when he doesn’t even know how to function at this moment.
You shut your eyes and bite your lip when he kisses down your neck, finding your sweet spot with no struggle, he starts sucking.
“Mmm, y-your fingers,” you whimper as you take his other free hand and guide it down your stomach slowly, “want your fingers, Eddie and then your cock.”
He could cum right here and there, he had dreamed of this too many times.
“Yeah?” He rasps against you, still kissing your neck, “you want me to fuck you with my fingers first?”
You nod wildly, bringing his hand down to your laced panties, you spread your legs further, grinding against him needily. You are so wet, having soaked through your panties already.
“I-I always think about you when I touch myself, I imagine it’s your fingers instead of mine,” you admit with burning cheeks.
Eddie opens his eyes widely, leaning back from your neck after marking it up, he looks at your blushing face.
“R-Really?” He stutters, though with a satisfied look on his face.
Through hooded eyes, you look at your best friend as you nod shyly, humming.
“Guess we got something in common then,” Eddie smirks as he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, he pecks your lips as he slips his fingers down between your legs, finally, cupping your pussy, he presses against your wetness, growling at the feeling.
“Fuck baby, you’re soaked.”
“I always am for you!” You whine, desperately grinding against the heel of his hand.
His cock twitches at your words, stomach tensing up.
The thought that you might’ve been sitting next to him during movie nights, squirming because of him, waiting to go home so you could touch yourself while thinking of him drives him insane. If he had known… he could’ve done this way sooner.
Eddie pushes your panties aside, dipping his fingers through your folds, he makes both you and himself moan.
“Don’t tease,” you whimper, bucking your hips and pressing yourself against him as he teases your entrance.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Eddie says as he brings his digits up to your clit, “can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”
While the shocked look on his face and the disbelief is cute, you can tell what is going on – what went on in his head all this time that he thought that his feelings would never be reciprocated.
You grab his face and smash your lips against his again, kissing him just as roughly as he kissed you the second time, you try to show him, to make him feel what had been there all this time, and he welcomes it so happily, kissing you back right away while his fingers continue to move against your clit, teasingly at first, intensifying the aching inside of you. He licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours as he moans needily, getting lost in the feeling he had craved for so long.
His stomach flutters when you wrap one leg around his waist while rolling your hips, wanting and needing more, he can feel you getting wetter and wetter, moans getting louder, lips moving sloppier. He slips his fingers lower, dipping his middle finger into you slowly, inching it inside of you, pulling the neediest sounds out of you as you clench around him already.
“Fuck,” he mumbles against your mouth, “you’re so tight.”
“More!” You demand with a whine, making him chuckle.
“More huh? One finger not enough for you, sweets?” He asks to which you shake your head, furrowing your brows when he adds a second finger, scissoring them inside of you as he opens you up.
“No, I-I want more,” you whimper at the feeling of him splitting you open, preparing you for his dick, just the thought of it has you drooling already. “I need–” the words die on your tongue and you quickly forget what you even wanted to say when he starts fucking you in slow but deep movements.
“You need what, hmm?” He taunts you, unable to hide the satisfied smirk on his face as he watches you fall apart beneath him, losing your mind over just his fingers as your jaw falls slack and those sweet sounds begin to fill the room along with the squelching of your pussy. “God… You’re so fucking wet.” Eddie doesn’t even know what to do with himself, his heart is beating like crazy, his cock is aching in his grey sweats that feel way too tight by now, pre cum already leaking through the thick material, something he should feel embarrassed about, but he can’t, not when you look him up and down like you’re some hungry and feral animal in heat.
“All because of you, I’ve been wet all day!” You whine as you grab at his hair when he buries his face in your neck, breathing heavily against your skin as he covers you in love bites. He growls against you, loving those words a little too much.
His wrist starts moving faster, fingers splitting you open, he fucks them in and out of you.
“Do you fuck your tight little pussy like this too?”
Your brows are scrunched together so tightly, eyes rolling back when he curls them inside of you, hitting just the right spot to make you cry out.
“N-No! Not t-this good!”
You roll your hips against his hand, craving to feel him deeper. Your hands are all over him, his hair, his shoulders, his back, gripping at his shirt as you hold on for dear life while he sucks on your neck and fingerfucks your sopping pussy. The room is filled with such dirty sounds, something that should leave you a blushing mess, something that should leave your cheeks burning in embarrassment but you cannot bother to care, it just feels so good and Eddie fucking loves it.
He pulls back to look at you, to admire your face and those marks he left on you, proudly he looks down at you, a look of love, a look of lust flashing in his eyes. He watches the way you bite your lip, eyes open widely again, you admire him too. And then, you push yourself up on your elbow, pecking his lips before you look down at his hand, wanting to see, wanting to watch his fingers moving in and out of you.
“You like that, huh?” He mumbles as he presses his forehead against yours, “you like being fucked by your best friend like this?”
You whimper again, louder this time as you nod, clenching around his fingers so tightly that he can’t help but growl – how is he going to last? How will he be able to control himself not to cum the second he enters you?
Everything becomes so much hotter, the air around you, the energy in this room, his body against yours, his fingers inside of you, the coil in your stomach, everything starts burning and somehow, it only fuels the need in you.
You grab at the hem of your shirt and push it up to your collarbones, exposing your chest to him, your boobs bounce as you throw your head back against the pillow to see him better and his reaction does not disappoint, if you weren’t so lost in pleasure you would have giggled at the awestruck look on his face, at the wide eyes and the parted lips.
“Baby,” he whispers as he presses his large hand to your now bare waist, slipping it upwards slowly, “you’re unreal, fuck… you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as though in disbelief, staring down at you as though you are something that came straight out of his imagination. He grabs your boob roughly, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he leans down and wraps his lips against the other, wasting no time to suck on it, making you arch your back against him as you throw your hand into his curls, fingers grazing his scalp as you give it a harsh tug, something that he fucking loves.
“I-I… oh my god!” You whimper as tears begin to pull in your eyes when he presses his thumb to your clit, teasing you. “D-Don’t stop! Don’t stop, Eddie! That feels so good!” You nearly scream as he starts moving his fingers faster than before, fucking them in and out of you roughly. You are clenching around him, digging your heel into his ass as you move along to his thrusts.
He looks up at you, loving the sight of you coming undone before him, it’s the prettiest sight to him. He can’t wait to watch you fall apart beneath him when he actually fucks you. He licks around your nipple, adding more pleasure to your body.
“Eddie!” You writhe beneath him, blinking the tears away as you look down at him. Your stomach tenses up, burning as the pleasure builds up more and more, almost becoming unbearable, everything inside of you is lit on fire, absolutely every part of you. Your toes curl, your knuckles turn white from how rough you are grabbing at his curls, the sounds that fall from your mouth are almost not recognizable, sounding too pornographic but you have never felt anything like this before, especially not from just being finger fucked.
Eddie pushes himself back up, straightening his back, he slides his hand further up your chest, passing your collarbones and settling around your throat, he tests the waters at first, needing you to be okay with this – he watches the way your eyes darken at this, lips parting as you push yourself up on your elbows, you bring your hand up to his wrist, wrapping your fingers tightly around it, you press it harder against your throat, asking him to choke you.
Eddie laughs darkly, lips curling into a satisfied grin, he shakes his head at you, “of course you’re into that shit. You’re a naughty girl aren’t you?”
It takes you a moment to answer his question because the view before you is just a little too distracting. Eddie hovers over you with one hand between your thighs, knuckle deep buried inside of you while his other hand is now wrapped around your throat, rings on, veins popping out of his tattooed forearm, dark curls falling in front of his face as he looks down at you like he wants to devour you but make love to you at the same time.
God, he is beautiful.
Your eyes move down his body, the wet patch on his sweatpants, the bulge making you drool, making you want to drop to your knees for him, worship him, choke on him, suck the soul out of him. You can’t help yourself, moving your hand down his stomach, you grab his dick, wiping the smirk off his face completely as he moans loudly.
“F-Fuck, sweetheart.”
You palm him through his sweats, teasing him the way he teased you, though Eddie is less patient than you are. His hips stutter, a whimper falls off his lips so prettily and you almost tease him for it but he curls his fingers so deeply inside of you, presses his thumb against your clit so strongly that your vision blurs for a second.
“Eddie… Eddie!” You say his name twice, pressing your hand stronger against him, you hook your fingers around the band of his pants.
“D-Don’t tease me or else I’ll cum right this second,” he growls as his cheeks start burning at his words.
“Don’t do that,” you warn as you push his pants down just enough, his dick slaps against his stomach, precum leaking out and rolling down his length, his tip an angry red, thick veins so prominent. Your eyes widen and your mouth waters at the sight of him, of his size, his length.
Eddie looks down at you with burning cheeks and begging eyes, he feels the way you clench around his fingers, feels how you soak his digits.
You look at him intensely, watching him fall apart at nothing but the touch of your hand, his eyelashes flutter, a content sigh falling from his lips when you wrap your fingers around his length, “your cock is so pretty, Eds,” you purr, jerking him off slowly, you tease him a little, “I want to choke on it.”
His hips stutter, cock twitching in your hand as he whimpers at your words, “fuck… you can’t just say that to me.”
You pull your hand away from him, holding it up to him, “spit.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, eyes darkening further but he complies, right away, he spits into your hand and watches the way you bring it back down to his dick, wrapping your fingers around him again, you grip him just perfectly, jerking him off in a way that he only ever dreamed off.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he moans, clenching his jaw in concentration, his eyes moving back and forth between your glistening pussy and your hand getting him off. “I-I won’t last long,” he warns you, wanting to get lost in the pleasure, but even more so, he wants to feel you wrapped around him.
With your free hand, you tug at his wrist, needing to feel his lips on yours again and without wasting a second, he slams his mouth against yours, kissing you roughly as he takes full control, parting your lips with his tongue, he moans into your mouth when you clench around his fingers again.
The room is now filled with heavy moans, no longer coming from the TV but from you and him, desperation so clear in both your voices, lips smacking against one another so needily and the alcohol, the weed in your systems only makes it all a tad bit more intense.
As much as Eddie is enjoying the feeling of your hand wrapped around him, he has to stop you or else he will cum before getting what he actually wants.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, lips twitching when you already whine in protest, “baby, I-I fuck… I need you stop or else I’ll cum too fucking soon.”
You pull away begrudgingly, wanting to pout at him but he quickly distracts you by speeding up his fingers inside of you. Letting go of your throat, he brings his now free hand down to your clit, wasting no second to play with your sensitive nub while he curls and slams his fingers in and out of you.
A gasp falls from your lips as he repeatedly brushes your sweet spot, the one that allows you to see stars. A single tear slips down your cheek, one that he instantly kisses away. You want to look at him, you want to watch your best friend but the pleasure becomes too much and you can’t help but shut your eyes tightly. Your stomach burns in a way that has you whimpering and when you try to close your legs to relieve that pleasurable pain, he grabs your knee and stops you.
“I can feel you clenching around my fingers, baby,” he murmurs hotly against your lips, “I know you want to cum, so let go for me,” he whispers, “let go.” One more swipe against your clit, one last thrust, one more kiss to your neck and you come undone for your Eddie, leaking around his fingers as your body trembles beneath his.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
He slows down his movements, looking down at your legs to see them shaking, just from this. He lets you ride out your orgasm, giving you a moment to catch your breath. He kisses your face, your cheeks, your forehead, your jawline and your lips. And then, he pulls his fingers out of you, his mouth waters at the sight of your slick, wasting no time to bring his digits up to his lips, he dips them on his tongue, closing his eyes at your taste, he moans loudly.
You open your eyes at the sound, stunned, you stare at him in hunger and lust, watching the way he laps at his fingers that were inside of you just seconds ago. His eyes are closed and he looks content. If you hadn’t been so feral already, you definitely would have been by now.
“You’re even sweeter than I thought,” he mewls after releasing his fingers with a pop, opening his eyes to look down at you with a smirk. “I can’t wait to take my time and eat your pussy.”
You grab him by the chain around his neck, tugging at it harshly, you’re surprised it doesn’t break by the force, you pull him back down against you and kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue.
Eddie smiles against your lips, loving the way you moan at your own taste. He feels your hands sliding down his back, tugging at his shirt, demanding him to take it off and he does so instantly, only breaking the kiss for a second so he can tear it off his skin before his lips are back on yours, his pants are next to go as you push them down further, with your help he kicks them off, not caring where they land.
He hooks his finger around your ruined panties, he begins to tug at them and you push your hips up so he can take them off, dragging them down your legs, he throws them to the ground beside his clothes before you both pull away from the kiss to take off the shirt that is still bunched up over your chest.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, looking at you in awe and then, his lips return to you and he places his elbows on either side of your head, pressing his chest against yours as you wrap your legs around his waist, tugging him closer and closer until nothing separates you any longer, until he feels your heat against his aching dick and he is so close, so close to getting what he wanted, until he remembers.
“Fuck,” he curses in annoyance, clenching his jaw already as he breaks the kiss, “wait…” But you don’t listen, cupping his cheeks, you make it even harder for him when you keep kissing him, pleading for more.
Frustration bubbles up inside of him and he almost wants to cry.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, shakily. “Wait, wait, wait…”
Finally, you pull away, eyes filled with curiosity, “what?”
“I don’t–” he cuts himself off, rolling his eyes as he clenches his fists and closes his eyes for a moment, “I don’t have a condom,” he says through gritted teeth, feeling dejected but then he feels you pull him closer again, cupping the back of his neck, you press your lips back against his.
“It’s okay, I’m on birth control and I’m clean,” you whisper, pressing your heel against his bum, “I waited too long for this, so don’t stop… please, Eddie.”
A growl threatens to spill from his lips, the feeling of frustration is suddenly replaced by something else, not only the need he had felt for so long but something else, something much stronger, something that has him fighting his inner demons.
He opens his eyes, staring at you as though you had gone crazy.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me, sweets?”
You giggle so cutely at that, in a way that makes him want to pound you into this couch until you are nothing but a screaming mess.
“I have an idea,” you admit smugly, batting your eyelashes at him as your eyes flicker back and forth between his tattoos and his lips, hand already moving down his stomach, fingers reaching for him, you bite your lip as you look into his eyes, he is staring at you so intensely that it makes you blush. You wrap your fingers around his length again, mewling when you guide him through your wet folds, teasing both you and himself.
Eddie grips the pillow beneath your head, cursing at the feeling. You can tell that he is trying to control himself, trying to keep his composure but he is losing it quickly when he feels your heat, your wetness.
With your free hand, you hold onto his bicep, looking up at him with begging eyes, “please, fuck me, Eddie,” you whisper as you tilt your head up to kiss his lips, “show me how bad you want me, don’t hold back… please–”
With a growl, he lets your words die on your tongue, replacing your hand with his own, he guides himself to your entrance, nudging it with the leaking tip of his cock, he presses his forehead and his lips to yours as he thrusts inside of you, torturously, splitting you open around his length.
His heart could burst for feeling you so close, so intimately, his love for you burning stronger than ever, the immortal flame getting bigger and bigger, his body feels on fire, his soul feels at home and now he knows you feel the same, when you hold him close and you kiss him so passionately, tightening your legs around his waist in order to feel him closer, whimpering into him in such a needy way while you keep grabbing at him like he isn’t close enough despite being pressed against you, he knows you feel the same, in every way.
He pushes into you deeper and deeper, scrunching his eyebrows in concentration as he feels you fully, working you open with nothing between you. He feels your warmth, feels your heat around him, your wetness dripping down onto the couch beneath you as fills you up completely. He never felt anything like this before, he never thought he would but god, he is already addicted, he had always been to you but now even worse, he will never be the same again, he will come back to Hawkins a changed man.
“Fucking hell, darling,” he growls against your lips as he stills inside of you, giving you a moment to adjust to his size and himself a moment to concentrate so he doesn’t ruin this by coming too soon, though the thought of filling you up with his seed drives everything in him crazy, he wants it, craves it so bad. “You feel so… so perfect.”
You’re wailing, squirming beneath him, already looking down, wanting to see your bodies connected as sensitive whimpers escape your mouth.
“Y-You’re so big, Eddie,” you say, eyes blurred with tears, words leaving your mouth breathlessly, “hurts so good.”
Your words don’t exactly do him a favor, especially when he opens his eyes and he looks down at you, watching the way your chest rises up and down heavily, the way you look down between your legs in desperation before your big eyes look up at him, glassy. Your lips are so puffy from all the kissing, your forehead glistening with sweat, your cheeks flushed.
Your walls flutter around him, making it harder and harder for him.
Eddie grabs your chin, “you’re so fucking gorgeous, baby, so fucking sweet and good for me but you’re driving me crazy, right now.”
“Fuck me,” you whimper, pouting at him as you hold his bicep harder, “please, fuck me, Eddie. I need it, I need you so bad– ah!” You scream out when he pulls out and slams back inside of you again.
“Shh, I got you, I got you, baby,” he shushes your words, “can’t believe you are so desperate for my cock.”
Your nails dig into his skin, your free hand gets lost in his hair, tugging at his curls as you roll your hips against his, going crazy at the feeling of him inside of you.
“Please, please, please!”
Eddie groans at your pleading, at the obvious desperation, at the need that you feel for him, and only him. His left knee digs into the soft cushions on the couch and he places his right foot against the floor, watching your face intently as he starts rolling his hips, making you gasp out loudly.
“Oh my–” He pants, eyes rolling back as your name falls from his lips.
“You… I…” You stutter, unable to find the right words, to even come up with anything as you lose yourself in this feeling. Your mouth waters and so do your eyes, his chain dangles before your face as he thrusts into you, faster and faster, deeper and rougher. You can’t help but clench around him, he fills you up so perfectly, his tip brushes against that one spot so rightly.
You throw your arms around him as he cups the top of your head, holding eye contact with you as he rolls his hips harder.
“I’m so fucking obsessed with you, do you even know that?” He kisses your lips, smacking them loudly against yours.
“Mmm, I’m obsessed with you too, baby,” you whimper as you meet his thrusts, rolling your hips as well.
“I never thought I’d get to have this, to have you.”
You only hold onto him tighter in response, leaning into his neck, you brush your nose against it and latch your lips onto his neck, pecking along until you find that one spot that makes him whine, you start sucking, marking him up the way he did to you, not knowing just how feral that makes him.
To wear your marks on his skin, to be claimed as yours makes his heart burst but it awakens something in him, because suddenly, he feels the need to pound you into this couch and he does so, he snaps his hips into yours, thrusting roughly.
“Eddie!” You scream out in a choked sob, digging your nails into his skin as you cling to his body.
“You feel so fucking good,” he moans loudly, not bothering to hide just how desperate you make him feel. He cups the back of your neck and pulls you back down, wanting and needing to see your face, he wastes no second before his lips are back on yours and his hips strike roughly into you, cock slamming in and out of you, the squelching sounds of your pussy filling the room, along with your moans and the slapping sounds as he fucks you.
Neither of you want to pull away from the kiss, no matter how sloppy it gets, you don’t want to break the kiss and neither does he, not even when you grow breathless. You cling to each like you never did before, welcoming the pleasure that becomes almost too much. There is soreness in your thighs, burning in your lower back and an overwhelming sensation inside of you, an itch that only he can mend.
And Eddie, he feels as though he is losing his mind, getting to feel this, to feel you, to kiss you and swallow your moans as your dripping walls cling to his cock, twitching around him and begging to be filled. Your arms and legs are so tight around him, you beneath him like he had only seen you in his dreams and in his imagination, you’re shaking, whining and trembling and you are close, he can feel it by the way you are getting tighter and tighter after each of his thrusts.
Reaching down, he hooks his forearm around the back of your knee and he brings it up, pushing it higher until he can thrust into you from a different angle, one that makes you scream out with a high pitched moan and the neediest look he had ever seen on your face.
“Fuck… just like that, baby, scream for me,” he rasps out.
“Y-You’re so good, fuck me… Eds! Your cock feels so nice, please don’t stop, don’t ever stop!” You sputter, not knowing just how those words make him feel.
You don’t know where to look, his pretty face, how he looks as he fucks you like you only ever dreamed of, how pretty his face is when he moans your name so sexily or how his glistening cock pounds in and out of you.
And Eddie struggles just the same, though he settles on watching your beautiful face, wanting to see you fall apart more and more.
And though you don’t want this moment to end, and neither does he, you both drag it out for as long as you can, not caring about anything anymore, not caring about the mess you are making on the couch. You are both sweaty, you are leaking down onto the cushions and Eddie is sure that he ripped a hole into the pillow beneath you earlier from how roughly he held it.
A strangled whine leaves your lips and he knows you can’t hold on any longer, so he brings his hand down your stomach, pressing his fingers against your clit, causing you to jerk and whimper against him.
“You’re close, baby, I can feel it,” he whispers against your neck, not slowing down his movements in the slightest, if anything, he starts fucking you even deeper, making you scream louder now as your fingernails rip through his skin from how hard you’re grabbing him and he welcome that pleasuring burn, “cum around my cock, do it for me, sweetheart. I know you want to be my good girl.”
With another loud whine, you finally let go of him, arching your back and shutting your eyes tightly, you cum around your best friend's cock, for the first but definitely not the last time. You tighten around him so strongly that his hips stutter and his knees almost buckle, heat spreads through his skin and his stomach tightens as his own body screams for release.
He can’t wait any longer either and panic ripples through him when you hold him tighter than before, locking him in as you refuse to let go. It makes his heart flutter and it does make him want to release but–
“I need to pull out, sweetheart,” he says shakily, knowing all too well that he doesn’t actually want it and apparently, you don’t either because you start shaking your head at him, opening your needy eyes.
“No, no, don’t make a mess– cum inside of me, please!”
His hips stutter once more, his dick twitches achingly inside of you, “you can’t just fucking say that–” he whimpers, unable to finish the sentence, one more thrust and he spills inside of you, coating your walls with his seed as your name falls from his lips before he smashes his lips to yours for the hundredth time tonight, swallowing your cry.
Tears of pleasure run down your cheeks, your leg starts slipping from his waist and his thrusts slow down, though his grip doesn’t loosen on you, he continues to hold you close, the way you do as well as you grab his shoulder and his bicep, squeezing him tightly while your tongue clashes against his.
Your walls spasm and contract around his length, sending shockwaves and an unbearable amount of pleasure through his sensitive body.
Slowly, he removes his hand from between your legs, sliding it up your hot body until he is cupping your cheek again, he makes you both whimper when he pulls his softening cock out of you.
Your name rolls off his tongue when you both pull away from the kiss, he says it like it’s a blessing, like a prayer. Your eyes make contact again and you stare at each other for a moment, lovingly, adoringly, and then, you both smile and giggle and press your lips back against each other, pecking one another again and again.
“My Eddie,” you whisper as you admire the marks you left on him.
“Fuck,” he whispers when he realizes that this isn’t just a moment, that this isn’t just for now, for tonight, that you waited for it just like he has. He looks down at you, brushing away and tucking your hair behind your ear as he caresses your cheek, his heart soaring in his chest. “I can’t believe this happened.”
You giggle at him, “I’m glad it happened.”
“Yeah?” He grins lazily, eyes dropping to your chest as he leans down and presses his lips to your jaw, “I’m fucking on top of the world right now.”
You brush your fingers through his curls, giggling yet again.
“You’re a dork.”
“Yeah, but I’m your dork, right?” He asks with a hopeful glint in his eyes, one that questions more than just this. He wants to be yours, he wants it so badly.
You nod happily, eyes flashing with happiness.
“Mhmm, you’re mine, all mine.”
“Fuck,” he whispers as he feels his sensitive dick twitching at your words, heart bursting inside of him, “I’m yours, all yours.”
You tug him closer and closer, breathing against his lips as you eye him hungrily again, you feel him leaking out of you and it only makes your thighs burn again, “and I’m yours.”
“Yeah, you are,” he rasps as his fingers dip inside of you, he groans at the feeling of his cum leaking out of you, he pushes it back into you with a moan, “you’re mine, sweetheart.”
“Mmm, Eddie,” you mewl, pushing your hips up and chasing for more already.
“You want more?”
You nod, “yes… more, please!”
Not needing to be told twice, he slowly pushes his fingers and his cum back into you, making you both moan at that.
“You know what, I'm glad we did this today,” Eddie mumbles against your lips.
“Yeah?” You moan, arching your back in pleasure when he curls his fingers inside of you.
“Mhmm, that means I get to fuck you over and over and over for the whole weekend,” he smirks before he slams his lips against yours again, kissing you passionately and sensually while his fingers move and in out of you, creating a mess with his cum leaking out of you and your own wetness sticking to your thighs and his.
You both fill the room with filthy noises, needy and desperately you touch each other, grabbing and pulling at each others hair as the night goes on, continuing to mark each other up, to taste one another, to fuck like animals in heat, the movie long forgotten as his tongue laps at your pussy when he is kneeled on the ground with your legs dangling of his shoulders and your fingers pull at his hair roughly.
This night never ends, the pleasure continuing until the early morning hours, until you can no longer take it, until you both get too sensitive, until you’re both nothing but a panting, sweaty mess and even then, you still kiss and cling to one another.
The night was filled with desperation, with pent up emotions, with filthiness yet with love and adoration, and this night has changed you both forever, for good.
-
“So… What you’re telling me is–…” Steve begins, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched as he stands before you and Eddie with a stern look on his face. You are both on his couch, looking up at him like scolded children. “You need to buy me a new… bed?”
You are blushing furiously, embarrassment written all over your face. You glare at Robin who is standing in the corner, sipping on her soda with an amused look on her face.
“Uh… yeah.”
You know how badly Eddie wants to laugh, he is smug, you can see it on his face but he stays quiet, for a second at least.
“And a new arm chair?” Steve mumbles, looking between you both.
“Yeah.” Eddie snorts to which you elbow him, shushing him.
“Don’t forget the flower vase,” Robin snickers.
Steve throws his hands up, “and a fucking flower vase, thanks Robin!”
You put your finger up and straighten your back, “actually, the flower vase fell by itself–”
“Because you were fucking on top of the table!” Steve retorts to which your boyfriend chuckles in satisfaction, not being embarrassed by anything in the slightest.
You turn to look at him, he only smirks at you and shrugs, holding your thigh tighter than before.
“I’d buy a new couch too–”
“Eddie!”
Robin moves closer and eyes you both, eyeing the matching marks on your necks.
“I hope you used protection, at least.”
Steve raises his eyebrows, looking at you both expectedly, your flustered face gives you away completely as you sink deeper into the couch, wanting nothing more than to bury your face in Eddie’s neck.
“Great, now I might be a fucking uncle.”
“Godfather,” Eddie corrects him, making you giggle.
“Go to hell,” Steve shakes his head, though he can’t hide the look on his face and how delighted he is to hear that he would be considered a godfather if it were to happen. And despite the clear distaste on his face after hearing what you did at his cabin, he can’t help but feel happy for you both.
Robin looks down with a smile on her face when Eddie wraps his arm around you and kisses your cheek softly and Steve’s eyes soften as well.
He sighs and rolls his eyes as he finally takes a seat, he reaches for his beer and takes a sip.
“I’m happy my plan worked but you both will go back, replace the furniture and clean everything up before I lose my shit and I kill you before my parents kill me.”
You nod at him with wide eyes, while Eddie furrows his eyebrows, “clean up? Oh, we did clean up and besides, we didn’t waste a single drop.”
“Eddie,” you whine as you bury your face in your hands while Robin groans in disgust.
Steve only sighs but his lips twitch slightly, curling into a smirk as he nods at Eddie.
“At least I know your children aren’t running around my cabin.”
You give Eddie a warning glance but he is already smirking at you, gripping your thigh harder, slipping under your skirt.
“They’re somewhere else.”
“Oh, gross!” Robin coughs and turns away with a frown on her face.
“Eddie!” You whine and slap his chest to which he pulls you closer and kisses your cheek, chuckling in amusement.
Steve shakes his head, sighing.
“I’m never inviting you both to that summer house ever again.”
summary: Eddie agrees to go on a blind date with Wayne's coworker's daughter despite having a huge crush on you.
word count: 4.2k
This is my contribution for the @jqficexchange and this fic is for @keeryhours! This was so much fun and I hope to do another one in the future!
Eddie stands by the phone, muttering to himself over and over again. He's leaning against the counter in his kitchen as he goes over what he's got written on his notepad. How many times has he done this exact thing and when will he finally get the courage to pick up the fucking phone?
Will he actually talk this time or will he wait until whoever is on the other line to hang up like last time? The world may never know because he's too chickenshit to actually speak.
He could just go to the record store where you work and talk to you in person, but that requires a vehicle and his van is currently in the shop. And he wouldn't want to do that anyway because he's so nervous to talk to you.
Women in general make him nervous but there’s something about you that makes him feel even more so. He doesn’t know what it is, but you intimidate him. You’re just so…cool-so sure of yourself and he thinks that maybe a part of him is jealous of that.
He’s been crushing on you for months and thinking about actually making a move always seems to make him feel sick. And he’s sure that you’ll just reject him anyway, so why even bother trying, right? That’s what always happens so he’s thinking that maybe that’s why he’s so scared. Just because it happens often doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt any less.
He eventually tosses the script into the garbage then heads out the door, deciding to face his fear head on. He’s not going to let this get to him because he’s more afraid of wondering what if. He’ll never know how you feel if he doesn’t ask. So, he grabs his old bike and he’s on his way.
The record store is pretty empty when he gets there and of course, you’re behind the counter. You’re talking with the customer who’s checking out and Eddie hurries to the back corner where all of the metal records are. He knows no one else will be there and it’s a perfect hiding spot that will prevent people from speaking to him. It seems like he can’t even leave his house without someone feeling the need to say something to him.
Jason Carver and his buddies are in the other corner, checking out the country music and Eddie grabs the first record he can find, wanting to get the fuck out of there before he’s spotted. He just wants to be able to live his life and do the things that bring him joy but apparently that’s too much to ask for.
He can practically hear them already. He can hear them tell him that metal is “the devil’s music” and that he’s a freak for listening to it. He doesn’t know why he cares, though. Soon enough, he’ll be out of this place, touring the world, proving every single person who doubted him wrong.
He tries so hard to not let it get to him but he can’t help it. He’s only human and when you constantly hear people say things about you, you eventually start to believe them. Maybe he is a freak. Maybe he does deserve to die alone. It’s not like anyone would want to go out with him anyway. Everyone crosses the street when he walks down it so clearly there’s something wrong with him.
No.
He came all this way to talk to you and goddamn it he’s going to do it. He makes a beeline for the register and his heart rate picks up when you grin at him.
“There you are. I was wondering if I was ever going to see you again. Just this for you, hon?” It’s no wonder everyone likes you because of your impeccable customer service.
“Yeah,” he nods, sliding the record across the counter.
“Rumours, excellent choice. You know, I saw them not too long ago and wow, they really know how to put on a show.“ You flip the record over to enter in the SKU and Eddie’s surprised by the cover. So that’s what he grabbed? He’s never listened to Fleetwood Mac in his life. And it’s not like he can tell you the truth either.
“Thanks, I uh-” he scans the tracklist on the back quickly before you put it in the bag. “I really like Gold Dust Woman.”
“Me too!” You smile even wider. “How fitting. Guess it’s fate,” you wink and he swears he could die happy right there. You honestly have no idea what you’re doing to him, do you? “Well, it’s gonna be $7.98, baby.” He knows that you call everyone that, but he’s gonna pretend that it’s just for him. It feeds his delusion that maybe you like him too. But you don’t. They never do.
Eddie hands you a ten dollar bill and you count out the correct change before handing it to him. He leaves with a shy smile and you wonder how long it’s going to take for him to realize that you’re totally and completely head over heels for him.
-
Eddie smiles the entire way home, proud of himself because he talked to you, and he did it without his stupid script. He wonders if maybe he’s finally got it but he’s not so sure. He could ask you out if he wanted to. He won’t because he’s scared but the option is definitely there. Because no matter how hard he tries to erase it, he will always be Eddie “the freak” Munson.
When he gets home, Wayne is in the kitchen serving up dinner. Eddie’s really hungry but he doesn’t want to eat right now. He doesn’t want to talk with Wayne because he’ll just try to convince him to talk to you. He’s always been Eddie’s biggest fan and seems to think he has way more game that he actually does.
“Where have you been? Let me guess, the record store.” Wayne’s smirking to himself as he stirs the pot on the stove and Eddie just rolls his eyes. This is the last conversation he wants to have right now.
Eddie just holds up the bag he’s got in his hand in response as he takes off his shoes.
“What did you get this time?” Eddie hands Wayne the bag and he takes it, sliding the record out, surprised to see a Fleetwood Mac album. “Rumours. Good choice.”
“Had to grab something because Jason was there.” Wayne hates that Jason was the one who started this whole thing. He’s the reason that Eddie can barely even go out in public without being ridiculed. He doesn’t understand it. Eddie is one of the sweetest people he knows and doesn’t know why so many people hate him for playing a silly little game with his friends. They’re all going to be so sorry when they realize that they’re wrong.
Sometimes he gets the urge to pack everything up and move them somewhere new. Because clearly neither of them are welcome there. And Hawkins has never felt like home anyway. There’s nothing and no one tying them here so maybe they should just get out of there like everyone seems to want.
-
You’ve got about ten minutes left of your shift when Jason Carver comes up to the counter. He’s got on that flirty smile that he always does with you, but this time, it’s not going to work. That ship has sailed and he should know better. It was one night and you feel sick to your stomach every time you think about it because you had no idea about Chrissy. He lied to you, moaning your name over and over while his girlfriend was waiting for him to come home.
The only good thing to come out of it is that you and Chrissy are friends now. But that doesn’t seem to stop Jason from thinking that you’ll sleep with him again. Fat chance. You’d never hurt Chrissy like that again and you certainly wouldn’t do it for some lackluster sex.
“Just this?” You ask, not even making eye contact with him. No one has ever outright rejected him so this is uncharted territory. He doesn’t understand why you won’t just give in. It’s not like it would be wrong anymore because he broke up with Chrissy.
“I was also going to see if you want to come over tonight.” He winks and you actively feel yourself getting sick. He will never get the hint, will he?
“Sorry, I have plans with Chrissy.” And for once, you’re actually not lying. Chrissy invited you over for a movie night and you’ve been looking forward to it. You’ve gotten really close over the past few weeks and you’re hoping that you can show her that there’s more to life than stupid boys.
“Since when are you friends?” You know he’s trying to hit you where it hurts and you have to act like you’re not offended. You’ve always felt out of place in Hawkins and it’s just like Jason to feed on your insecurities because he knows that’s the only way he can get to you.
You don’t respond, ignoring his jabs because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction. He’s always been a bully and it’s about time that it came to an end. You continue to ring up his stuff, silently judging what he’s picked out.
“Since she realized that you’re a fucking loser.”
“Listen, you little bitch. I can make your life a living hell.” He’s pointing in your face and you have no idea when he’s going to get the hint that he doesn’t scare you. He never has. He’s just a loser that peaked in high school who preys on people who are vulnerable because he’s so unhappy with his own life.
“Oh, but you already have by just existing.” You hand him his bag and take the amount he’s paid you with, hurrying to get his change so he’ll finally leave.
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Well, you’re not. Especially because you hang out with Chrissy. She was only cool because of me. Now she’s just a loser by association.” His words would hurt if you actually care what he thought of you. But you actually couldn’t care less and he should know that by now.
“Please. We both know that you’re the loser here.” He’s the one who only feels good about himself if he’s tearing people down because of how insecure he is. He constantly has to be told that he’s great instead of just believing it for himself. He needs reassurance because his insecurity runs that deep. And you’re not going to let him tear you down because of it.
And it’s just like his friends to stand there, silently watching Jason behave like a dick. But that’s only because none of them have a backbone and have to be told how to feel. They’re all just a bunch of nobodies who are all clones of Jason.
“It’s actually Munson but you and Chrissy are tied for second.” You can’t help but laugh now. His pathetic attempts to upset you aren’t working. And even if they did, you wouldn’t show it. Because that’s what he wants. He wants all the power, but he can’t have it. You refuse to hand it over.
“He plays that stupid game with kids that are much younger than him because those are the only people who actually think highly of him. And Chrissy? Well, I only kept her around so long because she looked good on my arm. And I hate to say it, but you were better than her.”
Your blood is boiling now. Making fun of Eddie, that’s already a low blow, but comparing sex with you to sex with Chrissy? That’s where you draw the line. He can’t keep getting away with this and it’s time that you show him that much once and for all.
Before you can stop yourself, you’re rounding the counter, feeling your heart pounding as the anger rises up. He’s taller and stronger but you can tell that he’s the one who’s scared. Especially when he sees you raising your fist. Before he can say anything, it hits him square in the face.
The force knocks his head back and once he opens his eyes, you grab hold of his shirt and yank him forward. He’s seething but that little bit of fear is still in his eyes. A little bit of blood is leaking from his nose and you have to try your best to not laugh at him.
“It’s about time someone did something about you being a fucking dick. If you so much as look at me or my friends, next time it will be your fucking balls. Got it?” He nods and you let him go, him and his friends making a run for the door. And you can’t help but smile to yourself, knowing that Jason Carver won’t be a problem for you anymore.
-
“Are you hungry?” Wayne asks as he leads Eddie into the kitchen where dinner is ready on the stove. It’s spaghetti-his favorite and now he’s wondering what the special occasion was.
“Starving.” Wayne serves up some of the pasta onto a plate with a slice of garlic bread before passing it off. When they both have their meals, they head to the table where they eat in silence. This is how their meals are always enjoyed. A record is playing softly in the background, accompanied by the sound of forks scratching against plates.
The Munsons are both men of few words, often just enjoying each other’s company even though nothing is being said. Wayne would even go as far to say that this is his favorite part of his day, always looking forward to having dinner with nephew. Because Eddie is the one person in Wayne's life that he cares about the most. And vice versa.
All they've had is each other for years now and it’s gotten to the point where Eddie often forgets that it wasn’t always like this. He barely remembers his parents as his mother passed away when he was young and his father left shortly after that. So, for eighteen years, it’s been the two of them and neither of them would have it any other way.
“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Wayne says as he sets his fork down. He wipes his mouth with his napkin then gives his nephew a look like he means business.
“Okay,” Eddie replies, taking a sip from his Coke can. Wayne never usually wants to talk after work because he’s tired so now Eddie’s curious as to what this could be about.
“My coworker, Cal-you remember Cal, right?” Eddie nods and Wayne continues. “Well, his daughter hasn’t had the best luck in the dating department and I don’t know, I thought it’d be nice if you went on a date with her.”
“Like a blind date kind of thing?” Eddie’s suddenly not hungry anymore, knowing that his uncle only made his favorite meal so he’d do this favor. And he’s sure that this girl is nice, but he’s just…just so caught up on his giant crush on you that he wouldn’t even think about going on a date with someone else. Even though he doesn’t even have the fucking balls to ask you out.
“Yeah. I think she deserves to go out with a nice boy for a change.” Eddie really doesn’t want to, but he will for Wayne. Just to see the smile on his face-just to make the man happy. Because he knows how much this will mean to him.
“Yeah, sure.” He continues eating, hoping that Wayne doesn’t press him on his weird behavior towards the request. The man has always been able to read him like the back of his hand and will always speak up when something doesn’t seem right. But he doesn’t. The men just continue eating as Eddie thinks about how much he wishes that you were the one he was going out with.
-
“Dad, I’m perfectly capable of getting my own date,” you tell the man on the phone that you’ve got pressed between your ear and your shoulder as you carry a basket of your laundry into your bedroom.
You can’t believe that he’s actually trying to set you up right now even though you’ve told him countless times not to. You know he’s just trying to help but you can’t help but feel like you’re a kid again when he gets like this about your love life.
It’s like he’s set up a timer for you to find someone and now it’s finally gone off and it’s his time to step in. You’re at the point where you’re sure that you’re destined to be alone and you have no idea why that’s so bad. Men are alone (maybe not enough) all the time and no one seems to bat an eye.
Besides, there’s only one person you want, but it’s clear that he’s not really interested. You really don’t know how much more obvious you can make it with your flirting but he doesn’t seem to care. So that’s the only reason why you agree because you really need to get over this silly little crush.
“Come on, bug,” he says and you can practically see that pleading look on his face that he always used to do. You’re so close to cracking, knowing that it never takes much for you to give in to what he asks of you. Especially when he uses that nickname.
You just have to go on the date. It’s just one night, right? Just one night and then you can go back to pining. It’s not going to be that bad. What could it hurt?
“Alright, alright. I’ll go.” You’re the guy is going to think you’re a total loser because you had to have your dad set you up instead of getting your own date. Because your life really is just that sad and pathetic, apparently.
“I don’t think you’re going to regret this. Well, I’ve gotta get back to work. Love you, bug.”
“Love you too, dad,” you reply and the line goes dead. You put the phone back on the hook, wondering what the fuck you just got yourself into.
-
Eddie’s been listening to the record he bought the other day on repeat since he got it. He actually really does like Fleetwood Mac and he Gold Dust Woman really is his favorite.
He puts it on while he does dishes, he plays guitar along with it-hell, he’s even brought it to the shop to play it on their fancier record player so he can listen while he works on the cars. He’s completely obsessed and can’t stop thinking about you while he plays it.
You’re always on his mind and it makes him feel gross going on this date tonight and not giving her his full attention. He has no idea how the fuck he’s going to spend his night with someone else when all he can think about is you. That’s not fair to her and he knows that.
But he just can’t fathom possibly going out with someone else. He’s hyper fixated on you and only you for months. He’s fantasized about dates as well as other things and now he feels everything crumbling because now he’s committing himself to someone else. And now he feels like he’s betraying you in some way even though you definitely don’t think about him in the way he thinks about you.
Now he’s really wishing that he hadn’t even agreed. But the thought of potentially disappointing Wayne outweighs everything. He thinks of his uncle so highly and his opinion means everything. He’s the only person who’s always been there for him and vice versa so he’s scared of Wayne thinking differently of him. There all each other has so more times than not, Eddie will sacrifice his own happiness just to make Wayne happy.
-
You’re getting progressively anxious as you get closer to the restaurant. First impressions always make you nervous and you know there’s a lot of riding on this so you really want it to go well. You feel like you know everyone in Hawkins so you wonder if you already know the guy. If you did, that would definitely ease your nerves at least a little bit.
There’s a part of you that still wishes it was Eddie but you know that’s not gonna happen. Your luck has never been that good so why would it be now? That’s the kind of thing that only happens in movies and you feel so fucking ridiculous for still holding onto a fantasy that you know will never ever come true.
-
Eddie hurries into the restaurant, not only because he’s late, but also because of the rain. It’s coming down in buckets and he feels so out of place coming inside just a nice place when he’s soaked. Apparently he’s the only one who didn’t come prepared with an umbrella. And he’s actually so embarrassed when he walks up to the host stand, dripping from head to toe.
He sticks out like a sore thumb in every single way, especially as the water drip, drip, drips from his clothes. If he didn’t fit in here before, then he definitely doesn’t now. And it doesn’t help that the other guests are whispering about him. This night is already a shit show and it hasn’t even started yet.
The woman gives him a look of disgust as she passes a hand towel over the stand. Eddie gratefully takes it and wipes his face and makes an attempt to wring out his hair. He can feel eyes on him, but he’s used to that by now. Everyone in town looks at him so this isn’t any different. Even though it’s because he’s soaking wet and not because he’s a vessel for the devil himself.
“I have a reservation for Munson,” he tells the woman and she looks down before giving him a look as if there’s something he should know.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t seat you until the rest of your party is here. And I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside. You’re making a mess.” Eddie lets out a sigh and turns to head towards the doors, pulling out a cigarette as soon as he’s outside.
He leans against the side of the building that thankfully has an awning that’s protecting him from the rain. He really wishes he had a joint to help relieve some of the anxiety but he’s been smoking more this week to help calm him down so now he’s out.
The cigarette will have to do and he lets his mind drift to you because that always makes him feel better. He wonders what you’re doing tonight and he might see if the record store is still open when he leaves here. And now he’s feeling like a dick again for thinking about you when he’s supposed to be going out with someone else.
And when he turns to his left, he’s surprised to see you walking down the street, heading in his direction. You’re wearing a beautiful red dress and you were actually smart enough to bring an umbrella. God, you look gorgeous and he’s even more surprised when you walk up to the restaurant, making a beeline for him.
You’re shocked to see him and now you have to say something to him. And now that you’re here with him, you’re very tempted to ask if he wants to get out of here before your date shows up. You know that it would be a very rude thing to do, but Eddie’s the one you really want, not this pity date your dad set you up on.
“Eddie, fancy seeing you here. Don’t you look handsome.” He’s grinning now and feels bold enough to offer you his cigarette. You take it and take a drag before passing it back, your hands brushing as you do so.
“Thanks,” he replies. “You look really pretty.” Your cheeks warm at the compliment and you step closer, closing your umbrella as you step underneath the awning.
This feels too perfect to be a coincidence and you both seem to come to the conclusion at the same time, turning towards each other as laughs pour from your mouths. What are the odds that you’ve been set up to go on a date, unknowingly harboring very large crushes on each other? It must be fate, you think.
“Do you want to go back to my place?” You ask, fully turning to face him. His eyes widen at what you seem to be implying and you laugh again.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I can let you borrow some clothes and we can hang out. Low stakes.”
“I’d really like that,” he says and you take his hand, leading him to your car, wide smiles on both of your faces because you both finally get to go on a date with your crush.
Pairing: Stepfather!Lee Bodecker x Reader
Summary: While home alone from college for fall break, you decide to indulge in an edible. Unfortunately for you, your stepfather is the town sheriff. Even more unfortunate, he comes home just as the high begins to take hold.
Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, PLEASE READ THE TAGS stepcest, age gap (reader is in her early 20s), oral f!receiving, unprotected p in v, drug use, forced creampie (but not how you're probably thinking), daddy kink, nicknames used: darlin', sweetheart, honey, baby, no use of y/n, barely beta read or edited (we die like my dignity)
Word Count: 2.9k
Chirps: listen. just...listen. okay? @stanmarvelous and @sebs-babygirl put out hot as fuck stepdaddy Lee fics and this just kinda...happened to me. I'm only tagging the people I know will read this debauchery who have asked to be on my taglist. Please don't be offended if you come across this and you find yourself not tagged. I know this is a fairly taboo subject, and I'm shaking in my boots just at the thought of hitting post. Anyway. I'M NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPITON IF YOU READ PAST THE CUT.
Masterlist | AO3
Landing in a place called Knockemstiff was not how you pictured spending your fall break from college. However, your friends had all but abandoned you, opting for cute trips to different states or spending time with significant others. While you were left to your own devices, in a desolate town with little entertainment save for the corruption that ran rampant.
And while we're on the subject of corruption, your own mother had seemingly decided simply living in this hellhole wasn't enough. She had to go and hitch herself to the town sheriff, a man you were sure would commit acts of treason just to ensure he was still able to run for reelection.
You hadn't laid eyes on him since the wedding a few years ago, and the second you kicked your suitcase into your mother's house at the beginning of the week you were reminded of why.
Maybe it was the daddy issues of not growing up with a father figure. Maybe it was the fact that the boys in college only wanted a quick fuck that lasted all of ten seconds before the fated question of 'did you finish?' As if. Leaving you unsatisfied with a pent up need for release. Then again, maybe you were just as drawn to corruption as your mother was.
Should Freud still be alive he would have had a field day with the war going on in your head.
The entire week had you wound tighter than a bowstring. Every movement of yours careful — what you wore, words you spoke, how you never allowed yourself a lingering glance in the sheriff's direction, or let yourself be alone with him for too long. Never authorizing your brain to question why his simple presence made your nerves scatter into different directions or why your skin felt electrified as his eyes tracked over you.
All this to say, maybe you shouldn't have indulged in the weed gummy your friends had shoved into your hands before going your separate ways. Something about you needing to loosen up while your head wasn't shoved into a textbook.
But with your mother gone for the night on a work trip and the good sheriff on evening duty with a six am return time, you thought it was safe. A nice controlled environment you could finally relax in after walking on eggshells all week.
What you really hadn't accounted for was the fact that even on an evening shift, Sheriff Lee Bodecker would still turn up to the house.
And that really wouldn't have been an issue on its own either. Except you heard the telltale signs of tires on gravel just as you felt the euphoric wave start to pull you into a hazy bliss. Fuck.
The spot on the couch you had claimed suddenly felt like a marshmallow cloud, curling around your limbs until you were sure no force on Earth would be able to pull you away. Some distant part of your brain that had yet to succumb to the THC worked over time to get you to stand just as the key turned in the lock.
"Hey darlin', didn't expect you to still be up." The sheriff's voice cut through your haze as he entered the doorway. The unmistakable jingle of his leather jacket being tossed onto the coat rack echoing in your brain.
How did you normally speak? You knew he would want an answer, but…with the way you were certain your tongue had just turned useless you weren't sure you could give him one. Wiggling your fingers, you attempted to stand up to greet him. Maybe figure out how you could easily slip by a damn cop without being caught higher than a kite.
No such luck as once you stood, everything started to swim. The muted colors of the living room turned into a vibrant kaleidoscope, and you knew you were well and truly fucked.
Your legs felt about as sturdy as a newborn fawn, knees buckling just as Lee rounded the archway. Strong hands landed on your forearms saving you face planting into the hardwood.
"Whoa, easy," the low tone of his voice seemed to vibrate against the floorboards. Every syllable weaving into the colorful tapestry your mind was conjuring in your drug induced euphoria. In some dark corner of your subconscious you thought that maybe your friends had given you something stronger than what you were used to.
A small chuckle bubbled free from your mouth as you righted yourself. "Thanks. Just clumsy, tonight I guess."
Lee grunted, unconvinced. His hands travelled up your arms, closer than you'd ever dared letting him get. Your pulse was thrumming at the gentle touch, until his hands landed beside your neck. Thumbs directed your chin to meet his gaze, and in that simple action, you felt the dam of forbidden feelings breaking you had so carefully erected.
His brows were knit in concern as his gaze raked over you carefully. "You on something, honey?"
You shook your head out of pure instinct, eyes wide in innocence. Your heart thundered loud in your ears, a freight train that was in all actuality giving you away.
"Don't lie to me now, your pupils are the size of saucers," Lee sighed, thumb moving to swipe along the apple of your cheek. This simple touch that was based on concern and disappointment only had you melting more into the floorboards.
You stayed silent, lost in the trance of his worry and authority.
"You better start giving me names, sweetheart. No one is gonna give drugs to my girl and get away with it."
His girl. Could you really even be called that? By a man you barely knew, who only put up with your random drop ins because he had hitched himself to your mother?
Instead of questioning that, your fuzzy mind leaned into a comparison.
"My deadbeat dad would be asking where I got it so he could score some. And I know it really fucking shouldn't," you managed to speak around your tongue that suddenly felt too dry, "but it turns me the fuck on when you get all protective like that."
Again, it was almost like you could hear the ghost of Freud transcending through the astral realm with your logic.
Meanwhile, Lee's entire body went stiff. All of the blood that had been rushing in his ears in anger first at the thought of someone giving an innocent thing like you drugs and then at the mere mention of your father quickly averted elsewhere.
"Shouldn't say things like that about me, honey," his voice quiet in warning, but he didn't move to put space between you. It was one thing that he fantasized about you the second he met you after already being engaged to your mother. That the good sheriff could keep under control.
It was something else entirely now that you were reciprocating, his cock already stirring in his slacks just from having you this close.
"I know I shouldn't," you repeated, wobbly legs stepping forward with your head still cradled in his hands. Your bare feet nudging between his work boots, lips parting in invitation. "I'm just…saying. I'm leaving in a few days to head back college…Ma’s not here..."
"I'm well aware," still he didn't move away from you, even as your chest brushed his on a deep inhale. The distance between you dissolving until it was nothing but a possibility
If you want to take advantage of me. Is what was on the tip of your tongue. But instead you let the implication hang in the air, eyes searching his face in challenge. Envisioning him just having his way with you. Wondering if his cocky stature held up in other areas of his life or just while patrolling for bribes around the small town.
You saw the moment he gave in, the battle of longing and guilt behind his eyes completed with the clear victor being his desire.
One second your hands were enamored with how soft his shirt felt beneath your fingertips. Then, Lee released the gentle hold he had on your face, pulling you flush against him, teetering right at the point of no return.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice was wrecked, almost begging, but you weren't sure if he was talking to you or the thin thread of morality he still gripped.
But you couldn’t be concerned with that, shaking your head. His lips now so close to yours you could taste something sweet on his breath. Whether it was a pastry he had at the station or the gratification of almost giving in.
In the hazy field of your mind, your tongue reached out lightly, tracing his mouth. "You taste good," you breathed without thinking, surprised by your own boldness. Your hands moved to the back of his head, drawing his bottom lip between your teeth to nip gently.
A low groan left his throat that had you pressing further into the plush planes of his body was all it took to break through the rest of his restraint. His mouth crashed to yours, drinking in the initial gasp of shock.
"I'm not supposed to want this, sugar, you…we gotta stop," Lee muttered, voice shaking. But even as you pulled back, his own desires betrayed him as his mouth chased yours. Pulling you back in for a kiss that was hungry for the forbidden fruit that was you.
You were already floating from the gummy, every nerve buzzing as you melted into him. His strong grip tightened, guiding you back step by step until you crossed the threshold of the guest bedroom. And there was nowhere left to run except into the web of want and consequence.
A single gentle push was all it took to have you drifting through the air, caught by the bed, sinking into it immediately like a cloud. Lee's hands were already easing your thighs apart as he knelt before you, hands trembling as they massaged up your bare skin. "So fuckin' smooth," he whispered, enamored. “Been wantin’ a taste of you for too long.”
You keened into his touch, feeling him hook his fingers into your pajama shorts. "Show me," you pleaded.
"Really should be punishin' you for sneakin' weed in my house instead,” he sighed. As if he was doing you some great service not turning you in.
"Could cuff me if that'll make you feel better," you shot back.
"Jesus, don't give me ideas worse than this one," he muttered, dragging the fabric down your legs leaving you bare and glistening in the low light of the bedroom.
If your head was in the clouds before, the dawn was breaking over them when Lee's thumb swiped along your clit. Perhaps an experiment to see how sensitive you were, how you would react under the influence, or just to make sure you were really there and not some fucked up figment of an overactive imagination.
A little gasp slipped out before you could help it, arching into his touch.
"Prettiest pussy I ever saw," he groaned, breath warm against your arousal sending a shock through your system that you didn't know if it was just the effect of the weed or if it was just…Lee. Everything was brighter, louder, more sensitive.
His tongue licked one slow strip pausing at your clit, a loud moan erupting from your chest as your legs tried to close against the sensation. But Lee's hands were there in an instant keeping you open. Part of you almost wanted him to pin you down; make you admit just how desperate for him you'd always been.
"No ya don't," he cooed, letting his tongue circle the tight bundle of nerves. Your thighs shook against his iron hold as you felt the delirium in your head climb with each swipe. "You wanted this darlin', I'm just bein' nice and givin' it to you."
Your head fell back, giggling as the high and heat tangled deep in your belly, letting your limbs surrender. "Appreciate the - ah - favor. Sheriff."
A thick finger teased the entrance of your cunt, pushing in barely past the first knuckle. He moaned against your skin, his title falling from your lips had his own head spinning. "Better thank me proper after this favor, then."
Another wrecked moan tore from your chest as you felt yourself already grazing the edge of release. Oh you'd thank him. The desperate part of your subconscious that wanted this in the first place could be bent so easily to his will. You just didn't want to let him in on that secret yet.
You couldn't belay your orgasm even if you tried. You pushed your hips up, chasing the pressure of his mouth, willing his finger to move deeper. He obliged, exploring your tight hole, another groan vibrating against your clit.
"Oh god — Lee — fuck." The world snapped into a shimmering white, the high blurring everything around you. Every lap of his tongue, every drag of his fingers, even the cool of the sheets beneath you seemed to stretch the pleasure as it crested. Your moans, desperate and loud may as well have been heard in the next town over, but you couldn't bring yourself to care; too lost to the dazzling color dancing behind your eyelids.
You sagged back into the mattress, nerves still singing as he worked you through the last of your orgasm. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, lingering there in the disbelief of his actions.
"Still with me down there, Sheriff?" You breathed, propping up on your elbows. A light sheen of sweat on his collar as his eyes met yours; his pupils blown wide.
He nodded once, heaving a breath out. "Your ma is gonna kill me."
"She doesn't have to find out," you promised, sitting up further. Your hand reached up to trace the gold star still pinned to his chest. "You're the expert at keepin' secrets in this town, aren't ya?"
Lee's jaw clenched now that you were close, his lips swollen and still slick with your arousal. "Suppose I am," he confirmed.
You let your thumb drift over the cool metal of the badge again, then moved to unfasten the top button of his uniform. "Good. Because I don't think I'm done breaking the law tonight."
He stilled again, chest rising and falling as he watched your fingers move clumsily down. Letting you have your way with him. For now. Trusting that you would keep your secret in this sin you were both sharing. Your hands made quick work of the buttons, pushing the shirt off his shoulders.
The rest of the uniform — belt, holster, any and all authority peeled away by your hungry hands, one by one until he was bare beneath you. Stripped of everything but the illicit desire coursing through him.
His cock stood at attention from the moment you released him from his pants, flushed and heavy. You pushed him back onto the bed, climbing over him so your knees straddled his hips. "Swear I'll be real good every time I come back home," you teased. "If you let me ride you."
Lee's hands closed over your thighs, eyes dark and hungry. "Don't make promises you can't keep, darlin'."
You wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock, eyes trained on his. "I always keep my promises," you sighed, sliding the tip against your clit already aching for more. Now coated with your slick, you guided him to your entrance, greedy for more. The stretch was delicious as you sank down slow, watching Lee's jaw go slack, his chest heaving beneath you.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed, fingers gripping into your thighs. "So fuckin'…perfect."
You rolled your hips slowly, dragging him against the sensitive walls of your cunt. Your hands gripped his soft belly, trying to find the angle that would have you seeing stars.
He let you set the pace, head thrown back in awe as you moved in slow circles. It was when you leaned forward, bracing both hands on the headboard for balance that you found it. His large cock hitting that spot, his belly rubbing just so on your still sensitive clit. "Right there…" you sighed more to yourself than the man beneath you.
A quick squeeze of your muscles had Lee losing all pretense of self-control. Your chest bounced with every rough slide of your hips, nipples peaked and tight in the cool air. Lee's gaze snapped from your face to the glorious sight you now bestowed upon him.
"Fuck, baby—" His hands slid up, greedy and rough, thumbs brushing and squeezing over the sensitive peaks causing a new wave of pleasure to roll through you. You slid him all the way out, almost to the tip until you sunk down with a force that had the sound of skin slapping on skin echoing through the room; adding to the symphony of your soft moans and Lee's deep whimpering sighs.
His hips began to meet yours, eyes darting from where your bodies met, then to your face contorted in pleasure, back to your chest again, utterly wrecked. "Look at you," he groaned. "Riding me so good. Can't…fuck, darlin', 'm not gonna last."
His curses only spurred you on, your body finding a relentless rhythm as you chased your own high.
"Please, gotta… fuck…can't — can't," he whined, trying to pull you off him. But some deep seated determination of primal need had you tightening as you pressed your thighs to his hips, using the hold you had on the headboard as leverage.
Lee stuttered beneath you, unable to hold his release back. You felt him throb once, twice, before he spilled deep inside with your name on his lips. Warm and sticky like honey, as you followed close behind; coming apart above him in another lightning bolt of pleasure.
"What…the fuck were you thinkin'?" he asked, gasping, the air of authority back as he looked up at you, wide eyed and mouth slightly agape.
A single breath of laughter fell from your mouth. "Just thankin' you proper by letting you fill up my perfect pussy. Daddy."
Lee's eyes immediately glazed over, a newfound heat appearing as you stayed bent over him, tits dragging in his vision with each deep breath you took. His release slowly leaked from your pulsing cunt and onto his thighs as you continued to rock gently. And while he knew that was wrong for a multitude of reasons…he was already picturing how to get you to call him that again. And again.
Taglist: @barnes-babydoll @overwintering-soldier @wint3rbarnes
After Chirps: My relationship with my father is great, why are you asking? I'm uploading something much sweeter and cuter on Halloween. Please stay around for it. If you want to be added to my taglist, you can comment on this post.
Header and lace divider made by me, caution tape from @cafekitsune (thank you!)
Steve is a good man, America’s golden boy, a hero. He’s Captain America for christ’s sake! So it’s normal to want what he has… right? Bucky knows he doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t even deserve the second chance at life he’s been given. But Bucky can never let him know. Steve can never find out that his friend is in love with his best girl.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve
Part Thirteen
Part Fourteen
Part Fifteen
Part Sixteen
Part Seventeen
Part Eighteen
Part Nineteen [END]
THIS SERIES IS FINISHED.
DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOU ARE FINISHED WITH THE SERIES
Summary: Rainy days. And a song stuck in your mind has you having an idea for a fun activity for you and your stepdad Lee.
Warnings: hint of daddy kink if you want but can be read as just calling him it as fatherly figure, hint of cheating but Lee and readers mom aren’t a real thing anymore, stepcest, mention of spanking but more as fun threat, fluff
Wordcount: 1.4k
A/N: Dedicated to @sheriff-bodecker, because Emmi I fucking love you and you’re probably the biggest fan of my stepdaddy Lee! Shoutout to @buckytakethewheel for beta. And @tw1sters more stepdaddy Lee!
Masterlist
The rain pours loudly against the window, the drops making a soft melody of their steady rhythm against the glass.
Your eyes dart out of the window, the movie forgotten in the background, the pair kissing on the screen only a reminder of how alone and single you are. Of how in love you are—a so delicious and yet forbidden love you feel.
Slowly following the likes of the rain down the window, you don’t notice the heavy steps of your stepfather walking into the living room.
His sweatpants hanging low on his waist, his squishy belly hanging just above the waistband. One of his tight shirts hugging his frame perfectly.
Lee watches you, leaning his shoulder against the frame of the door, blue eyes tracing your curves as if they are a masterpiece.
And for him, they are.
“Whatcha doin’ there, sweetheart?” Lee asks, startling you a bit as his rough yet warm voice interrupts your thoughts.
You hum, turning your head enough to see him in the corner of your eyes but not enough to face him completely.
Your stepdad watches you intensely, a small smirk tugging at his plump lips. Meanwhile, a soft frown forms as he watches your expression, still more on the rain than on him.
Lee isn’t a bad stepdad, not at all. He might be strict here and there, but usually he’s nice. At least around you—at his work he doesn’t mind handling disobeying criminals with a tad more force than he has to.
While Lee and your mom aren’t in a real good or stable relationship anymore, he still treats you the same as he did before. With love and care—and maybe some firmness.
“Jus’ watching the rain,” you mutter, finally turning your attention to the man whose eyes still roam over your frame. “Do you want dinner?”
Lee chuckles, his eyes crinkling in the corners.
While every other man might have looked old to you when the lines around their eyes increased, Lee’s only make him even more attractive.
“No, wanted to check on my favorite girl,” he mutters, running his thick fingers through his soft brown locks. “Why ain’t ya goin’ out with ya friends?”
You shrug, turning your face back to the rain flowing down the window, the soft pattern one of your favorite songs.
“They are out at the bar. With the boys, and I don’t like the stinking bar. Nor do I want to be set up with one of these weird guys, actually,” you say, leaning back on the couch.
Lee hums, pushing off the wooden frame; heavy steps come closer before the cushion of the couch sinks under his weight as he plops down next to you.
“Not all of these boys are bastards,” Lee says, his voice dropping lower. Almost as if it’s scratching its way through his throat before it forces itself through his plump lips to let you know what he thinks. “Aren’t they ya cup of tea or how ya call it nowadays?”
“Not exactly. If you’re into college boys who drink as if they’re already done with college. Watching every girl like they’re their next prey while they got their girl on their lap. Nah, thank you,” you giggle, a bitterness lacing your tone.
A bitterness Lee catches immediately but decides not to push further.
“So ya sit here all alone and watch the rain,” he asks, though it’s obvious that you do exactly that.
You nod, lifting your finger to trace one of the raindropsrolling down the glass. “It's pretty, and it's fun. Call me old-fashioned, but I'd rather be outside and dance in the rain than—”
Lee tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he watches you. He knows you well enough to know that there are gears turning in your head.
“Than goin’ to the bar and drink, hook up and get knocked up?” Lee finishes your sentence, earning himself a slap to his muscular thigh. “Hey!”
You shiver at the way his tone gets all serious and firm when your hand connects with his thigh.
A soft gasp leaves your lips, eyes widening a bit as you look at your stepdad. He’s still grinning at you, his lips twitching as he watches your expression.
“Keep ya hands by ya’self or I might think ya want me to give ya a reminder who’s in charge here,” he chuckles, squeezing your hand with his thick one. “Jus’ jokin’, sweetheart. Unless ya want me to put ya over my knee. But ya pretty mind jus’ had a nice idea for the rainy evening, huh?”
You nod, watching his calloused thumb trace the back of your soft hand. His pads are rough compared to the softness of your skin, underlining the difference in age. Showing how much he’s already worked with his hands.
You pull your hand back slowly, getting off the couch before turning to Lee. “You up for some fun?”
Lee huffs, getting off the couch as well. His knees cracking as he stands up straight, one of his eyebrows arches—daring you to make a comment on his cracking bones.
“Don’t,” he warns, waiting for you to lead the way so he can follow.
You giggle, twirling on your toes a few times before elegantly, only to tease Lee, walking to the front door of the house.
“Sweetheart, ya need a jacket if ya want to go out,” he says, narrowing his ocean blue eyes as you reach for the handle of the front door. “And ya barefoot.”
You roll your eyes, leaning your head back to look at him as you pull open the door.
“That’s the fun about it, grumpy,” you mutter, one of your feet already on the cool, wet stone of the entrance when Lee’s hand wraps around the back of your neck to pull you back into the warmth of the house.
His firm chest collides with your back, his fingers curling around your neck to circle your throat like a collar.
“Shoes,” he grumbles, his tone rough. “‘N a hoodie at least or else you stay here.”
“C’mon, Daddy, this is no fun,” you whine, trying to use a different path to get what you want.
Lee chuckles, his eyes crinkling and his nose scrunching.
Daddy.
It slips past your lips so easily. And you don’t even know what you’re doing to him; or maybe you do.
“You’re playing a dangerous game here, little girl,” he grunts, pushing you out of the house while he reaches for the keys on the small table next to the door. “Playing the daddy card, knowing you got me wrapped around your pinky.”
Or you might want to be spanked badly to pull that card with him. Either way, he doesn't complain.
Lee mutters a quiet ‘brat’ under his breath but follows you outside, shutting the door closed to keep the rain everywhere but inside—it’s going to be a mess with the two of you soaked through later, already.
“So, whatcha want out here?” He asks, fingers digging into your throat as he keeps you close to his chest, the heavy rain falling onto the two of you.
Within seconds you’re soaked, clothes sticking to you as you sway your hips slowly to a melody in your mind.
“If I lay here,” you mutter, leaning your head back against Lee’s shoulder. His musky scent filling your nostrils, making you relax in his firm but soft hold. “If I just lay here.”
Lee grumbles, his hips swaying with yours as his soft belly presses into your back. “This what ya call fun, mhm?”
You nod, turning your head to kiss the soft skin of your stepfather’s neck.
“Would you lay with me,” you keep singing, smiling softly as the rain falls down onto your face. “And just forget the world?”
“I would,” he whispers into your cheek, letting his hands wander along your shoulders, pads tracing the soft fabric of the shirt you’re wearing. “Forget what we were told.”
“Before we get too old—” you sing together, letting Lee place his calloused hands on your waist to twirl you so your chest is pressed against his.
“Show me a garden that's bursting into life,” you whisper against his lips.
Lee is slow dancing with you in the rain, hips moving softly back and forth as he turns a bit, keeping you always in motion.
“I would,” he whispers before leaning further down to press his lips against yours. He moves them as slowly as his hips, kissing you passionately as if it’s all he ever wanted—and it definitely is, especially when you kiss him back with the same passion. “But we should go back in and dry off or have a nice hot shower, sweetheart.”
Five times Lee successfully resists you and the one time he doesn't.
▸ PAIRING: Stepfather!Lee Bodecker x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, stepcest, cheating, daddy kink!!!!!, inappropriate relationship, sexualization/objectification, finger sucking, wild imagination!lee, pet names of baby girl and sugar, sexual double entendres, grinding, no condom (pls wrap it before you tap it), almost caught
▸ WORD COUNT: 13.2K
▸ A/N: PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!! this is not for everyone, your consumption is not my responsibility. writing it is not the same as condoning it! (promise this is the last dddne content here then im packing it up!). inspired to write this thanks to @heldbybarnes's no nut november (infinitely sexier and bucky still hasnt come!) and @phoenix-in-writing, @stanmarvelous, @buck-star stepdaddy lee (1, 2, 3) the pioneers! didnt expect it to be this long but fuck it we ball
Lee is not an honorable man, not by a long shot. He knew that before he became sheriff, and he knew that before he married your mother. He found her gorgeous, accomplished, and — the best part? — she’s not always up in his business, which means he gets plenty of time alone. However, what he never expected was you.
Having a stepdaughter hadn’t been at the top of his agenda. Having a very beautiful stepdaughter whom he’s attracted to certainly was nowhere near that list. But Lee is a man with self-control.
At least, he thinks he is — until he is tested when your mother leaves for work for the entirety of November.
— 1
Now, Lee has been tempted before. The devil himself always sits on his shoulder to whisper all the treacherous things he could do to you, all the things he can only imagine doing to you. He may be debauched, but he still has a reputation to maintain, so he isn’t about to act on his impulses.
Some days, however, he thinks the devil is no longer on his side; instead, it sits next to you, luring him into this tantalizing trap with a beckoning finger.
Everyone who works at the diner has a cute uniform on — a pink pinstriped number that matches the rest of the diner’s retro decor. This includes you with your dress that stretches tight across your body, looking almost a size too small, and ends halfway down your legs. You wonder if the size choice had been yours or your boss’; if it’s the latter, he’s got to have a real, long conversation with Mackie. Lee notes that the traffic in this diner has nearly doubled since you started working here. No doubt what these animals are thinking.
It’s why he likes to eat dinner there, especially when it’s late. That way, he can also give you a ride home and keep you safe. Nobody would think about trying anything with the sheriff around. The first time he offered, you had sheepishly thanked him, tried to fuss about how he didn’t need to. Lee wanted to say that there are other ways to thank him that involve you and your knees in those enticing stockings on the floor in front of him.
He doesn’t, of course. He’s a good man. He’s a good stepfather.
But now, when he’s situated in a booth with a couple of his fellow officers, he can’t help the way his keen eyes follow you around. There’s practically a skip in your step, a persistent giggle falling from your lips as you serve your patrons. None the wiser to the lecherous ways some of these men look at you — including his colleagues.
“You’re a lucky man, Sheriff,” his deputy, Sandy, whistles, gaze trawling the length of you.
“Watch it,” he bites back, “that’s my daughter you’re talkin’ about.”
“Step-daughter,” he clarifies helpfully.
Lee knows that there is a very fine line. While it is not probably frowned upon to find his stepdaughter attractive, it’s not something he should be advertising out loud. God knows he doesn’t need a visit from the town priest.
When you finally make your way over to his table, you have bright smile in tow. “Good evening, officers.” Lee’s pants tighten, that’s a nickname that’ll never get old in bed. “Hope you’re having a fine night. What can I getcha?”
His coworkers prattle off their orders, and Lee vaguely remembers mentioning his own. Burger, medium rare. He likes it more on the raw side. You smile and nod. “You got it.”
“Can we also get a refill on these waters, sweetheart?” Sandy flashes a charming grin that makes Lee sick to his stomach. Maybe he should put him on overnight patrol every night for the next four months. That’ll teach him.
You nod and make your way back to the kitchen to grab a pitcher. Meanwhile, Sandy is three drinks in from the bar they hopped into before dinner, and he’s moving his gangly arms around like a maniac. Lee sighs internally and wonders how they managed to hire someone so incompetent to be his deputy.
Oh yeah, so they would turn a blind eye to the shit that Lee does to maintain his power.
He hears the crash before he sees it. Sandy’s eyes are wide, and Lee sees the broken pieces of glass scattered all over the floor. People only glance briefly at them before resuming their conversations. “Oh, fuck, shit,” Sandy curses, standing to deal with this mess.
“No, don’t do that,” you say as you return to their table, a hand on his arm to stop him. Sandy looks awestruck; Lee’s about to strike him. “You’ll hurt yourself, deputy. I’ve got it.”
“Don’t do that by yourself, sugar,” Lee drawls out with a frown, “you’ll hurt yourself.”
A laugh slips past your lips. “Don’t you worry, daddy. I’ve handled enough of these situations.”
Jesus. Christ. Lee is convinced that some higher power up there is out to deliver his divine retribution by sending you to his doorstep. His already ill-fitting pants feel like they’re squeezing in around him with the way his cock chubs up.
You’ve started calling him daddy recently — a change from the way you initially addressed him by his first name. But your mother insisted that it’s polite to address him as an actual father since they’re finally married now. He’s your first father after all, your biological one had been in a tragic accident when your ma was pregnant with you.
It’s been hell ever since.
When you return with a dustpan, you only shoot them a smile before you drop to a crouch in front of Lee. Sandy had whacked the glass all the way over to Lee’s side, all the pieces strewn by his feet. You work efficiently, brushing every single piece carefully into the pan.
But all Lee can focus on is the fact that he has a direct line of sight to your cleavage. The uniform isn’t sexual by any means; in fact, it is rather modest. However, the way you wear it, the way the fabric clings onto your skin, frames your tits perfectly, pressing the two mounds together. God, he imagines what it would be like to have you like this underneath him, tits in your sweet little work uniform. What it would be like to slip his cock between the valley of your breasts, encased in that soft warmth.
You’ll be calling him daddy and he’ll be coming all over your pretty chest.
Christ, he’s a sick man.
It gets worse when you finish up and peek up at him past your lashes, a coquettish look on your face as you sweetly grin up at him. “All done.” He is done for. You rise to your feet again, red Mary Janes covering your white-socked toes. “Now, I’ll get you your water, but is there anything else I can get for you, daddy, and your friends?”
You’ve gotta be doing it on purpose. Lee can see Sandy’s jaw drop across the table, his eyes darkening a shade. He kicks him underneath, drawing a satisfying yelp from his deputy. Then he turns his slow smile to you. “All good, sugar. Thank you, you did good.”
The way you preen at the praise shouldn’t have Lee’s belly twisting, but it does. She likes getting praised, what a good girl, he thinks to himself and mentally groans.
When you sashay away again, he watches as your skirt floats around you, swaying with the way your hips go from side to side. He watches as you lean over the counter to giggle with another waitress and his chest feels warm and tingly.
He likes seeing you happy like that, carefree. Safe.
He could ruin you oh so easily.
Lee pinches the bridge of his nose, praying these ridiculous thoughts away. He isn’t very successful when his ears perk up at the sound of a couple of young fellas cackling at the diner counter, their bodies angled towards where you stand.
The words that leave their mouth, their alleged plans for you, have him seeing red. They say these things so lightly, things that are borderline illegal. And as the sheriff in this town, he can’t really let that slide now, can he?
Lee grunts as he slides out of the booth and makes his way over to them. He sees you looking curiously at him from the corner of his eye. The boys don’t stop laughing, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.
His hand lands heavy on one of their shoulders. Their laughter ceases. A chilly tension packs the three of them into a bubble as Lee dips his head closer towards them. A warning. “Boys, now I’m sure I must be hearing y’all wrong, but I don’t think you’d be talkin’ about my stepdaughter that way.”
He can practically hear them swallow their fear as he spots the kid’s leg bouncing under the countertop. “N-no, Sir. Definitely not. Wouldn’t even dream of it.”
“Good,” he says, a small, tight smile curling at the corners of his lips, “think it’s gettin’ late. You boys best be leavin’ a nice tip and head out. Maybe you can take care of that problem I overheard yourself, hm? No need to drag a sweet little girl into this.”
He doesn’t have to ask them twice. With more than a sufficient number of dollar bills thrown to the table, they scramble off the stools and slam their way out the glass doors. Lee clenches his jaw and shakes his head. Boys.
What you need is a man. A real man.
And when he looks up and sees you — the look of awe on your face — he thinks he could be just that.
— 2
For some reason, the heater is working overtime in his house. He scowls because that just means his heating bill isn’t going to be pretty at the end of the month. His wife brings in good money to contribute to the household but Lee always thought he was going to be the provider. The one that could be relied on. Sheriff pay isn’t terrible, better when he tacks on the supplemental side income he gets from more notorious characters, but he wishes he could have more.
Luckily, there is one person whom he can technically still provide for. And this heat ain’t so bad when he looks at you prancing around the kitchen in a loose tank top and teeny tiny shorts. It’s autumn and the leaves have crisped up outside, but Lee thanks the heavens because someone up there is looking out for him.
Because they sent him you.
In the very picture of domesticity, even when you’re clad in clothes that leave less — much less — to his imagination, you are also the epitome of innocence. You’re humming to yourself, some upbeat pop song that’s been annoyingly persistent on the radio, as you dance around the kitchen, pulling utensils and bowls from the cabinets.
“Do you prefer brownies or cookies?”
Your voice draws him out of his reverie and he raises his head from his paper to you who is looking curiously at him. “Sorry, sugar, one more time?”
“I’m going to bake something. A little treat for the weekend. Brownies or cookies?”
There is a third option he is thinking about, but he bites his tongue. “Whichever you like, sweet girl. I’ll eat whatever you make, you know that.”
Your smile brightens just a smidgen and Lee feels that familiar warmth in his chest again. “Brownies, it is. I’ll use lots of chocolate chips and peanut butter too.”
“Sounds good, sugar.”
Then you get to work. While Lee pretends to entertain today’s news — something about a couple of murders a town over, you breeze around the kitchen like a force of nature. First comes the sprinkling and mixing of all sorts of powders and grains. Sugar, flour, cocoa powder, salt. With the oven preheating, heat floods throughout the kitchen further.
Lee tugs on the collar of his t-shirt, a casual, comfortable shirt on his one day off. He can’t tell if the fire licking up his skin is from his crap heater, the sweating oven, or the sight of your pretty nipples poking into the fabric. Of course, you wouldn’t wear a bra at home. Why would you? Just as Lee is comfortable, you should be too.
You should be comfortable and safe in your own home.
The crack of an egg brings him up to present and, as you begin to whisk the wet ingredients, your arm moving with great effort, your body — shit, your body also begins to shake. With how quickly you’re mixing the bowl, he sees how your tits move underneath your thin tank. Nipples pushing up against the pale fabric.
These are days he wonders whether he has been on the right side of history because the fact that you’re so close — so fucking close that he can practically smell you, feel you — but he can’t touch you is a cruel and severe punishment.
You set the bowl down, then move towards the shelves again and reach up, standing on the tips of your toes for another bowl you can’t quite reach. A huff leaves your chest but you try jumping a little bit, stretching a little further. Every time you do so, Lee can see how your gorgeous breasts dance and the shirt lifts higher and higher on your torso.
There’s also your ass — fuck, that ass. Lee always thought he was a man with a proclivity for great tits. And he is. He can admire a good pair of tits, soft that can only belong to a woman. Pliant and kind under his rough grip. He likes the way they mold to the shape of his touch, his fingers, his palm.
But looking at you now, with the way you keep jumping, and the way your backside shakes, Lee can’t help but imagine what it would be like if you were bouncing on him instead. Your ass pressed against his crotch. Even with two layers between the two of you, Lee has no doubt that you’ll be able to feel the length of his fat cock between your cheeks. You can imagine the little gasp that would leave your lips when he breathes down your neck, bending you over so he can dig his cock deeper into those tiny shorts.
The thought has his mouth dry and salivating at the same time. Before you can break his self-control, he rounds the counter and easily grabs the bowl you’re seeking. His soft stomach against your side, his arm brushing yours. The barest of grazes has electricity shooting through him.
It’s embarrassing really, how responsive he is to you. It isn’t as if he hasn’t bedded a woman in a while. Your mother just left on her monthlong business trip but he made sure to get his fill before she left — even if it meant that he was thinking about you the entire time, picturing what it would be like to have a young, supple body underneath him, his thick frame covering and pressing up against you.
“Thanks, daddy,” you mutter shyly, “we should get a step stool for the kitchen.”
Highly unlikely. Now that he knows what you look like jumping, standing on your tippy toes, and how you would always need his help reaching that second shelf, Lee’s going to put more important things up there. Then you’re always going to need your daddy’s help.
Lee returns to his paper, reading over the same words for the fifth time. The letters are there, he can read them, but he can barely digest them when the sight of you is much more interesting. Every time you move, stretching even a little bit like a cat, you expose more of your midriff. It’s like the start of a really good porno he would certainly jack off to, especially if the actress whines daddy, daddy.
His eyes stay trained on you as you finish mixing the batter, a proud look on your face. Then something happens. His blue eyes follow your finger as it dips into the bowl, coming out with sticky chocolate liquid clinging to it. Before it can drip, you stick the finger into your mouth and groan.
Lord Almighty, his pants tighten shamefully fast. The sound sends blood straight between his legs, to his already painfully hard cock. He pushes himself deeper into the table to hide the growing boner, which is hardly secret when it’s tenting up his sweatpants.
“Daddy, come try this. It tastes so good.”
Lee clears his throat. “Don’t think you should be eating raw batter, baby girl. There are uncooked eggs in there.”
Your eyes brighten at the pet name, one that he doesn’t use as often. “It’s fine! I do this all the time. Come on, give it a try. Let me know if I should add more cocoa or sugar.”
Knowing that this isn’t an argument he’ll win with you, he saunters over, standing closer than necessary to you. And he knows what he does next isn’t entirely appropriate, but what do you know about appropriate? He’s your first, isn’t he? You wouldn’t know any better.
One hand on your hip, thumb grazing your bare skin, and one on the counter to steady himself. “Alright, give it here.”
“Let me grab a spoon—”
“It’s alright, just use your finger. Don’t want to be gettin’ mine dirty.”
Your lips part for a moment, surprise coloring your expression. You seem to mull over this for a moment but the hand on your hip squeezes reassuringly. He’s your father after all, he would never hurt you.
So you give in and stick your finger back in there, coming out with chocolate covering half the length. You raise it up slowly, wondering what he’s going to do. Lee lifts his hand from the counter, wraps it around your wrist, and brings it up to his mouth. His tongue is the first to curl around the digit, stroking the chocolate clean off your finger. Sweet, and he doesn’t think it’s just the brownies.
He hears your sharp intake of breath, feels your body lock up. He smiles down at you. “Don’t know if I got enough to try that first time, baby. How about giving me more?”
“Uh, uhm, okay,” you stutter nervously, chest tight. From here, Lee can also see down your shirt, a hint of your nipples poking up. He has to bite back a groan when you push your finger even deeper into the mixture this time, going all the way to your knuckle.
Now, you’re just asking for it.
Lee fully closes his lips around your finger, moaning at the taste and weight of your finger on his tongue. It’s pure heaven. His tongue rolls around the finger, licking it completely clean, and he gives another suck on your finger for good measure.
When he can only taste the ghost of the chocolate does he release your finger from his mouth with a pop. “It’s delicious, sugar. Knew you’d be good at this. You’ll make a good mama someday for your kids.”
Heat sprawls through your body at the compliment as you tense up again with him. “Thanks, daddy,” you whisper.
“Gonna feed me the brownies too when you’re done?”
Your eyes widen just a fraction and you smile, timid, at him. “Sure, daddy.”
“Good girl.”
— 3
Lee hates these late-night shifts. With him being sheriff and all, he usually gets to pick who does the overnight type of work — and that means it’s usually not him. He sticks the rookies on it with some of his more experienced officers, but it isn’t as if Knockemstiff is teeming with eager cops. He’s got a small headcount and he does have to do the heavy lifting from time to time.
Only thing is, this time is because he lost a dumb bet to Sandy and that guy really cackled all the way out the door this afternoon. He won’t be laughing long when he sees the timetable for next month.
Luckily, he was partnered with someone decent for the night and it’s a slow night so he goes home a little early. Nothing really happens in this town; any mischief is usually caused by out-of-towners. Those he can usually collect some hefty fines from to avoid jail time.
His phone lights up to indicate it’s four. You’re probably fast asleep. He’s pleased when he has to use his key to unlock the front door. Good girl listened when he told you to lock all the doors when you’re home alone.
The floorboards creak under his heavy footfalls. He tosses his keys into the bowl by the door before making his way to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Spotless, as always. You always clean up after yourself. The kitchen had been unused for as long as he could remember; when he married your mom, he didn’t think it would be any different either, given how busy she is.
But then you stepped in and lit up at the practically brand new setup, and you quickly made it your home away from home. Now, whenever Lee comes back, there’s always the scent of something fresh coming from the kitchen. An array of spices, the crisp sizzling of meat in a pan, and vegetables roasting with new flavors Lee has never had before.
He lumbers on to the second floor, stairs whining underneath. He heads straight for the bathroom but, before he even reaches the door, light spills into the hallway.
Then out you step, shy, awkward.
You freeze like a deer in headlights when you spot him, your lips opening and closing in surprise.
Lee can’t exactly control the way his gaze travels over your frame, practically naked. With only a flimsy towel that’s barely large enough to cover you, you stand there like an angel sent straight from heaven — probably there to pick him up and kick his ass straight to hell for the lewd thoughts that immediately dig their claws into the crevices of his brain.
Steam blurs the air around you, seeping out from the bathroom. It curls around you like a whisper of a touch. You’re so… exposed. Your breasts peek out from the top of the towel, almost glowing with the dampness of your skin. There are still some water droplets rolling down your arm, down your chest between your tits, disappearing.
Then there are your legs, beginning from the tops of your thighs with how small the towel is. If you bent back just a little bit, he could probably see your pussy. He sees the entire length of them, pressed together shyly as his eyes bore into you. It’s practically a caress the way his eyes trawl down your body.
A squeak finally slips past your lips. Here you are, indecent before your stepdaddy when he’s still in full uniform, hat and all.
“Daddy,” you breathe out in surprise.
Lee’s head immediately goes to what it would be like if you said that when the two of you are horizontal and you’re pinned down underneath him.
“Hey, sugar, what’re you doin’ up so late?”
Shame rolls off you in waves, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you shift your gaze.
Your reaction. The fact that you just showered. How late into the night it is — or early in the morning. Lee’s eyes immediately narrow at you.
“Baby girl, were you out?”
Your eyes immediately blow up the size of saucers. “No, daddy—”
“Don’t go lyin’ to me now. Were you with a boy? Who was it?”
The idea of someone — another man — touching you, his, has blood rushing straight to his head, boiling to a tipping point. His fingers practically itch for the gun at his waist. His engine’s probably still hot and he can go out there and hunt down this guy right now.
“No, oh, daddy, no!” Denial falls from your lips. “No, I wasn’t— I couldn’t possibly!” A pretty sheepish look etches itself onto your face in the shy purse of your lips.
“Then?” He cocks an eyebrow.
“I was just—” you stop yourself which has his suspicions surfacing again, “I wasn’t out, I promise. I’ve just been in my room. Haven’t been able to sleep.”
Lee glances at your legs again that clamp together even tighter, your fingers clutching the towel firmer. Were you— god, now Lee has the image of you wet between your legs, your fingers working away at your cute cunt, squirting everywhere. You’ve probably made a mess in your room. Bed wet. Smelling like you. Lee could lick that right up, before dragging his tongue up your legs to clean you.
A smirk stretches across his lips, so wide that his chubby cheeks start to ache. “That so?” He teases. “And what were you doing when you couldn’t sleep?”
Another hit of embarrassment. You put your eyes everywhere but him. “Nothing,” you mumble.
“And why are you out in your towel?”
“Forgot my pajamas in the room,” you say shyly again.
That means you probably finished and tiptoed over the bathroom like a little mouse — naked. You were probably so messy that you didn’t want to taint anything else before your shower. Lee swallows the groan that rises from his chest.
“Hmm, why couldn’t you sleep? Anything your old daddy can do to help?”
For a second, you open your mouth, but then you look at him and your eyes trace the curve of his stature. His broad frame over his thick belly and legs. Even in this dim light, Lee can see your pupils widen.
A betrayal of your thoughts. Want. Longing. Desire.
Then you seal your lips shut again as you shake your head furiously. “No, I’m fine. I think I’m tired enough to sleep now.”
Just because Lee can’t resist seeing that woefully adorable look on your face again, he asks, “Tired enough, you been exercisin’ or somethin’?”
Of course, you don’t disappoint. He can almost see how fire spreads through you, evaporating all remaining water from your skin. “No, nothin’ like that, daddy.” You duck your head, hair partially blocking his perfect view of your unease. “Um, I’m gettin’ a little cold. I’ll, uh, go to my room now.”
“Alright, sugar.”
But then you pause and you look up at him again. “Did you have a good night at work?”
Fuck, such a sweet girl. This is why Lee can’t let you go. Even in your state, shivering and shamed, you’re still thinking about him. This is why you’re his best girl, his favorite girl. His. The corners of his lips tug into a proud smile. “Yeah, good night. Got off early. But clearly isn’t a better night than yours.”
Your pretty lips part again and Lee chuckles. He should put you out of your misery now.
“Okay, get some sleep. Pancakes okay for breakfast? I can make ‘em.”
“No, don’t worry. I can make breakfast!”
“Baby girl, you wouldn’t have slept much then.”
“It’s okay, gotta make sure I take care of you, daddy.”
At this point, Lee is entirely convinced that you’re pulling his leg. The words coming out of your mouth have got to be intentional. His pants are tight again, his body warm despite the temperature drop.
Then you do the unthinkable and you come up to him shyly, standing on your toes and pressing your lips on his cheek. As you do so, your trembling fingers let your towel slip and Lee catches a good look at those gorgeous tits, nipples perked up; he doesn’t know if that’s the cold or the fact that maybe you may be going for a second round between your legs after this.
You yelp as you wrangle the fabric around you again. “Goodnight, daddy.”
“Goodnight, sugar. Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.”
The words sink into you and you seem to be momentarily conflicted, your eyes darting around his face in search of confirmation. Lee has a devious smile plastered across his face. That’s all you need.
Still, you scamper off back to your room, but not before Lee gets a peek at the undercurve of your ass. Guess he’ll match your sheets and cover them with his cum after this. Who needs sleep when he’s got a sweet stepdaughter to jerk off to?
— 4
For as long as Lee has known you, you’ve always been responsible. You always pick up after yourself, doing all the chores around the house, and never missing a day of work. You’re always on time, always so polite and sweet. Anyone who’s met you has had nothing but sweet praises to sing for you. You may as well be a saint.
So when Lee gets your call at two in the morning when he’s just wrapping up at the station, color him surprised. “Baby girl, why are you still up?”
“Daddy.” Jesus Christ. The whine that escapes your lips is enough to have him leaning back in his seat. He’s this close to pulling out his cock and jacking off to that sound, making you repeat it over and over.
However, the worry overtakes his wanton need, especially when he hears deafening music and loud yelling in the background. “Where are you? Are you still out?” You had mentioned that you’d be spending some time at a friend’s place, but you didn’t specify. Lee was trying not to be overbearing, so he didn’t question it further, figured you should be good. You’ve had late nights before — at the diner or with your friends — and you always make it home safely. Plus, Lee tends to be up late, so he’s usually around if you do ask him to pick you up.
But it’s not like this. Never like this. Your voice slurring, your little oh shit when he hears the clack of your heels as you stumble on the pavement before you huff. The music sounds further away now and Lee assumes you’ve stepped outside. He can’t tell if that’s worse.
“Mhmm,” you hum sleepily, “was at a party with friends. I might’ve—” you hiccup a little, sadness tinging your voice, “—don’t be mad — but I might’ve had a little too much to drink. I don’t think I can get home like this.”
“Stay where you are. Stay around people. Send me your address, I’ll come get you.”
“Sorry, daddy,” you whimper quietly and Lee’s heart cracks just a little bit.
His tone is softer when he takes a deep breath. He’s not upset with you. He’s more concerned than anything and sometimes, his worry projects as anger. “Don’t need to be sorry, sugar. Now, tell me exactly where you are.”
You rattle off an address that’s not entirely too far from where he is, but far enough that he does not feel comfortable with the idea of you being there. That house is a bit more on the deserted end, requiring long stretches of roads before the two of you can even go back home.
“Okay, think you can stay on the phone with me while I drive? Need to make sure I find you, baby.”
Another hum from your end but Lee has a feeling he’s starting to lose you, so he jumps into his station wagon and floors it out of there. The drive is relatively easy, but he throws on his sirens to clear the road. He stops it when he approaches the house; the last thing he needs is to spook the kids and have them pour out, making it harder for him to track you down.
He pulls up slowly and spots a single figure sitting on the sidewalk, head lolling. An expletive leaves his lips as he throws the car into park and leaps out of the vehicle.
“Sugar.”
You perk up immediately, head jerking up to see him. A big grin immediately stretches across your face. “Daddy, you found me.”
Good god. His heart absolutely melts at your words. Innocent, sweet. Trusting. “‘Course I did.”
However, seeing that you’re now safe, his attention instead latches on to what you’re wearing — or rather, what you’re not wearing.
“What in the hell are you wearing?”
As you rise to your feet, you curl into yourself at his volume, flinching. Remorse immediately floods him as he shoves off his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. Though, they do nothing for the fact that your legs are fully exposed. November in Knockemstiff is not unforgiving, but the fall wind is still brash. “I-I came with a jacket, but I lost it somewhere inside.”
“Get in, don’t want you freezin’ your ass off.”
Lee tries not to think about the fact that you’re practically naked out here. A red corset bodysuit, stockings, and heeled boots. He doesn’t even know what to make of that outfit or why you’d be out of your goddamn mind to be wearing that this close to winter.
He forces his voice to stay calm. “So, why are you wearing that getup?” He clears his throat, hoping that his anger isn’t bleeding through his syllables as he cranks up the heat.
You slump against the door, eyes slowly finding him. “Mm, my friend likes themed parties. It’s an early Christmas kind of thing.”
“And you’re dressed as…?”
Lee can feel you being self-conscious again as you pick at the thin material of your stockings. “Sexy santa,” you mutter, so low that he nearly misses it. “My friend wanted to come matching so she ordered our outfits. I didn’t realize it would be this… revealing, but I didn’t have time to get anything else.”
Considering the thoughts running through his mind, he doesn’t even want to imagine what other people — other boys — were thinking. He doesn’t want to picture them touching you, playing off intimate touches as accidental brushes of skin. His grip tightens around the steering wheel, knuckles white, as he grits his teeth.
It’s not your fault, he reminds himself. Boys are boys and he’s just never trusted them.
“Do you like it?”
The question is like a splash of cold water on his face, yanking him out of the stupor of fury he’s been buried in. He nearly gets whiplash from how quickly he turns to look at you, his cock thickening at the doe-eyed look on your face. Always so good to him. Always seeking praise. You just want to know you’re doing a good job. That you’re a good girl.
It’s difficult to focus on the road when his gaze keeps cataloging details of your outfit. Your bare arms are now hidden in his jacket, barely, because you’ve only draped the material over your shoulders. It’s even more alluring this way, like you can’t even be bothered to actually put on the thing, like you still want to show off your look to him.
But your legs — god, your legs are stretched out in front of you. Bare all the way to the v-shaped bottom of your clothes. Your waist is cinched in with the ribbons strung tight, your breasts pushed up to the top where he can see — can he even call it cleavage still when he can see too much of it? Not that he’s complaining.
“Doesn’t matter what I like, baby girl,” he says. Neutral. Safe.
“It matters to me,” you reply just a tad softer.
Lee swallows thickly and is distracted again by you when he spots another set of headlights coming his way, an idiot drifting too much into his lane. He jerks and swerves the car a little bit, not enough to go off the road but enough that he sticks his arm out to press you back against your seat, keeping you steady.
“Shit, you okay?”
Your eyes are wide again as you nod, gaze falling to his arm that’s pressed up against your chest. Only his white sleeve separates his skin from your beautiful tits. He bites back a groan. It would be so easy to slide his hand over to cup them.
“Good girl,” he mutters and lets out a sigh of relief.
Then he remembers your question and what you said. Call it the atmosphere and the fact that it’s been the two of you, and only the two of you for a while, but Lee feels somewhat bolder. He drops his arm, hand landing on your practically bare thigh which he gives a quick squeeze. He can feel your body heat through the sheer fabric.
“I like it.”
You smile, eyes twinkling as you lean towards him eagerly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, sugar, I do.”
Your hand settles on top of his, fingers curling around as if to keep him there. “You really mean it?”
God, his little girl is a praise slut, isn’t she? You just want to be showered in compliments, just want to be told you did such a good job. Lee nearly flips your hands’ positions to tug your touch to his crotch. His cock is irritatingly hard. With only you in the house and his late hours, it’s been tough to find time to satisfy himself. He also figured that with your mom gone and only you in the house, he would attempt to restrict himself for November.
It’s both a challenge but also a method of self control to make sure he doesn’t try anything with you.
But you seem intent on testing how far his patience would go.
“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, baby girl. Bet those boys couldn’t keep their hands off you all night.”
That seems to surprise you, your lips parting, eyes widening. “N-no, daddy, no boys touched me.”
“That right? You were good tonight?”
He can see how you twitch underneath him, sloping closer towards him. “I was very good. Promise. Just had a little too much to drink but nobody touched me.”
“Good, because pretty thing like you shouldn’t have random boys touchin’ you.” He smiles, a wicked curl to his lips. “Should have a real man takin’ care of you.”
And maybe it’s the alcohol or the air, but you appear a little bolder too. There’s a fire in your eyes when you stare at him, as your tongue darts out to wet your lips. “Mhmm, think you can find one for me?”
“I can think of the perfect one,” Lee confirms, tightening his grip around your thigh again. “He’d love to take real good care of you. Make sure you know what a good girl you are.”
You glow at his words, lighting up brighter than fireworks on New Year’s Day. “I think I’d like that a lot, daddy.”
“Well, you keep it up and maybe I’ll think about it.”
And when you get home and bid him a goodnight with a thank-you kiss to his cheek, Lee has to resist touching himself in the shower to the memory of you in that sinful number.
— 5
When he comes home from the store that Saturday, he immediately searches for you. He doesn’t have to look very long when he hears the groan that spills into the main hall from the living room. He trudges over there, setting aside his cap as he approaches.
“Baby girl, w—”
The words die quick in his throat. A swift slice, like his vocal cords have been severed clean off. His breath catches in his throat, barely making it out; when it does, it comes out as a weak, shaky exhale.
Because there are you are, splayed out on a yoga mat in tiny spandex shorts that dig into your ass, molded around the shape of your gorgeous behind. A sports bra that looks much too small is the only thing protecting your heavenly tits from spilling out into Lee’s greedy hands.
You’re on your knees, leaning to the left with one hand on the mat and the other arm over your head to stretch. With every extra push, you let out another groan. You don’t even notice that he’s stepped into the room. That he’s watching you from the side where he sees the bra creep up your side a little, where he sees the globes of your ass pressing against the balls of your feet.
“What are you doing?” The words are strangled as they leave his mouth.
You stiffen only momentarily and slowly melt when you see that it’s him. A small smile spreads across your face. “Hi, daddy. I’m just stretching.”
“Why?”
You flinch when you twist a little too fast. “I might’ve pulled something yesterday at work, or maybe it’s just because of all the lifting we’ve been doing with deliveries. My back isn’t feeling so good.”
“Oh, that sounds terrible.”
You hum. For a while, Lee does nothing but watch, because there isn’t anything he can do. Still, he’s enjoying the view. You rotate between a few positions.
For one, you’re on all fours, back arching and curving slowly. Lee imagines it’s him standing behind you, sinking his cock into you that has your body curling that way, moans tumbling from your lips for no other reason aside from how full you feel.
Then you’re on your knees and your entire body splays down forward, hands stretched out in front of you. Lee imagines you sinking down on his dick just like that, jutting your hips back and forth to slip and slide his length into you until he’s gripping your hips tight.
Absolute sin.
His voice is hoarse when he asks, “Do you want to see the doctor?”
Shaking your head, you smile at him again reassuringly. “No, I just need to stretch it out and give it some time. It’s just tricky because I can’t seem to stretch hard enough.”
Lee’s throat moves as he swallows the saliva that pools on his tongue at the sight of you. Sexy, innocent, seemingly so blind to how much he wants you.
“I can help if you need.”
“Yeah? Would you mind just pressing down on my back so I can get a better stretch?”
You don’t have to ask him twice. Lee nods as you reposition yourself again, seated with your legs stretched in front of you. Your fingers reach for your toes and Lee kneels behind you, hands carefully settling on your shoulders. Gently, he begins pushing forward, keeping a relatively safe distance between his body and yours.
“You can push harder, daddy, I’m not going to break,” you laugh.
Lee imagines there are other ways he can try to break you instead. He closes his eyes, breathes through his nose, as he inches slightly closer so he can apply more pressure on your back, folding you closer to your knees. The moan that leaves your lips is erotic to say the least. It shoots for a target straight at his cock, which is quickly chubbing up and touching the low of your back. He prays it isn’t as obvious, that you don’t comment on the fact that he’s getting a hard-on from helping his stepdaughter stretch.
Your shoulders tense only momentarily, muscles flexing beneath Lee’s palm, but you release that again to let him continue to stretch you.
At this point, with the way his erection is digging into your back, it’s impossible for you not to feel it — but you don’t say anything. Instead, you tell him to keep going. His cock twitches in his pants, as if it’s actively seeking direct contact with your skin. As if it knows it’s being encouraged by your words.
When he finally releases you, you let out another satisfied breath. “Thanks, daddy. That was really good. Feelin’ better already.”
“Good, good,” he chokes out.
You reach across your body again, over your shoulder to give it a squeeze. “Do you know any good massage spots in town? I might have to get all these knots worked out.”
Lee freezes. He can’t imagine you getting a masseur who’s going to put their oil-covered hands all over your naked form. He doesn’t want to imagine that. He won’t let it happen.
“Sugar, you don’t need to be goin’ out there for that. Your old man can help you.”
A look flits across your eyes, quick enough that Lee misses the chance to decipher what it is. “You’d really do that for me?”
Lee grunts his agreement, partly because he also doesn’t trust himself to voice it, fearing that the thrill coursing through his veins would leak into his words. You splay out on the mat face down and then you do the unthinkable — you start peeling your bra off, letting it pool next to your head.
He makes a garbled sound that has you peeking over your shoulder. There is a sheepish look on your face, which makes Lee even harder in his pants. That innocent look, with how enticing you look half naked in front of him, is torture.
“Uhm, I thought it would be easier. Plus, it’s a little tight for me.”
“Right, keep your head down.”
This is both his greatest dream and worst nightmare. His calloused hands are careful as they land on your shoulders. He works from your side first, pressing the heel of his palm into the back of your shoulders in slow circles. Small grunts and whines leave your mouth with every push delivered. He rolls his hands across your back, down your torso, grazing the sides of your breasts, where he feels you squirm a little.
“Sorry, sugar,” he mumbles, steering his hands into safer territory in an effort not to scare you.
“Don’t be,” you hum as you turn your head to the side. “Feels good. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
A small flame flickers deep inside his gut, one of hope. Perhaps he’s being foolishly optimistic, but it almost seems as if you want this — his hands on you, teasing you, all over you. And who is he to deny his sweet girl?
So he continues his ministrations, hands moving to your lower spine to press into your sides.
“Hey, daddy,” you pipe up, “it’s feeling a little unbalanced because you’re doing it from the side. Can you center it a little?”
Lee’s hands stop. “I’d have to be on top of you to center it, baby girl.”
“That’s fine.”
His eyes slide shut, squeezing in disbelief. This has got to be some form of cruel and unusual punishment, because why would he be tested like this? When his cock is rock hard beneath the fabric of his pants.
Still, he’s never been one to say no to any opportunity to get closer to you, so he climbs over you, straddling your legs. He’s careful not to put his entire weight there but you giggle, reassuring him that it’s alright to sit more comfortably.
“I like having your weight on top,” you grin almost teasingly.
Another blasphemous curse rolls across his mind.
Lee doesn’t trust himself to respond appropriately again so he just nods before his hands return to your back. They slide and push and press, stroking your soft skin with rough hands. The more he leans forward, the more he nudges up against your ass. At this point, his covered cock his poking up against your core.
As he continues to massage your back, he can’t help but rut himself a little against you. Gentle bumps, nothing too conspicuous. At least, that’s what he thinks. He’s this close to cumming because you’re so fucking warm and soft and goddamn delicious underneath him. It would be all too easy for him to just yank down your pants and shove his fat cock into you. He’d hear your cute little yelp when he fills you up all the way, wrapping around him with a vice grip.
His breathing is heavy, labored the longer he works on your back. His balls feel so full, so fucking tight as his cock grinds against your plush ass. You, still none the wiser — but how can you be? Lee isn’t even trying to hide it anymore. How his fingers falter as they press into your back, slipping when his cock gets just the right amount of friction. When he angles it just right. When he accidentally brushes the sides of your tits again, and when those touches become not-so-accidental.
His stomach coils tight, a heavy weight dragging him down to the pit. And he can practically taste it with how he’s pressed up against you, the desire to pull out his cock and finish all over your pale shorts. But when you look over your shoulder to peek at him, it’s like he’s been doused with cold water all over again.
Embarrassment soaks him before he can finish, his hips stop moving, so do his hands. Your eyes hold a question that never seems to get asked.
“You should be good, all the knots are gone.”
A grateful smile dances on your lips. “Thanks, daddy. Knew I could always count on you.”
+1
The fated day has arrived when his wife — your mother — is to return home. She had texted him when she landed but immigration in Columbus International Airport isn’t the most fun experience, especially when she’s getting off a sixteen-hour trip with a two-hour layover somewhere on the East Coast. She sounded exhausted on the phone as she collected her bags and made her way to the taxi stand.
Lee only murmurs his acknowledgment before he goes over to your room, ready to let you know that your ma will be home soon. With the drive from Columbus to this town, Lee suspects she’ll be here in an hour. An hour and a half tops with traffic.
“Baby girl,” he knocks gently on the door, careful not to surprise you.
No response. His brows furrow. He knows you’re home, your shoes are by the door. He knocks again, a little firmer this time, calling out your name. When he still doesn’t hear anything, his worry only grows. His big hand wraps around the doorknob and gives it a good twist, the door opening quietly.
The first thing he spots is your bare legs, your feet with toes curled on your mattress. As the door opens further, he freezes when he sees the state of you. Where your legs begin, you have a hand trapped between them, working fervently at your cunt.
This is the first time Lee’s ever seen it. He’s felt it through two separating layers, but looking at it glistening underneath the golden glow of your lamp and your fingers sparkling with moisture, Lee’s mouth dries. Fuck me, is his only thought. No, really, fuck me.
You’re in nothing more but a t-shirt as you wriggle around the bed, chasing that feeling. Earphones are stuck in your ears, the wires tangling where they’re connected to your phone and he can see a completely inappropriate video playing on it. Your bottom lip is trapped between your teeth as you whine, dipping your fingers into your cunt, spreading out your pussy lips.
Lee doesn’t think he has ever seen anything more beautiful than you in that moment.
This is wrong. He should leave. He should pretend he never saw anything. He shouldn’t make you uncomfortable.
But then his mind runs through the last few weeks — these little moments with you. How your eyes light up around him. How you had let him suckle on your finger. How he had seen a glimpse of those pretty nipples when your towel slipped. How you let him grab your gorgeous bare thigh. How you allowed him to rut against you like a dog in heat. They all accumulate to a simple conclusion.
You want this as much as he does.
So he closes the door gently, enough not to alarm you of his presence. His eyes track your fingers in sick fascination, seeing how you work yourself into a frenzy. Slow then fast, circles before plunging back in, rubbing over your sensitive bundle of nerves. Then he sees how you like spreading your lips open, letting the cool air kiss your wet skin, trailing a single finger up and down like you’re teasing yourself.
Christ, you’re the star of every wet dream he has ever had since puberty hit him. This is what his dreams are made of. The girl of his dreams.
And it comes wrapped in a pretty pink t-shirt.
You still haven’t detected his presence, your eyes completely focused on the scene that unfolds before you. The slide of a cock inside a pretty cunt — one that doesn’t even begin to compare to yours. Lee stands with his hands in his pockets at the foot of your bed for a second, just watching. His cock is standing erect already, a perpetual, painful state he’s been in since the month started. His eyes — always on you.
Then you shift, almost imperceptibly, but enough that your periphery catches sight of him. The shriek you let out is almost comical as you pull your t-shirt lower, your wet fingers catching onto the cotton. Your clean hand yanks your earphones from your ear, quickly turning your phone to face your bed.
“D-daddy, what are you— oh my god, what are you doing in here?”
Lee’s lips quirk up in amusement. “I was goin’ to tell you your ma’s on her way home, but you seemed a bit preoccupied.”
Shame unfolds across every inch of your expression as your eyes dart between him, the door, your phone, and then back again. “I, uhm, didn’t hear you come in. I would’ve—”
“You would’ve what, baby girl?”
Your eyes flutter for a moment, as if your brain, in your frazzled state, is trying to resist his sweet pet names. “I would’ve… made myself decent.”
“Never asked for you to be decent,” Lee says simply, raising an eyebrow at you as he leans back a bit in his posture. His gaze trails from your bare toes, up your gorgeous legs, to your hand still twisted around the hem of your tee. Then your cute lips, parted in surprise, and your eyes ever so clear staring right through him.
Your throat moves as you swallow. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying we’ve got about an hour before your ma walks through that door. Plenty of time. Certainly not enough for what I want to do with you.”
“Fuck,” you squeak out.
Lee tongues his cheek, narrowing his eyes at you. “Language.”
“Sorry, daddy,” you whisper.
“Now, I’m giving you two options: you either spread open those legs again for me, or you keep them closed and I’ll walk right out. We never have to speak of this again.”
He can practically see the gears turning in your head as you contemplate his offer. Flickers of worry, desire, fear, and interest cross your pretty eyes. Your chest rises with every stuttered breath you take.
It’s a quiet standoff. Lee’s laid his cards down, now it’s your turn — whether you’ll call or fold.
Slowly, he observes as your fingers untangle from your shirt, as your gaze shifts away to a distant corner in your room, as your legs slowly open for him. But it’s not enough. He can’t even see your pussy.
“Don’t seem very clear, sugar.”
Ducking your head shyly, you plant your feet closer towards you, knees bending, as you separate your legs further, the hem of your shirt slipping down your thighs to expose more of you. Lee’s salivating at the sight, your pretty pussy ripe for the taking. Your cunt practically sparkles, like the sun in the open sea, clenching around nothing as Lee releases a rough exhale through his nose.
“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, approaching you until he’s crawling on top of your bed. He leans over you, hands planted on each knee to open up your legs more.
A whimper rises up your throat at the look on his face. Hungry. Absolutely ravenous. His hand reaches down and replaces your fingers, bigger, thicker. A finger trails up your cunt to gather the sticky liquid of your desire. You jerk underneath him, sensitive to the touch, but he presses your legs down to stay in place.
“What were you watchin’, baby girl? Tell me. What gets my girl off?”
My girl. You react so well to those words, body melting into your sheets. “Nothin’, daddy.”
He presses his thumb against your clit, drawing out a delicious cry. “Don’t go lyin’ to me now. I saw you watching something inappropriate. Got you so hot and bothered, had to have your hand between your legs.”
Your teeth catch your bottom lip again.
“Nothin’ wrong with what you’re doing, baby girl. It’s a natural part of life. Daddy just wants to know to make sure he can take care of you properly. Can’t have my girl disappointed with me now, can I?”
You look up at him with those sweet eyes again. Pleading. Pupils dark with a need he can so easily read. “I was just—” your breath hitches, “I was watching a girl with her daddy takin’ care of her.”
Lee groans out loud this time, the sound dragged out of his throat against his will. “Yeah? Was he takin’ good care of her?”
Wordlessly, you nod.
“I could do that too, you know. You don’t have to watch those videos. I can take real good care of you, sugar.”
“How would you do that?”
“Think you know,” he replies low. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do it. I’ll make all your fantasies come true.”
You gape up at him, those pretty lips that he’s just dying to kiss. But he resists, he wants you to make the first move, wants you to ask him for what you want.
“Want you to fuck me, want your cock in me,” you whisper. It’s so sweet, and so soft, that he nearly misses it. Misses the way your tongue curls around the word cock.
“God, sugar, you’re going to be the death of me.” A shy smile is what he’s greeted with. “Let me prepare you first. I need to stretch you out, make sure you’re ready to take me.”
“I stretched myself out already,” you whine needily, “I promise. Just want your cock. Been thinkin’ about it for a while.”
Lee unbuttons his pants and pulls his cock free. It’s already red and leaking, twitching as if drawn to the wet hole right in front of him. “Yeah? How long?”
“Since I moved in,” you admit. There’s something so innocent in the way you quietly confess to him, like he’s your priest and you’re divulging your sins. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about how thick your cock would be. I can hear my ma you know, when you take her. I get so jealous knowing she gets you, gets to feel you inside her.”
He feels like a goddamn teenager with how quickly he reacts to your words. Knowing that you’ve been living under the same roof for months, every sway of your ass distracting him. If he had known all along that you wanted this as much as he did — fuck, he would’ve caved to his desires a long time ago.
You didn’t want a moral man. You just wanted a good man to take care of you — and Lee is here to oblige.
His fingers find your core again, slipping one inside. A gasp is pulled from your lips at the stretch. Even his finger is thick, Lee knows that. Despite what you say, he knows he has to stretch you out a little more before you can take his cock without splitting you apart, without bleeding you.
“Yeah? You touch yourself to me, sugar? You listen to how good I make your ma feel and imagine that it’s you instead?”
Another sharp inhale as your fingers curl around his hand that’s digging into your pussy. He strokes you gently, curling his finger to soften your insides, opening you up to him. “Mhmm, fuck, imagine it feels so good. I see you lookin’ at me too. I know you pay attention. I know you like what I wear.”
“You bet your sweet pussy I do,” Lee groans, “needa fuck you in that uniform sometime. Keep your stockings and shoes on. Bend you over the diner counter for everyone to see what a good girl you are for your daddy.”
You let out a long moan from deep in your gut. “W-want that. I want that, daddy. I’ll be so good to you, I promise. Wear whatever you want me to wear, as long as you take care of me after.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” he grunts, easing in another finger into you. The stretch burns more judging by how you flinch. He knew your fingers wouldn’t be enough. “Look at you, already in pain from two of my fingers. How are you gonna handle my cock, baby girl? We can stick to my fingers tonight—”
“No, please,” you immediately protest, “I want your cock. I’ve been thinkin’ about it for too long. Especially since you pressed up against me the other day. Could feel how hard it was, how much you wanted me.”
Lee still remembers that feeling of rubbing up against your soft ass. He should’ve just taken the chance and taken his dick out, should’ve rutted against you bare. You would’ve liked that too.
While you continue to narrate all the dirty things you’ve thought about — and there are a lot, Lee fucks you open with his fingers. He scissors them inside, testing the limits of your cunt. He can feel you relaxing against him and your walls becoming more flexible.
You’re ready.
“Alright, I’m going to fuck you now. You gonna tell me if anything hurts, yeah?” A nod. “Need you to use your words.”
“Yes, daddy, I will.”
“Good girl.”
Oh and how you bask in the praise, that big smile on your face, like he doesn’t have two fingers stuffed deep inside your pretty pussy.
He drags his fingers out and licks them clean, groaning. “Gonna have to eat your cunt out one day, baby girl. Promise you I’ll make you feel good.”
“I know you will.”
The trust you have in him is endearing. It almost makes him feel rotten for taking advantage of you. Almost. Then again, you want this, you said so yourself. He never did anything to encourage your behavior; in fact, it seemed like you were intentionally trying to lure him into your honeyed trap. Catch him vulnerable.
Just like today. Maybe it had all been orchestrated by you. But he’s not one to complain, especially when the end result is exactly what he wants.
Lee strokes his cock a few times, collecting some of your juices to lube himself up. It’s been so long since he’s cum. His balls feel heavy, he feels like he could burst any second now but he wants to enjoy this. It’s his first time with you after all.
Then he has an idea. He tugs out his phone from his pocket and opens up the camera app.
“A-are you recording this?” You ask warily, trepidation glazing your voice.
“That okay with you? Figured we’ll make a memory here today that we’ll want to keep. We can make one just like those videos you watch. You can watch this one instead, see what your pussy looks like when it takes me.”
Oh, you like the idea. Your eyelids flitting, a fight to stay open at the thought. The nod is all he needs before he positions himself at your entrance, his tip against your tight little hole. He knows he should be putting on a condom, but he’s waited too long for this. The last thing he wants to do is waste time searching for one.
If anything happens, Lee will take care of you — either help you with the baby or take you a few towns over to get that taken care of. Whichever you wanted.
For now, his focus is on you and this cunt that’s basically begging for him to fill it up.
Lee’s watching you through his phone, his camera capturing every second in which Lee inches deeper into you. The slow glide of his cock into your tight pussy, how greedily your cunt eats him up. It clamps down around him, tightening, convulsing with a need for more. He has the entire thing recorded and he pans his camera up to capture the blissful look on your face, the way your lips open in awe, your eyes squeezing shut with the delicious ache.
“Look at you, my little star. We’ll be just like those people you were watchin’, even got our own video,” Lee grins, directing the camera lower again just as he buries himself halfway in.
You look embarrassed as you cover up your face, legs beginning to close again. “Daddy, no.”
Oh fuck. It’s one thing to hear you call him that, it’s another to listen to you whine that out when he’s inside you — especially when he knows how much that gets you off. “Better spread your legs wider for your daddy before your ma catches him between your legs,” Lee grunts and zooms the camera to where the two of you are joined. He begins to ease in and out of you, careful not to move too fast and hurt you.
He finds a steady pace, one that builds the heat inside your core until you’re comfortable enough with the size of him. He sees your pussy flutter around him, around his girth. He fills you up completely. He doesn’t even know if you’ve had anyone else in you before, but you sure as hell feel like a virgin, and that’s enough for him.
Lee presses your knees deeper into your chest as he fucks into you, holding you down against the bed. “Look at this pretty pearl just for me,” he murmurs softly, too soft for what he’s doing. His free hand reaches down and presses against that sensitive nub again, which elicits another stimulated whine from your lips. “Takin’ me so well, sugar. Your pussy’s so fuckin’ greedy, she’s eatin’ me right up. You’re a good girl though. You can take all of me, can’t you? Yes, you can. Fit all of daddy’s cock inside your tiny cunt.”
You buck up against him at his words, back arching at the same time another groan bubbles up your chest. “Fuck, daddy, please. Feels so good. So full.”
“Mhmm, you’ve been teasin’ and temptin’ me all month. Look at you now, can’t even talk properly. My pretty baby is dumb when she’s got a cock in her, ain’t that right?”
Shaking your head in denial, you can’t seem to match it with your words. Your vocabulary dies in your throat, the pages of your dictionary ripped open and burnt to ashes with every strike of friction inside of you.
Lee laughs, dark and low. “You’ve been askin’ for this, haven’t you? All you wanted was a fat cock to split you open, make sure that you don’t have to think no more. You just gotta lie back and look pretty while daddy fucks you with his cock. Why didn’t you just ask me, hm?”
“Please, hnnng, it burns. It hurts,” you whine and toss your head back against your pillows as Lee continues to thrust into you. Each slide is easier now that you’re wetter, slick coating his cock every time he pushes in you. Despite what you say, your hips are moving in a way to pull him in closer, deeper. His favorite girl’s a greedy little slut who doesn’t know how to ask for what she wants.
“I know, I know, baby girl. It’ll take a bit okay. I’ll go real easy on you,” Lee promises and he means it. He doesn’t want to hurt you, wants to make sure every bit of this is as good for you as it is for him.
He’s not a fucking asshole. He loves you like his own and he’s going to make sure you’re taken care of.
Lee moves painstakingly slow, easing himself out of you only to slowly move back in. He does it over and over again, practically edging himself. Sometimes, the slower the plunge, the greater the impact. It’s like he’s dragging out his death and you’re his beautiful executioner.
Only when you start moaning, your fingers tightening around him to pull him closer, does he start to fuck you a little faster. “Good girl, look at you. Takin’ daddy’s cock like a champ. Always knew you’d be so good at this.”
“So good, so, so good,” you mumble hazily through the fog of lust that’s settled around the room. “You’re so big, mmm, don’t think I can take you all the way.”
You’re not wrong. Lee’s gone halfway in this entire time, but each thrust brings him deeper and deeper inside. Soon enough, he knows he’ll be able to see the imprint of his cock in your stomach. He can already see your pelvis bulging with his every thrust.
“I know you can,” he coos, “you’re already takin’ so much of me. I know you can take all of me.”
The room is soon filled with a symphony of moans and whines, promises of satisfaction, pleas of hungry desire. It’s the kind of melody that Lee’s been looking for, the notes within reach but he could never touch them. Not until now. Not until you’re underneath him, your legs bent as you take him inside.
But he wants more. There’s still so much separation right now. So he elongates your legs up into the air, pressing in deeper into you with your limbs now extended. You can certainly feel the difference when he manages to bury himself all the way to the hilt.
It feels fucking divine. He doesn’t know when the second coming is but he thinks it’ll feel pretty damn close to this.
“My sweet, baby girl. Look at you. You’re doin’ so well for me,” he mutters praises in your ear as he fucks his love into you, driving his cock in over and over until he has you writhing and whining underneath him. Your hands squeeze his broad shoulders, still fully clothed.
You’re so cute, so sweet. So soft. Pliant and malleable underneath his hands. Your voracious cunt swallows him up so well, taking in every inch of him without complaint. The little bit of resistance left only makes it better, keeps you nice and snug around him.
Lee’s mid-thrust when his phone vibrates in his hand. Your eyes whip open as you gasp, trying to scramble away from him but his fingers only tighten on your waist to keep you in place with a stern glare. “Keep it quiet, sugar. Gotta talk to your ma.”
He ends his recording and, before even waiting for your approval, Lee swipes to answer on speaker as he carries on fucking into you. Your hands fly to your mouth and your eyes roll to the back of your head. Your stomach clenches, twisting, as he continues to slide into you.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Lee says, a little breathless, a little shaky.
“Hey, Lee. Traffic’s actually pretty light so I should be back in the next ten minutes or so.”
Lee grunts his acknowledgment. Sweat beads his brow as he thinks about how he should really be focused on his girl underneath him, and he’s wondering why his wife is telling him a useless tidbit. Still, knowing that she is ten minutes away is enough to spur him on, giving him a deadline to work towards.
“Alright, we’ll be here.”
Your name rolls off your mother’s tongue and you immediately look at Lee in panic. “Has she been good? Is she behaving?”
“Yeah, she’s good—” a real good slut with her legs open for him right now, “—she listens well.”
A giggle from your mother. “She’s a good kid. I’m glad she has you now, Lee.”
He’s glad you have him too, especially when you have him buried inside you, all of his inches and thickness. “Me too. She’s a good girl.” He says pointedly, looking right at you. You soften like butter, swallowing back a whine. “She’s been real good for me, treating me well. I gotta take care of her. Make sure she’s enjoyin’ life here under my roof.”
“You’re a good man,” your mother hums again, “okay, I’ll stay on the road for now. See you when I’m home.”
She doesn’t have to tell him twice. He quickly hangs up and flings that phone away so he can concentrate all of his energy on you. With no more limitations and your mother too close for comfort, Lee begins pounding into you relentlessly. His balls slap against your ass, skin making contact on skin. His fingers are bruising on your hips but neither of you seems to mind when the flame that sparks between you has been fueled into something bigger, something more alive.
“Ya heard your ma? I’m a good man. She’s praisin’ me for takin’ real good care of her little girl — our little girl,” Lee chuckles, licking his lips. “Little does she know her good girl knows just how to get on her new daddy’s good side.”
“Daddy, please,” you mewl again, fingers glawing at his hands. “Needa finish, need to before she comes home.”
“Don’t worry, sugar. Your ma being home isn’t gonna keep me from fuckin’ you real good anymore. We’ll keep it real quiet, yeah? We’ll enjoy it still.”
You hiccup again, tears leaking from your eyes as you look up at him wide-eyed. “H-how would we do that?”
“I’ll take you out for a drive, for ice cream. Park somewhere quiet and take you in the back seat. I’ll take you when she’s fast asleep at night, when neither of us can focus because I haven’t had my dick in you for too long. Hell, I’ll even take you in the kitchen after dinner when she’s busy watching the TV in the livin’ room. We’ve got options, baby girl. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”
The idea, the image of it, is almost too much to bear. Lee can feel your cunt tightening around his cock, squeezing like it’s trying to keep him inside. Knowing you’re close, Lee’s spurred on by the possibility of spilling all his cum into you. It would be easy. You’d be so easily knocked up; god knows it’s near impossible to get birth control around here.
Your mom would never know who did this to her daughter, never know that it’s the same man sworn to protect her little girl who put a baby in her baby. That is, until the baby comes out bearing a striking resemblance to him.
But no, he can’t have that. He can’t risk that. As much as he loves the idea, he doesn’t want anyone taking you away from him. It means that he has to play safe, he has to pull out. Maybe he should’ve put a condom on first but he just couldn’t resist you.
Now, all he has to rely on is his self-restraint, which has never been anything more than fragile. His thrusts refuse to cease as he continues fucking into you, filthy nothings spilling into your ear like honey.
“Feel so good, sugar. You were made to take my cock. I was meant to find you. Never letting you go.”
“Please,” you cry out again, “please, daddy, I wanna cum. Can’t hold it anymore. Feels so good, so full.” Your legs quake like autumn leaves in the air.
Lee finally leans forward far enough, pushing your legs further against your chest as he slants his lips over yours. The first taste is sweet, even more so when he drinks in your whines and whimpers. He sticks his tongue into your mouth and licks yours hungrily.
“My baby girl tastes so good, should’ve been kissin’ you all this time. Tastin’ this sweet little tongue of yours. Next time, I’m gonna have you wrap that around my cock.”
You nod eagerly, “Mhmm, I can do that. I can make you feel good too.”
Lee groans, “You already make me feel good, sugar. You’re fuckin’ perfect.”
“Will you cum with me?” You pant earnestly, eyes looking up at you with such devotion that Lee feels his belly tighten.
“‘Course, sugar. Come on. You can do this. Give me your cum, baby girl. I’ll cum after you do, can’t do it if you don’t finish first. Need to know your old man gave it to you good.”
Your eyes follow the thick line of his neck, the way sweat rolls down his face and drips onto you. How his thick stomach pushes up against you so soft while his hard cock fills you up real good. It doesn’t take long for you to come apart before him, and he feels it first in the tightening of your pussy, choking out his cock.
Then your entire body is wracked with shudders, your head thrown back in the euphoria that overcomes you.
Seeing you, his favorite girl, his only girl, completely overwhelmed with pleasure is what tips him over the edge. Because he did that. He took care of his girl and got her there — and there’s no better knowledge.
His quickly drags himself out with a groan, jerking his cock a few more times before cum spurts out from his tip all over your belly, painting white ropes across your swollen pussy. His stomach is still twisted so tight as he lets out stammered moans.
You’re quite the sight. Naked, heaving, painted. You’re a work of art. One that belongs to him and only him.
“Christ, baby girl, nearly came inside you,” Lee huffs a laugh, pressing his lips against your temple. His legs feel weak, he nearly slumps over you with all of his weight. “Your pretty cunt’s just too good.”
Your eyes widen again, brightening the thin iris that’s barely visible with how far your pupil’s blown. Lee smirks, making a note that you like the idea of it. Maybe it’s not a bad idea to have you on birth control; that way, he can fuck you and cum in you whenever he wants, however he wants.
The things that he could do—
“I’m home!” Your mother calls out from downstairs as the front door slams.
Lee breathes heavy against you, his cock still twitching with the last drops of his cum spilling on top of your pussy. He snatches up your underwear from the side and slowly drags it up your legs, the fabric immediately darkening, soaking with his cum.
“Now, put on your pretty face and let’s go say hi to your ma.”
“I’m going to smell like sex, daddy,” you whine quietly, looking down at your cum-filled panties.
“I know, better hope she doesn’t notice.”
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lee kisses! (tags): @houseofhyde @bckyslover @its-in-the-woods @barnes-babydoll @/phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @opheliabbarnes @blowingbarnes @/stanmarvelous
summary : When the Ghostface killings began, you found safety in your best friend 𝓑𝓾𝓬𝓴𝔂 𝓑𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓼, only to discover the dark secret he hid.
word count : 16,8k
warnings 18+ : this is very very dark so please read with caution!!! college au, no use of y/n, porn with plot, inspired by the scream franchise, explicit sexual content, knife play, violence and gore, mentions of blood, organs, killings, stabbing, phone threats, psychological horror, oral sex (m & f recieving), fingering, squirting, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!!), masturbation, breeding, obssesion, gaslighting, verbal threats, coercion, dub con, degradation and humiliation
𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓽𝓮 : hii!! holy shit this got so fucking long, my bad... wrapping up kinktober with totally unhinged ghostface!bucky barnes, maybe binged fresh and scream for some twisted inspo :3 hope you’re into it!! huge thanks for all the love on my kinktober fics AND 400 FOLLOWERSS HOLYYYYYYY I LOVE YALL SO MUCH <3333
The campus lay hushed beneath the October sky, a brittle silence that seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something unspeakable. Bucky moved like a wraith, his black coat billowing slightly as he glided through the shadows, the Ghostface mask, white, hollow-eyed, mouth frozen in a scream tilting with each calculated step.
The knife strapped to his thigh, its serrated edge snug in a leather sheath, brushed against his jeans, a faint whisper of death in the quiet. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly under the moonlight, a cold contrast to the warmth of the thrill coursing through him, familiar and intoxicating. The air tonight reeked of fear and desire, sharp with the decay of fallen leaves and the promise of blood.
Jake had no clue Bucky was coming. He shouldn’t have.
Bucky had been watching him for days, stalking from the edges of campus life, noting every stolen glance Jake aimed at you, every laugh he shared with you in the cafeteria, every “accidental” graze of his hand against your shoulder in the crowded lecture halls.
Each moment was a trespass, a violation that clawed at Bucky’s insides. You, with your sweet, oblivious smile, thought nothing of it, your innocence was what made you his, what made you perfect. But Bucky saw through Jake’s charade.
He knew the rot behind those easy smirks, the hunger in those lingering stares. Worst of all, he’d overheard Jake at lunch, his voice low and smug as he bragged to his friends about what he’d do to you if he got you alone, filthy fantasies of cornering you, making you his in ways that made Bucky’s blood boil.
That was it. That was more than Bucky could stomach.
You were his best friend. His doll. His. Nobody else got to think of you like that. Nobody else got to breathe near you with that kind of intent. Nobody… but him.
Jake’s dorm room was dim, lit only by the sickly glow of a desk lamp and the faint pulse of music leaking from his oversized headphones, some generic trap beat that drowned out the world. He was sprawled on his bed, scrolling through his phone, oblivious to the Ghostface mask peering through the cracked window, its black eyes fixed on him from the shadows.
Bucky’s hands, one flesh and one metal, tingled with the cold, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except you, keeping you safe, keeping you his.
He dialed Jake’s number first. Part of the game. Part of the ritual that made his pulse sing. The burner phone’s ringtone cut through the muffled music like a knife through flesh, and Jake jolted upright, fumbling for his phone.
“Hello?” His voice was shaky, already threaded with unease. Perfect.
“What’s your favorite scary movie?” Bucky rasped, his voice distorted through the modulator he’d rigged, low and menacing. The words carried a mocking lilt, anger and dark amusement bleeding into every syllable.
Jake forced a laugh, rubbing his neck, trying to play it cool. “Uh… Halloween? Friday the 13th? Hey, who is this? This some kinda prank?”
Bucky’s lips curled beneath the Ghostface mask, his head tilting as he savored the tremor in Jake’s voice. “Wrong answer, Jake,” he whispered. “You’re in my movie tonight.”
Jake froze, his eyes darting to the door, but it was too late. Bucky had already slipped inside through the window he’d jimmied earlier, silent as death itself, his vibranium arm absorbing any sound. His boots barely touched the floor, each step deliberate, a predator closing in on prey.
The room smelled of cheap cologne, stale pizza, and the faint musk of Jake’s gym bag, but Bucky could already taste the coppery tang that would soon overwhelm it all. He dragged the serrated knife along the edge of Jake’s desk as he approached, the blade scraping faintly against the wood, sending a shiver of anticipation up his spine.
Jake was still clutching the phone, stammering, “Man, this isn’t funny-” when Bucky struck. In one fluid motion, he was behind him, vibranium hand clamping over Jake’s mouth, silencing the scream before it could escape.
The Ghostface mask tilted close, its hollow eyes reflecting Jake’s widening terror as Bucky pressed the knife against his throat, the serrated edge biting just enough to draw a thin bead of blood warm, slick, trickling down like a warning.
The first cut wasn’t meant to kill. Not yet. Bucky wanted Jake to feel it, to know who was in control. He drove the blade into Jake’s side, just below the ribcage, the serrated edge tearing through skin and muscle with a wet, ripping sound. Jake’s body arched, a muffled scream vibrating against Bucky’s metal palm as blood gushed, soaking his t-shirt, the dark red blooming like a grotesque flower.
The knife grated against bone as Bucky twisted it, savoring the resistance, the way Jake’s body bucked in agony. He yanked the blade free with a sickening squelch, blood spraying in a fine mist, splattering the Ghostface mask. The wall caught some too, Jake’s tacky posters of bikini-clad models now streaked with gore, as if they were bleeding too.
Jake’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees, hands clawing at the wound, fingers slipping in the hot, viscous blood that poured out like syrup.
“P-please… I didn’t… I swear…” he choked, voice breaking into sobs, tears and snot mixing on his face as he looked up at the Ghostface mask looming over him.
The sight of it Bucky’s cold blue eyes barely visible through the black sockets, unyielding, merciless, sent Jake into a panic. He scrambled backward, knocking over a lamp that shattered on the floor, his heels slipping in the growing pool of his own blood. The stench hit hard now: copper, piss, and raw fear, thick enough to choke on.
Bucky tilted the Ghostface mask, watching Jake’s pathetic crawl with the detached curiosity of a hunter studying a wounded animal. Adrenaline and obsession surged in his chest, a heady cocktail that made his blood sing.
“You thought about her,” he hissed, voice low and venomous through the modulator, each word dripping with possession. “You talked about her. You don’t get to do that, Jake. She’s mine.”
Jake’s hands scrabbled at the carpet, leaving bloody streaks as he tried to drag himself toward the door. Bucky stepped forward, deliberate and slow, savoring the moment.
He grabbed Jake by the hair, yanking his head back to expose the pale, sweat-slick column of his throat. The knife flashed again, this time slicing deep, parting skin and muscle with a wet, tearing sound.
The carotid artery gave way in a violent gush, blood spraying in rhythmic pulses. It dripped from the chin of the mask, pooling on the floor, soaking into Bucky’s boots. Jake’s body convulsed, a gurgling scream bubbling up as blood flooded his throat, spilling over his lips in a frothy red tide. His hands twitched, clawing weakly at the air, then went still, his eyes rolling back, glassy and vacant.
Bucky stood over him, chest heaving, the knife dripping in his hand. The room was a slaughterhouse now, blood smeared across the walls, pooling beneath Jake’s limp body, soaking the carpet until it squelched underfoot.
The Ghostface mask tilted one last time, as if admiring the carnage, before Bucky wiped the blade clean on the inside of his coat, the dark fabric swallowing the evidence.
His heart pounded, not with guilt but with a twisted, electric satisfaction. Jake was a lesson, a warning carved in flesh and blood for anyone who dared think of you that way.
He slipped out the window as silently as he’d come, the Ghostface mask tucked into his coat, his vibranium arm gleaming faintly under the moonlight. The campus stayed quiet, oblivious, as Bucky melted into the shadows, already thinking of you, safe, untouched, his.
The thrill of the kill lingered, sharp and sweet, but it was nothing compared to the thought of you, his pretty girl, forever out of reach of anyone else’s hands.
The next morning campus felt heavy, the air thick with a chill that sank into your bones. You gripped your coffee mug, its warmth fading as you entered the common room. Whispers swirled among pale-faced students huddled near the old TV, their eyes wide, phones clutched tightly. The fluorescent lights buzzed, casting a sickly glow.
“Did you hear about Jake?” a girl whispered, clutching her hoodie, knuckles white. “He didn’t make it.”
Your heart stuttered. “Wait- what?” you said, voice soft, the mug warm against your palm. Jake, your chem lab partner with the cocky grin, dead?
Her eyes darted nervously. “Someone called him last night. ‘What’s your favorite scary movie?’ Then…” Her voice cracked. “They found him… so much blood.”
The room tightened, the air suffocating. Goosebumps prickled your skin. You pictured Jake’s lingering stares, now heavy with his absence. Your gaze flicked to Bucky on the couch, laptop forgotten, his hoodie shadowing his sharp jaw. His eyes met yours, piercing, unreadable. A red cut marred his knuckle, raw and fresh.
“Cut myself cooking,” he said smoothly, shrugging, the cut vanishing into his sleeve. He stood, crossing the room, leaning close until his breath warmed your ear, smelling of coffee and something metallic.
“Just some psycho,” he murmured, voice a dark rumble. “College idiots with too many horror movies.”
You shivered, his gaze sharp, almost hungry, before it softened into a familiar grin. Unease knotted your stomach. His hand brushed yours, passing you your chipped mug, your spare, his thumb grazing your wrist, lingering too long.
“I’ve got you,” he said, voice heavy with certainty. “No one’s touching you.”
Your pulse quickened, caught between comfort and something tighter, dangerous. The TV flashed grainy footage: a janitor mopping East Hall, unaware of a cloaked figure trailing him, a serrated knife glinting under flickering lights. For a split second, a white mask, Ghostface, flashed, hollow-eyed, mouth gaping.
Your mug trembled, coffee sloshing. Bucky’s vibranium hand steadied your wrist, his voice calm. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you whispered, but the word felt fragile. His eyes watched you, memorizing your fear, your shallow breaths. A dark thought sparked, what if Bucky was behind that mask?
You pushed it away quickly, but it lingered, sharp and thrilling.
Bucky tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle but his eyes stormy.
“Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” he growled, a vow etched in stone. The TV looped the footage, the shadow vanishing. Whispers grew louder, but Bucky’s grip on your wrist tightened, anchoring you to him, a blade’s edge between safety and something far darker.
The dorm room was a cozy cocoon of familiar scents: the faint, greasy tang of microwave pizza, the warm, slightly musty smell of blankets piled haphazardly on your bed, and the lingering bitterness of late-night coffee clinging to the air.
You sprawled across your bed, legs tangled in a faded quilt, your laptop precariously balanced on your knees, its screen casting a soft blue glow over your face.
Textbooks teetered in uneven stacks on your desk, dog-eared pages and highlighters spilling out like a scholar’s battlefield. The room hummed with the quiet comfort of routine, the kind of lived-in mess that felt like home.
Bucky was on the floor, his broad back pressed against your bookshelf, its shelves sagging under the weight of novels and half-read philosophy texts. His headphones dangled loosely around his neck, the faint thump of some metal playlist barely audible, as he scribbled notes for an assignment neither of you fully understood, something about political theory that you’d both been dodging for weeks.
His dark hoodie was slightly rumpled, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the glint of his vibranium arm in the dim light, and a half-eaten pizza box sat open between you, grease spots blooming on the cardboard.
“Hey,” you said, nudging a slice of pepperoni pizza toward him with your foot, careful not to knock over your laptop. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna hog all of that by yourself.”
He smirked, not looking up from his notebook, but reached for the slice with a lazy grace, his fingers brushing the crust.
“You know me, doll. I eat what I want. You’re lucky I even share with my favorite roommate.” His voice was warm, teasing, but there was a weight to the word favorite that you didn’t quite catch, too busy rolling your eyes.
You laughed, grabbing a pen from your bed and tossing it at him. It bounced off his shoulder, but his vibranium hand snapped up, catching it midair with a precision that made your breath hitch for a split second. He tossed it back with a grin, the pen landing neatly in your lap.
“Careful,” he said, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “One more miss, and I might have to mark my territory.”
“Territory?” you teased, tilting your head, your hair falling over one shoulder as you propped yourself up on an elbow. “What, like Ghostface or something?”
Bucky’s head snapped up, his gaze locking onto yours with a sudden intensity that made your stomach flip. The air shifted, just for a moment, as if the room had inhaled and held its breath. Then he leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly murmur that sent a shiver down your spine. “Yup. You have no idea.”
You shivered but laughed it off, your heart giving a quick, unsteady thud. “Uh-huh, sure, Mr. Slasher,” you said, waving a hand dismissively, trying to shake the odd electricity in his stare. “Keep dreaming.”
He chuckled, leaning back, but his eyes lingered on you a second too long before he returned to his notes, the scratch of his pen filling the silence. You settled back into the night, the tension dissolving into the familiar rhythm of your friendship.
You argued over which horror movie to watch, your voice rising in mock indignation as you vetoed his suggestion of Scream for the third time this month.
“We’re watching The Shining,” you declared, clicking it open on your laptop. “It’s a classic, and I’m not dealing with your Ghostface obsession again.”
“Fine, fine,” Bucky conceded, his grin easy but his eyes sharp, like he was savoring a private joke. He shifted to sit beside you on the floor, his knees brushing against yours as he settled in, his arm casually draped over his leg, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.
It was just Bucky, your goofy, protective roommate, the guy who’d steal your snacks but always replace them, who’d stay up late to help you cram for exams even when he was dead tired. You didn’t think anything of the contact, the way his shoulder pressed lightly against yours. It was normal. Comfortable.
But there was an edge to him you didn’t notice, a tautness in his posture that didn’t match the easy smile he wore.
When you got up to grab more snacks from the tiny dorm kitchen, he was right behind you, his footsteps silent but his presence heavy.
“I’ve got it,” he said, reaching past you to grab the bag of popcorn from the top shelf before you could, his vibranium arm brushing your shoulder.
“Got what?” you asked, pouring soda into a chipped mug, the fizz bubbling over your fingers. You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow, half-expecting another teasing remark.
“Protection,” he said with a shrug, his voice deceptively light, like he was joking, but his eyes were steady, unyielding, fixed on you. “You never know what’s lurking out there.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing as you nudged his arm with your elbow. “You’re ridiculous, Buck. It’s a dorm, not a horror movie set.”
“Maybe,” he said, his smirk returning, but there was something darker in it, something that made the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. “But I like being safe. Especially when it comes to you.”
You laughed again, thinking it was just his usual overprotective streak, the way he’d always hover a little too close when you walked home late or glare at guys who got too flirty in the cafeteria.
“Uh-huh,” you teased, bumping his shoulder as you headed back to the bed. “You’d protect me if Ghostface showed up, right?”
Bucky’s smirk deepened, and he leaned just a fraction closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Always, doll.”
You settled back onto the floor, blankets draped over both of you like a makeshift fort, the laptop now perched on a pillow between you. Bucky nudged the mouse toward you, his fingers brushing yours, lingering just a second too long. “C’mon, pick a different one,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “Scariest one we’ve got.”
You smirked, scrolling through the streaming app with exaggerated slowness, just to mess with him. “You mean the one where I scream like a maniac and you just sit there eating pizza like it’s nothing?”
“Exactly,” he said, leaning closer again, his shoulder pressing against yours, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Screaming’s part of the fun. And I don’t mind seeing you squirm.”
You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly, but your laugh betrayed the flutter in your chest. “You’re awful.”
“And yet… your favorite,” he shot back, his eyes glinting in the dim light, the flickering glow of the laptop casting shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw, the intensity in his gaze.
Hours passed in a haze of popcorn crumbs, empty soda cans, and the eerie soundtrack of Halloween filling the room. Michael Myers stalked across the screen, and you flinched at every jump scare, your squeals mixing with the screams from the TV. Bucky stayed close, his presence a steady warmth beside you.
When a particularly loud scare made you jolt, he offered his arm, letting you grab onto it, his vibranium hand resting lightly on your shoulder to steady you.
It felt comforting, safe, normal, Bucky being Bucky, always there when you needed him.
But there were moments, fleeting, subtle, when you caught something else.
The way his jaw tightened when you mentioned Jake’s name earlier in the night. The way his fingers flexed against his thigh when the movie’s killer raised his knife, as if he were imagining it in his own hand.
When you finally yawned, stretching across your bed, your shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin, Bucky’s gaze snapped to it, then away, quick enough that you didn’t notice. He stood, checking the door one last time, twisting the deadbolt with a faint click.
“Sleep tight,” he said, his voice low, almost too casual, as he dimmed the lights just enough to leave the room in a soft, shadowy glow. “I’ll hear if anything happens.”
You smiled, half-asleep, your eyelids heavy as you burrowed into your blankets. “Thanks, Bucky. You’re the best.”
He paused in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the faint light from the hall, and for a moment, he just watched you. His smirk was barely there, a faint curve of his lips, but his eyes were dark, cataloging every detail, the way your chest rose and fell with slow, sleepy breaths, the way your fingers curled loosely around the edge of the blanket, the way you looked so soft, so vulnerable, so his.
You were blissfully unaware, your eyes fluttering shut, the world fading into the soft haze of sleep.
But Bucky knew. He knew the campus wasn’t safe, not with shadows lurking, not with people like Jake who’d dared to look at you, think of you, speak of you in ways that made Bucky’s blood burn.
He’d made sure Jake wouldn’t threaten you again, his knife carving that promise into flesh and bone. And he’d make sure no one else did either, not the shadows outside, not the wind rattling the windows, not the whispers of fear spreading through the dorms.
October gripped the campus, Halloween’s eerie glow in full swing. Carved pumpkins flickered along pathways, fake cobwebs swaying in the chilly breeze. Ghostface masks were everywhere, students chasing each other across the quad with mock screams or standing silently, their hollow-eyed stares unnerving in the twilight.
The day after Jake’s death, the campus hummed with nervous whispers, the shock fading into uneasy static. You walked through the quad, hoodie tight against the October chill, backpack tugging at your shoulder. Each Ghostface mask you passed spiked your pulse, your nervous laugh betraying you as you tugged your hood lower.
“Why’s everyone Ghostface this year?” you muttered to Bucky, striding beside you.
His blue eyes glinted, sharp and playful. “Keeps things interesting,” he said, voice light but heavy with something unspoken. His arm brushed yours, each touch deliberate, lingering just enough to tingle. “Relax, doll. I’ve got you.”
You rolled your eyes, nudging him. “You say that too much,” you teased, but your heart thudded, caught in his warmth.
Later as you were cutting between the science building and library, a masked figure slipped from behind a dumpster, silent and swift. Your breath hitched, sneakers skidding on gravel as your heart hammered. The Ghostface mask tilted, unreadable, until Bucky tugged it off, revealing his grin, dark hair mussed, eyes mischievous.
“Boo!” he laughed, but an edge in his voice kept your pulse racing.
“Bucky, you jerk!” you snapped, half-laughing, hand on your chest. “Don’t!”
“Scared you, didn’t I?” he teased, stepping closer, voice low, intimate. “You like it, doll.”
You shoved him, cheeks warm, oblivious to how his eyes drank in your nervous smile, your hitched breath, feeding something primal in him. The day became his game, scares and reassurance. In the cafeteria, his vibranium hand grazed your shoulder, whispering “Boo” as you flinched, nearly spilling your soda.
“Stay sharp,” he winked, positioning himself between you and the crowd.
On the library steps, he slipped behind the stacks, emerging as Ghostface again. You gasped, clutching a textbook, only for him to reveal himself, grinning.
“Guess who?” he murmured, leaning close, leather and metal scent enveloping you. You swatted him, stomach fluttering.
By evening, the campus quieted, streets empty save for costumed stragglers, laughter echoing off brick buildings. You chuckled about a freshman’s Ghostface dummy prank at the fountain, fake knife and all.
“Idiots,” you said, leaves crunching under your sneakers.
“Creative,” Bucky replied, hands in pockets, vibranium fingers flexing subtly. “Terrifying’s more like it,” you countered, voice nervous.
A masked figure darted from behind an oak, Ghostface mask gleaming under a streetlamp. You squealed, backpack slipping as you stumbled. The figure froze, tugging the mask up to reveal Luke, a sophomore from psych, freckled face flushed, eyes glinting.
“Gotcha!” he laughed, plastic knife dangling, grin not quite innocent.
“Luke, what the fuck?” you snapped, hands trembling on your backpack strap. “Not funny!”
Luke stepped closer, hand brushing yours, lingering. “Scary, wasn’t it?” he said, savoring your fear.
Bucky loomed, boots silent, vibranium hand flexing. “Back off,” he growled, voice cold, threatening. “She’s not your fucking prank.”
He leaned close, breath warm on your ear. “You’re safe… with me,” he whispered, words heavy, possessive. You believed him, trust instinctive, but a shiver lingered. As you walked to the dorm under flickering streetlamps, Bucky stayed close, tensing at every rustle, his hand ready, always shielding you.
The dorm was silent, the late-night hush broken only by the creak of the old building and your soft snores from the bed, where you lay tangled in blankets, a sliver of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Bucky leaned against the wall outside the bathroom, vibranium arm glinting faintly, flesh hand flexing restlessly.
His mind churned with you, your nervous laughs at his pranks, your startled squeals, the heat of your shoulder brushing his in the library. Each moment fueled a raw, possessive hunger that clawed at him.
He slipped into the bathroom, the door clicking shut. Steam curled from the running shower as he stripped, hoodie and jeans pooling on the floor, leaving him bare. The scalding water hit his skin, but he barely noticed, his thoughts consumed by you.
Bracing his vibranium arm against the tiled wall, his flesh hand drifted down, fingers grazing his cock, already hard and throbbing with need.
“Fuck…” he growled, voice low, swallowed by the water’s hiss. His hand wrapped around his length, slick with water and precum, stroking slowly at first, each glide deliberate. He pictured you in the library, your tits bouncing when you jumped at his Ghostface scare, your wide eyes sparking a primal ache.
He imagined you here, pressed against the tiles, water streaming over your skin, lips parted as he pinned you, his hands roaming your curves, claiming every inch.
His strokes quickened, rougher, his grip tightening as darker fantasies took hold.
He saw you trembling under him, fear and trust mixing in your gaze, knowing he was the masked figure. He pictured the blunt edge of his knife at your throat, your whimper of his name, your body yielding to his touch. His cock pulsed, precum leaking faster, slicking his hand as he pumped harder, hips bucking into his fist. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin echoed faintly under the spray.
He imagined pinning you to your bed, vibranium hand locking your wrists, his other tearing your clothes, exposing your soft skin. He’d whisper how no one else could touch you, Jake’s blood proved it, spilled to keep you his.
“Fuck, doll…” he rasped, voice raw, his hand moving frantically, chasing the edge. He saw your thighs trembling around his hips, your moans turning desperate as he fucked you slow, deep, making you feel every thick inch of him.
The thought of you sleeping, unaware, just beyond the door, pushed him over.
He came with a choked moan, hips jerking, cum spilling hot and thick over his fist, mixing with the water and swirling down the drain. His knees buckled, vibranium arm bracing him as his breath came in ragged gasps, aftershocks pulsing through his cock.
He shut off the shower, the heat in his veins simmering, never fully fading. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out, glancing at your sleeping form, blanket slipped, revealing your hip’s curve. His smirk was sharp, predatory.
He’d spilled blood to keep you his, and he’d do it again, every moment of you his to claim.
The morning broke with an eerie stillness, the dorm cloaked in a quiet that felt too heavy, too tight, as if someone had drained the vibrancy from the walls and left them pale and hollow.
The usual hum of campus life, distant laughter, the clatter of footsteps, the muffled thump of music from neighboring rooms, was muted, swallowed by the October chill that seemed to linger in the air.
You stirred awake, blinking against the soft gray light filtering through the blinds, your blanket still tangled around your legs from the night before.
The room felt smaller, the shadows longer, and for a moment, you lay there, listening to the silence, your heart giving a strange, uneasy thud.
Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled into the tiny dorm kitchen, your bare feet cold against the linoleum. The faint scent of last night’s pizza lingered, mixing with the stale bitterness of coffee left too long in the pot. Your eyes caught on a piece of paper taped to the fridge, the handwriting sharp and familiar.
You peeled it off, the tape sticking slightly to your fingers, and read Bucky’s note:
Had to go out early. Don’t know how long I’ll be. Don’t worry, doll.
A small, selfish smile tugged at your lips, a flicker of warmth cutting through the unease. Bucky’s protectiveness, his casual use of doll, always had a way of grounding you, even if it came with that strange, unnameable weight you’d been noticing more lately.
You tucked the note into your hoodie pocket, the paper crinkling softly, and went about your morning, the words looping in your mind like a quiet promise.
The day moved in fits and starts. You grabbed your backpack and headed to your morning class, the campus still draped in Halloween’s eerie glow. The whispers about Jake’s death followed you like a shadow, hushed conversations in the lecture hall, nervous glances over shoulders.
You tried to focus on the professor’s droning lecture about organic chemistry, but your mind kept drifting to Bucky, where he was, what had pulled him away so early, why the note felt like it carried more weight than it should.
Lunch was a quick affair, a half-eaten sandwich and a lukewarm coffee from the campus café, the plastic lid sticky under your fingers.
You sat alone at a corner table, scrolling through your phone, the news about Jake still trending on X: Campus murder… Ghostface prank gone wrong? The grainy security footage you’d seen yesterday looped in your mind, the shadowed figure, the glint of a knife, the white mask that seemed to haunt every corner of campus now.
You shivered, pulling your hoodie tighter, and pushed the thought away, telling yourself it was just some sick prank, just like Bucky had said.
By the time you pushed open the dorm door after your last lecture, it was past noon, the gray sky outside heavy with the threat of rain. The apartment was still empty, the silence thicker now, unbroken by Bucky’s usual presence, his low chuckle, the clink of his coffee mug, the faint hum of his music through his headphones.
You dropped your backpack by the door, the thud loud in the quiet, and glanced around, half-expecting to see him sprawled on the couch or leaning against the counter, ready with a teasing grin. But the space was empty, the air stale, and that strange unease crept back, settling in your chest like a stone.
You wandered to the fridge, the note still crumpled in your pocket, and poured yourself a glass of water, the tap sputtering slightly. The dorm felt too big without Bucky’s energy to fill it, too small with the weight of the silence. You sank onto the couch, pulling out your phone to text him
You 5:09pm
Where are you? Everything okay?
but hesitated, your thumb hovering over the send button. He’d said not to worry, and Bucky always came through, didn’t he?
You glanced at the window, the blinds casting long, slanted shadows across the floor. Outside, a group of students passed, one wearing a Ghostface mask, the white face tilting as if watching the dorm.
Your heart skipped, and you stood abruptly, crossing to the window to twist the blinds shut. The room dimmed, the shadows deepening, and you told yourself it was nothing, just Halloween, just pranks, just your imagination running wild.
But as you settled back onto the couch, the note in your pocket seemed to burn, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bucky’s absence meant something, that the quiet wasn’t just empty, it was waiting.
The hum of the refrigerator, a distant siren wailing somewhere off campus, the muffled thud of footsteps in the hall, ordinary sounds that usually faded into the background, now grated against your nerves, intrusive, too loud in the oppressive quiet.
You pulled your knees up, hugging them to your chest, trying to let the silence wash over you, but it clung instead, heavy and suffocating, like damp cloth over your mouth.
Your phone lit up on the cushion beside you, the screen glowing.
No Caller ID.
Your heart stopped, a cold spike of dread pinning you in place. Every instinct screamed to ignore it, to fling the phone across the room, to run, but a sick, magnetic curiosity curled in your gut, urging your trembling hand to swipe and answer. You pressed the phone to your ear, your voice barely a whisper.
“Hello…?”
Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence, so thick it seemed to crawl into your chest, squeezing your lungs. It wasn’t just quiet, it was the kind of silence that had weight, that had eyes, that watched. Your breath hitched, shallow and sharp, as you tried again, forcing firmness into your tone.
“Alright, I’m hanging up.”
A rasp sliced through the quiet like a serrated knife dragging across glass, jagged and raw.
“Do that… and I’ll carve you into a decoration everyone remembers this Halloween.” The voice was low, wet, hungry, each word dripping with a perverse glee that made your skin crawl, as if the speaker could already taste your fear.
Cold flooded your veins, your teeth chattering despite the warmth of the room. Your grip tightened on the phone, knuckles white, the plastic creaking under your fingers.
It was him, the Ghostface who’d gutted Jake, who’d left the campus whispering about blood-soaked carpets and screams that echoed through East Hall. The one whose knife had painted the security footage in crimson, whose mask haunted every corner of your world.
“What- what do you want?!” you shouted, your voice cracking, raw with panic, the words spilling out before you could stop them.
“To see what you look like when you scream,” he purred, and a wet, cruel chuckle rattled through the line, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the image of you breaking.
“I want to see your guts, sweetheart. Your insides, spilling out, warm and slick. Your blood pooling under you, your organs twitching in my hands. Ever seen a heart still beating? It’s beautiful… until it stops.”
Your stomach twisted violently, bile rising in your throat, burning its way up. The words weren’t just a threat, they were a vision, vivid and grotesque, painted with a sick relish that made your vision blur.
You could almost see it: the glint of a blade slicing through your skin, the hot, sticky rush of blood, your intestines spilling like wet ropes, glistening under the dorm’s fluorescent lights, your heart exposed, pulsing weakly as his gloved hands cradled it.
“Stop… please…” you whispered, your voice shaking, barely audible, as if speaking might summon him from the shadows.
“You see,” he hissed, each syllable deliberate, venomous, dripping like blood onto cold stone, “your guts would look perfect splayed across the floor, your intestines tangled like string, your liver sliced just right, glistening, still warm. Your blood… so bright, so thick, so hot, running over my hands, soaking the carpet. I’d make it slow, sweetheart. I’d make you feel every cut, every tear, every moment of your body coming apart.”
Your hands shook uncontrollably, the phone slipping in your sweaty grip.
You tried to move, to stand, to do something, but your legs felt like jelly, your body pinned to the couch by the weight of his words.
The TV flickered behind you, the game show’s cheerful music warping into something sinister, its light casting jagged shadows that skittered across the walls like crawling hands, like fingers reaching for you.
Every sound, the creak of floorboards, the hum of the fridge, the distant thud of footsteps, became a threat, a sign he was already here, waiting in the corners, his knife gleaming, his mask tilting in the dark.
“Tell me, darling,” he whispered, his voice now impossibly close, as if he’d slipped through the phone and into the room, his breath ghosting against your ear, “what’s your favorite scary movie? Because I’m gonna make it real. I’m gonna carve you into my own little horror show, and you’ll scream so pretty when I do.”
The line went silent for a heartbeat, a pause that stretched into eternity, heavy with a thousand unspoken horrors.
You could taste them, thick and metallic, coating your tongue like blood. The knife plunging, slicing through muscle and bone, blood spilling in hot, sticky streams, organs collapsing in a wet, writhing heap, your life leaking out in a grotesque tableau, his gloved hands slick with your insides, arranging them like a twisted artist.
Then, the whisper came again, soft and final. “I’ll be watching, sweetheart. Every shadow, every heartbeat. And soon… it won’t just be imagination.”
The TV flickered violently, the screen going black, plunging the room into darkness. The silence was deafening, but your pulse thundered, a relentless drumbeat drowning out everything else.
You dropped the phone, slamming it face-down onto the couch, your hands shaking so badly you could barely move. Tears stung your eyes, hot and blinding, your chest heaving with ragged, raw breaths. Every corner of the dorm pulsed with danger, the shadows twisting into shapes that weren’t there, hands, blades, masks staring from the dark.
Minutes crawled by, each second a lifetime, your body frozen, your breath shallow, as if any movement might summon him.
Then your phone lit up again, the screen glowing like a malevolent eye.
No Caller ID.
Every nerve screamed to smash it, to run, to hide, but that sick, magnetic pull held you fast, your trembling thumb hovering over the answer button. You knew you shouldn’t, knew it with every fiber of your being, but the silence was worse, the not-knowing unbearable. You pressed answer, your voice barely a whisper.
“Hello…?”
“Do you know what happens when you hang up on me?” The rasp was sharper now, a blade honed to cut deeper, scraping against your sanity. “You don’t get to walk away, sweetheart. You don’t get to hide.”
Your chest tightened, air trapped in your throat, your vision narrowing to a pinprick. “W-what do you want?” you stammered, the words barely escaping, your voice small and broken.
“To see you bleed,” he purred, the wet chuckle returning, slow and deliberate, dripping with anticipation. “Not just a cut, darling… I want to see what’s inside you. Your organs, your blood, your fear made flesh. I want to peel you open, layer by layer, watch your intestines spill like ribbons, your heart twitching in my hands. I want to paint the walls with you.”
The words were a physical blow, each one landing like a knife in your gut. Bile surged, your stomach churning as the images flooded your mind, your body splayed open, his gloved hands digging into you, pulling you apart with a lover’s care.
The couch beneath you felt alive, its cushions shifting as if something moved beneath them, something waiting to claw its way out. The room was a trap, every shadow a threat, every creak a footstep, every hum a blade being sharpened.
“Stop… please…” you choked, tears streaming now, hot and salty, your voice barely a whisper as the terror consumed you.
“You can’t stop what’s coming,” he hissed, his voice now so close it felt like he was breathing down your neck, his presence seeping through the walls.
“I’m already here, sweetheart. In the shadows, in the cracks, in the air you breathe. And when I come for you, you’ll scream so beautifully, your blood will sing for me.”
The line went dead, but the silence was worse, a void that pulsed with menace.
Your hands shook as you dropped the phone to the floor, the clatter echoing like a gunshot. The darkness seemed to move, the shadows stretching, clawing, detaching from the walls. You heard it or thought you did, the faintest scrape of a blade across tile, a whisper of fabric brushing the floor, a low, wet chuckle from somewhere just out of sight.
Your eyes darted to the corners, the door, the windows, every shadow a potential hiding place, every flicker a glint of steel.
You were prey, and he was hunting. The realization sank into your bones, cold and final. He wasn’t just imagining your blood on his hands, he was planning it, savoring it, his knife already tracing the path it would take. The dorm was no longer a sanctuary; it was a slaughterhouse, and you were the lamb.
Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, your heart a frantic drumbeat, and as the shadows closed in, you knew with sickening certainty: he was already here, watching, waiting, his Ghostface mask tilting in the dark, ready to make you his masterpiece.
The door’s keys rattled like a gunshot, shattering the dorm’s suffocating silence. You screamed, raw and broken, scrambling upright on the couch, clutching a heavy textbook as a weapon, knuckles white, heart slamming. The Ghostface’s voice echoed in your skull, promises of blood, guts, carving you into a grotesque masterpiece.
The door swung open, and you swung the book, pages fluttering wildly.
“Whoa, calm down!” Bucky’s rough, familiar voice cut through. He caught your wrists, vibranium hand cool, flesh hand warm, stopping the book inches from his face. His blue eyes widened, taking in your tear-streaked terror, your trembling frame. “It’s just me, doll.”
Reality snapped back. Bucky, hair mussed, jacket damp with rain, stood before you, concern masking a flicker of something unreadable.
The textbook thudded to the floor, pages splaying. Your knees buckled, sobs breaking as you collapsed against him, fingers twisting into his shirt, anchoring to his warmth.
“It was him, Bucky,” you cried, voice shattering, muffled against his chest.
“He called… wants to kill me… my guts, my blood…” The words spilled, laced with Ghostface’s gruesome threats, intestines spilling, heart twitching in gloved hands, blood painting the walls. You shook, tears soaking his shirt, the images searing your mind.
Bucky’s arms wrapped tight, vibranium hand steady on your back, flesh hand cradling your head.
“Shh, doll, I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice soothing, a balm to your terror. His fingers traced slow circles, grounding you, but to him, it was control, holding you exactly where he wanted, vulnerable, his. A hidden smirk tugged at his lips, buried against your hair. He was the voice on the call, the one who’d unraveled you, savoring every tremble.
He tipped your chin up, thumbs brushing tears from your cheeks, touch tender but calculated.
“Look at me,” he said, voice warm, steady. “Nothing’s gonna happen. You’re safe with me.” His eyes locked onto yours, a flicker of dark satisfaction at your dependence.
“Bucky… sleep with me tonight? I’m terrified…” Your voice was fragile, eyes pleading, feeding the dark thrill curling in his chest.
“Of course, doll,” he said softly, masking his twisted joy.
“Nothing’s gonna touch you.” He guided you to bed, settling beside you, blankets tangling as you curled against his chest, fingers tracing his shirt, seeking comfort. His vibranium arm draped over you, flesh hand brushing your hair, lips grazing your temple.
“Sleep tight,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Inside, a war raged. The protector Bucky, your best friend, who’d stayed up studying, walked you home, loved you fiercely, purely, wanting only to shield you. Holding you now, your trust in every soft breath, he ached to be your hero forever.
But the darker Bucky, born of scars and violence, was the Ghostface who’d dialed your number, rasping threats of carving you open, thriving on your fear, your sobs, your clinging need. He’d watched you answer, hidden outside, your terror lighting a primal fire in him, possession, not just protection.
Guilt gnawed, sharp and relentless, screaming he was sick, betraying you, twisting love into obsession.
Your whimpers in sleep, pressing closer, stoked both sides, guilt and desire warring. He’d killed Jake for you, spilled blood to keep you his, and he’d do it again, believing it was love. His fingers tightened in your hair, possessive, then softened, torn between monster and savior.
You murmured in sleep, trusting, and he buried the truth, playing protector while the Ghostface mask waited, his game far from over.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, a vow and a cage, his smirk hidden as he planned the next move.
The next few days passed in a blur. Every little sound in the dorm the unexpected thump of a door, the creak of the floorboards, even the hum of the radiator, made your heart jump as if it were trying to escape your chest.
Sleep came in short, fractured bursts, haunted by nightmares that always ended the same way: a shadow looming over you, a whisper in your ear, the metallic scrape of something sharp against the floor.
Bucky stayed close, more than usual, wrapping you in his presence like a shield. But there was something… different. Something that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
His eyes were sharper, more calculating, always flicking to corners you didn’t think could hide anyone. He lingered at doors longer than necessary, listening to noises you couldn’t even hear, and sometimes he flinched at a sound that didn’t exist.
The next night, the city lay in restless silence, oblivious to the predator moving through its veins like a shadow through fog.
Bucky slid the Ghostface mask over his face, the hollow eyes swallowing his own, the black mesh blurring the world into a void of anonymity. He pulled the long black coat tight around him, the fabric whispering against his jeans as he let the night embrace him like an eager accomplice.
In his gloved hand, the knife caught the weak glow of the flickering streetlights, its serrated edge gleaming with a silver promise of agony and finality. Every movement was deliberate, ritualistic rehearsed a thousand times in his mind, controlled down to the flex of his fingers. Step by step, the hunt began. Tonight, there would be a lesson, written in blood and screams.
He spotted the target before the man even realized he wasn’t alone.
Bucky knew him, Luke, that was it. Jake’s roommate. The same unlucky bastard who’d stumbled across Jake’s cold, ruined body in East Hall, the blood-soaked carpet squelching under his feet, the metallic stench clinging to his clothes for days.
And worse, he was your project partner. Bucky had seen the way Luke’s eyes lingered on you during those late-night study sessions, the way his hands brushed your arm a little too long, too bold, fingers grazing your skin like he owned it.
He’d even had the audacity to ask you out, his voice dripping with false charm, as if he was worthy of touching what wasn’t his, what would never be his.
Bucky’s grip on the knife tightened, his chest coiling with a cold, venomous fury that burned like acid in his veins. Touching you was bad enough. Fantasizing about you? Unforgivable.
He could still see it in his mind’s eye: Luke’s gaze fixed on your tits as you leaned over the table to point at a note, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, the subtle flex of his fingers like he was imagining grabbing your ass, pinning you down, making you his.
The thought made Bucky’s vibranium arm hum with restrained power, his flesh hand itching to feel the knife sink deep.
And now, here Luke was, walking alone down the dimly lit alley behind the campus bar, thinking the night belonged to him. Hood up, earphones blasting some mindless rap, careless steps echoing off the graffiti-scarred walls. An easy target. A dead man walking.
The phone rang in Luke’s pocket, vibrating insistently. He slowed, frowning, before pulling it out with a casual swipe.
No Caller ID
“Yo?” he answered, his voice laced with annoyance, oblivious to the shadow closing in behind him.
The rasp poured through the line, rich with malice, modulated to a gravelly whisper that scraped like nails on bone. “Do you want to end up like your pal Jake?”
Luke froze mid-step, his breath hitching audibly, the color draining from his face under the sickly yellow glow of an overhead bulb.
“The fuck? Who is this?” His voice cracked, a tremor creeping in as he yanked out one earphone, spinning to scan the empty alley, shadows twisting at every corner like grasping fingers.
“Wrong question,” Bucky sneered, his voice jagged through the modulator, low and hungry, savoring the spike of fear he could hear in Luke’s quickening breaths. “You should be asking where I am.”
Luke spun again, eyes darting wildly, trash bins overflowing with garbage, a chain-link fence rattling faintly in the breeze, puddles reflecting the neon sign of a distant bar.
“Look, man, this isn’t funny. I know people-” His free hand fumbled in his pocket, perhaps for a weapon or his keys, but it was too late.
“Not anymore.”
Ghostface hissed, and Luke barely had time to whirl around before Bucky lunged from the shadows, the knife flashing in a brutal arc. The blade sank into Luke’s abdomen with a wet, tearing sound, flesh parting like overripe fruit, the serrated edge grinding against muscle and sinew as it buried deep.
Luke gasped, a choked, gurgling cry escaping his lips as blood bubbled up, hot and thick, soaking through his hoodie in an instant. Bucky twisted the knife slowly, deliberately, feeling the resistance of organs shifting, the blade scraping against the edge of a rib, sending a shudder through Luke’s body that Bucky could feel vibrate up his arm.
Luke’s eyes bulged, wide with shock and agony, his mouth opening in a silent scream as blood flecked his lips, dribbling down his chin in sticky rivulets. His hands clawed weakly at Bucky’s coat, nails scraping uselessly against the black fabric, leaving faint smears of red.
The coppery scent of fresh blood flooded the alley, hot and metallic, steaming faintly in the cool night air, mixing with the faint rot of garbage and urine from the pavement.
“Please… please-” Luke gurgled, his voice wet and broken, bubbles of blood foaming at the corners of his mouth as he tried to beg, his knees buckling.
“Did you like it? Staring at her tits? Thinking about her ass?”
Ghostface rasped, his voice a venomous whisper behind the mask, his free hand clamping over Luke’s mouth to muffle the screams, feeling the hot, panicked breaths against his glove.
He yanked the blade free with a sickening squelch, a gush of crimson spraying across the alley wall in a fan of dark red, splattering the graffiti like abstract art. Luke’s body jerked, his abdomen now a ragged wound, intestines peeking through the torn flesh in a glistening, coiled mess, blood pouring out in rhythmic pulses with each frantic beat of his heart.
Luke collapsed to his knees, clutching at the gaping hole, his fingers slipping in the warm, viscous gore that coated his hands, strings of blood and tissue stretching between them like macabre webs.
“No… God, no…” he whimpered, voice fading to a rasp as shock set in, his face paling to a ghostly white, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill.
Bucky tilted the Ghostface mask, watching with detached fascination as Luke’s blood pooled on the cracked concrete, spreading in a dark halo around his knees, seeping into the cracks like ink on paper.
The thrill built in Bucky’s chest, a dark, intoxicating high, but he wasn’t done. He drove the knife up again, this time into Luke’s ribs, the blade punching through with a crunch of bone, grating against the sternum as it pierced a lung.
Luke’s body convulsed, a wet, choking cough spraying blood in a fine mist that dotted Bucky’s mask, the warmth seeping through the fabric. Air whistled from the wound, bubbling with each labored breath, the sound grotesque and pitiful.
Luke’s eyes rolled back, his body twitching in the final throes, but Bucky leaned in close, his voice a low, intimate whisper behind the mask. “She’s not yours. She was never yours. And now, you’re nothing.”
The final slice was brutal, a swift, clean drag across the throat, the serrated edge parting skin and muscle with a wet rip, severing the carotid in a violent gush of arterial spray.
Blood erupted in rhythmic jets, painting the wall in hot, pulsing arcs, soaking Bucky’s gloves and coat in a sticky cascade. Luke’s body went rigid, then limp, collapsing in a twitching heap, his throat a ragged, gaping smile, blood frothing from the wound as his last breaths gurgled out.
The pool beneath him widened, thick and viscous, carrying chunks of tissue and flecks of bone, the metallic tang so strong it coated Bucky’s tongue even through the mask.
Bucky stood over the body, his chest rising slow and steady, the knife dripping red in his grip, strings of gore hanging from the blade like viscous threads. The rage in his chest eased, replaced with something quieter, darker, satisfaction, a cleansing fire that burned away the jealousy. Luke’s eyes stared blankly at the sky, glassy and vacant, his mouth frozen in a final, silent plea.
Another lesson delivered. Another secret buried in blood.
Bucky wiped the blade clean on Luke’s hoodie, the fabric absorbing the residue with a faint squelch, then slid it back beneath the folds of his coat.
He melted into the shadows once more, the night swallowing him whole, his steps silent on the blood-slick pavement. The city remained oblivious, but Bucky carried the weight of the kill like a badge, a vow etched in crimson: no one would touch you. No one but him.
The door creaked open past midnight, slicing the dorm’s heavy silence with a low groan. You jolted awake, heart hammering, the Ghostface’s gruesome call still clawing at your nerves. Every sound, creaking floorboards, hissing breath, felt like a threat.
“Bucky?” you whispered, voice trembling, clutching the blanket as you scanned the shadows.
He stood in the entryway, a dark silhouette against the hallway’s orange glow, hoodie damp, hair slick, chest heaving slightly.
“It’s me, doll,” he said, his smile off, too controlled, as he shut the door with a soft click. Wet smudges trailed from his boots, the dark patches on his hoodie glinting faintly, not sweat, you realized, but you pushed the thought away.
“Where were you?” you asked, suspicion sharpening your tone.
“Couldn’t sleep. Went for a run,” he said smoothly, shrugging off his coat, eyes avoiding yours, lingering on the shadows.
“At this hour?” Your unease grew, the air thick with unspoken tension.
He chuckled, boyish, disarming, crouching beside the bed, eyes level with yours.
“Restless, you know me.” But a faint smudge on his cheek, dirt, or something else, made your stomach twist.
“You’re not… hooking up with someone, are you?” you blurted, vulnerability creeping in.
His brows lifted, surprise flashing before a soft laugh. “Doll, if I was with some girl, I’d look better than this.” He gestured to his disheveled form, but his gaze flickered, dark, possessive. “You’re stuck with me.”
Relief eased you, and you leaned into his touch as his flesh hand brushed your hair, warm, lingering. He pulled you against his chest, the faint scent of leather and metal masking something coppery, sharp.
“Sleep,” he murmured, lips grazing your hair, hiding a smirk as he thought of Luke’s blood pooling in the alley, the knife still warm from the kill.
You settled against him, his warmth lulling you, but a dangerous spark flickered low in your belly, kindled by nights of his closeness, his arms a fortress too intoxicating. Glancing at him, his face softened in sleep, jaw relaxed, lips parted, you felt the ache grow.
Your hand drifted down, fingers brushing your shorts, rubbing slow circles against your pulsing clit, already soaked. The friction wasn’t enough, the need sharp.
Slipping under the waistband, you teased yourself, biting your lip to stifle a moan, his name escaping in a soft, desperate.
“Bucky…”
He stirred, eyes blinking open, thinking you were scared. Then he saw you, hand in your shorts, hips shifting, cheeks flushed, lips parted in a moan. His breath caught, gaze darkening, hungry.
“Doll?” His voice was rough, laced with desire, as his vibranium hand caught your wrist, stopping you, the cool metal searing against your heated skin.
“Fuck! Buck, I’m sorry-” you stammered, mortified, yanking your hand back.
“Shh,” he soothed, lips brushing your shoulder, voice a velvet chain. “Don’t stop. Let me make you feel good.” His tone was tender, but the hunger in it sent shivers down your spine.
His flesh hand slid past your trembling fingers, parting your slick folds with deliberate slowness, exploring your soaked heat like he was claiming it.
Two thick fingers pressed into your entrance, stretching you with a slow, burning thrust that made you gasp into the pillow, hips bucking. He curled them, hitting that spot inside you that blurred your vision, pumping deep and precise, coaxing desperate whimpers.
“Fuck, doll, you’re so tight, so fucking wet for me,” he growled, voice dripping with filthy praise, lips grazing your neck. “This pretty little pussy’s begging for my fingers, isn’t it? Sucking me in like she can’t get enough.”
“God, Buck,” you whined, arching into his hand, thighs shaking as his fingers thrust faster, the wet, obscene sounds filling the room. His thumb found your clit, circling firm and relentless, each stroke sparking through your nerves.
“Look at you, dripping all over my hand,” he purred, teeth nipping your earlobe. “Such a good girl, falling apart for me. Bet you’d feel so fucking perfect wrapped around my cock, wouldn’t you?”
Your body trembled, the coil in your stomach tightening as his fingers fucked you harder, curling just right.
“F-fuck… right there, don’t stop,” you moaned, nails digging into his forearm, clinging as pleasure consumed you. His vibranium arm pinned you against him, keeping you in place.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he rasped, voice husky with want. “My sweet, needy girl, coming undone just for me. Gonna make this pussy sing, baby.”
His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, fingers thrusting deep, relentless. The pleasure snapped, crashing through you in hot, shuddering waves, your walls clenching tight around him as you came with a muffled cry, face buried in the pillow.
He didn’t stop, drawing out every pulse until you were a trembling, boneless mess in his arms.
He eased his fingers out, the wet sound loud in the quiet. Bringing them to his lips, he licked them slow, savoring your taste with a low groan, eyes fluttering shut like it was divine.
“Fucking delicious, doll,” he murmured, voice thick with possession. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. All mine.”
Heat flooded your cheeks, but you were too spent to respond, tucking against his chest, breath syncing with his steady heartbeat.
He kissed your hair, tender but smirking, the taste of you mixing with the phantom scent of Luke’s blood, the kill fresh in his mind. His vibranium arm tightened, a vow, as he lay awake, planning his next move. You were his, fear, pleasure, trust and he’d kill again to keep it that way.
Over the next few days, small details gnawed at you. Dark, sticky stains on Bucky’s hoodie, dismissed as “ketchup” with a shrug. Missing kitchen knives, vanished without explanation. His eerie knowledge of the killings, details about victims, police patterns, things he shouldn’t know. You pushed it down, heart rebelling. Bucky was your best friend, your protector. He wouldn’t… he couldn’t.
But the dorm whispered warnings, shadows lingering too long, doors clicking open, faint metallic scrapes in the night, like a blade testing its edge.
This morning, the air felt lighter. You woke without fear’s familiar weight, Bucky already up, propped against the headboard, scrolling his phone, a faint smile softening his face. Breakfast was easy, eggs, coffee, teasing over toast. For an hour, you could pretend the horror didn’t exist. Almost.
A week later, that illusion shattered. Rummaging in Bucky’s drawer for a sweater, your fingers brushed something hard, smooth. You pulled it out, and your breath froze, a Ghostface mask, white, hollow-eyed, grinning cruelly. Panic clawed your spine, the world narrowing to its black, empty stare.
“Bucky?” Your voice cracked, thin, holding the mask at arm’s length like it might bite.
He turned from the desk, a flicker of something sharp in his eyes, gone in an instant, replaced by a casual chuckle.
“Oh, that,” he said, scratching his neck, voice smooth as silk.
“You forgot I had that, doll? Picked it up for Halloween.” He stepped closer, plucking the mask from your trembling hands, tossing it back into the drawer with a thud that made you flinch. “Thought it’d be funny, you in your nurse costume, me scaring you with this. A theme, right?”
His grin was warm, disarming, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours, lingering on the shadows behind you.
“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” His laugh was soft, teasing, but it felt rehearsed, like he’d planned for this moment or feared it.
You forced a shaky smile, trying to laugh it off, but your chest stayed tight, heart pounding. The mask, buried under his clothes, felt too deliberate, too hidden. As he went back to his desk, humming casually, you couldn’t shake the thought: had he wanted you to find it, or had you stumbled too close to a truth he meant to keep buried?
The campus pulsed with chaotic energy, costumes ranging from tacky vampires to countless Ghostface masks, the air thick with beer, sweat, and spilled punch. EDM bass rattled the windows.
In Bucky’s dorm, you fidgeted before the cracked mirror, tugging at your nurse costume’s short skirt, the white fabric clinging to your curves, stockings accentuating bare thighs. The red cross pinned to your chest and cheap stethoscope felt bold, exposing. Your cheeks flushed under your reflection’s gaze.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered, glancing at Bucky through the mirror, his lean frame in the doorway, dark hoodie and jeans radiating danger. His smirk was sharp, eyes raking over your hips, stockings, the low neckline, lingering with a heat that set your skin ablaze.
“You look… medically irresponsible,” he teased, voice low, predatory, making your heart skip.
“Excuse me?” you shot back, hands on hips, instantly regretting the way it drew his gaze.
He stepped closer, wolf-like, fingers grazing your skirt’s hem, knuckles brushing your thigh, sending a jolt through you.
“This wouldn’t pass hospital protocol,” he said, eyes dark, cataloging your parted lips, quickened breath. “Do you even own a stethoscope?”
You swatted his hand, flustered, cheeks burning. “It’s called theme commitment, Bucky.”
“So, you’re the nurse, I’m the patient?” he murmured, leaning close, breath warm against your ear. “Gonna take real good care of me, doll?” His tone was suggestive, curling like smoke, making your knees weak.
“Bucky-” you started, but he straightened, ruffling your hair with a grin, breaking the tension. “You look cute,” he said softly, disarming.
As he grabbed his jacket, you glimpsed black fabric in his desk drawer, the same one where you’d seen a Ghostface mask last week. Your stomach twisted, unease cutting through his warmth. You told yourself it was nothing, just a costume, but the doubt lingered as you followed him out.
The party throbbed with wild energy, EDM bass rattling the walls as strobe lights carved sharp shadows across the room. Pumpkins leered from tables, streamers swayed in the heat of sweaty bodies, and Ghostface masks dotted the crowd among cheap vampire fangs and witch hats.
The air reeked of beer, sweat, and punch. You tugged at your nurse costume’s short skirt, the white fabric clinging to your curves, stockings accentuating bare thighs, feeling exposed. Bucky was “mingling,” but you scanned for him, eyes catching every mask, every shadow.
A figure emerged by the snack table, black coat flowing, Ghostface mask glaring. Your stomach dropped, ice flooding your veins, heart hammering as the mask tilted, watching you.
“Relax, doll,” Bucky’s teasing voice came, lifting the mask to reveal his grin. “Just me.” His predatory stance and hollow-eyed mask chilled you despite the familiarity.
“Bucky, you scared me,” you said, voice shaky, forcing a laugh. He stepped closer, boots scuffing the sticky floor, a plastic knife prop dangling, his hand hovering near your hip.
“Dressed for patient care?” he rasped through a modulator, voice sinister yet playful, eyes raking over your skirt, the red cross on your chest. “Or does my nurse need attention?”
“Bucky…” you stammered, cheeks burning, caught between fear and a dark thrill, thighs clenching. “Stop messing around.”
He chuckled, low and menacing, the plastic knife grazing your thigh, making you jump. “I could keep everyone away from you,” he purred. “You’re mine tonight, doll.”
A drunken student in a cheap Ghostface costume leapt out, thinking it was a prank, slurring a mock scream. The crowd laughed, some shoving, but you froze, heart pounding, unsure if it was a joke or him. Bucky’s vibranium hand gripped your wrist, iron-tight.
“Stay here,” he hissed, eyes locking on the prankster through his mask, predator assessing prey.
He slipped into the shadows, silent, his long coat blending with the dark corner of the room. The prankster stumbled toward a hallway, giggling, oblivious, as Bucky followed, a ghost in the chaos.
Behind a stack of crates, out of sight, Bucky struck, his real knife, not the prop, gleamed, sinking into the kid’s side with a wet crunch, slicing flesh, grinding against rib. Blood welled, soaking the costume, the coppery stench sharp. The boy gasped, choking, blood flecking lips as he clawed at the wound, fingers slipping in sticky gore.
Bucky twisted the blade, feeling muscle tear, a shudder vibrating through the boy’s body.
“Not a game,” he whispered through the modulator, mask inches from the kid’s terrified face. He yanked the knife free, blood spraying, then stabbed again, cracking ribs, piercing lung with a wet pop. The boy convulsed, whistling gasps, blood frothing, collapsing in a heap, intestines peeking through torn flesh, pooling crimson in the dark corner.
Bucky stepped back, mask tilted, blood dripping from the blade, satisfaction burning in his chest. He wiped the knife on the boy’s costume, squelching, and slipped it beneath his coat. Moving like a shadow, he weaved through the oblivious crowd, the music and chaos masking his absence. In seconds, he was back at your side, arm sliding around your waist, mask still on, voice steady through the modulator.
“Miss me, doll?”
You jumped, then relaxed, clinging to his coat, relief and fear twisting, a dark thrill making your thighs clench. “Don’t leave like that,” you muttered, heart still racing.
He chuckled, pulling you close, the mask’s hollow eyes unreadable. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, grip possessive, the faint scent of blood clinging to him, unnoticed in the party’s stench.
A piercing scream cut through the music.
“Oh my God!” A girl near the hallway pointed, trembling, at the crates. The crowd parted, revealing the prankster’s body, blood pooling, intestines glistening, eyes glassy in a frozen plea. Gasps and shrieks erupted, partygoers scattering, the music jarring against the horror.
Your breath hitched, fingers digging into Bucky’s coat, the image searing your mind. His vibranium arm tightened around you, voice calm, almost too calm.
“Let’s go, doll. Back to the dorm. You’re safe with me.” He guided you through the chaos, his grip a lifeline, but the ease of his return, the blood you couldn’t see on his gloves, made the line between protector and predator blur, a truth too dangerous to face.
The October chill bit your skin as you stumbled from the chaotic party, Bucky’s coat brushing your arm, his warmth a stark contrast to your flimsy nurse costume. The image of the prankster’s blood-soaked body, torn flesh, glistening intestines, glassy eyes, burned in your mind, tangled with Bucky’s modulated Ghostface voice, teasing yet sinister. His arm anchored your waist, guiding you toward the dorm, but his steps were too sure, his vibranium hand flexing.
“Shit,” he muttered, stopping, eyes scanning the dark street, jaw tight.
“What?” you asked, heart skipping, catching the guarded edge in his gaze.
“Left my phone at the party,” he said, clipped, glancing back where lights pulsed faintly.
“You’re going back?” Panic spiked, the memory of the knife’s wet crunch too raw.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, shrugging, eyes softening but hiding something. “Go to the dorm. I’ll catch up.”
The idea of being alone chilled you, the Ghostface’s threat, 'I want to see your guts, sweetheart' echoing. “Be careful,” you whispered, hands twisting your skirt.
He kissed your temple, lips lingering. “I will, doll.” Then he vanished into the dark, coat flaring.
The dorm loomed a block away, but shadows moved, leaves rustled like footsteps, streetlights glinting ominously. You hurried inside, locking the door, sinking onto the couch, knees to chest. The nurse costume felt absurd now.
Tempted to text Bucky, you hesitated, his tense posture, the mask in his drawer, damp hoodie patches, metallic scent. Doubt crept in. You trusted him… didn’t you? But the silence felt like a trap, the line between protector and predator razor-thin.
Minutes dragged like hours, the small room suffocating under the weight of your fear. You paced, your sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, checking the locks, double-checking the windows, the blinds rattling as you twisted them shut.
Your chest tightened with every passing second Bucky was gone, the image of him slipping back into the chaotic party house, where blood had spilled, where screams still lingered burning in your mind.
You told yourself he’d be fine, that he was just grabbing his phone, but the memory of the black fabric in his drawer, the damp patches on his hoodie, the faint metallic scent you’d dismissed, gnawed at you. What if he wasn’t coming back? What if the Ghostface had found him?
Your phone rang, the shrill sound slicing through the silence like a blade. Your heart stopped, your breath catching as you stared at the glowing screen.
No Caller ID.
You didn’t want to know, didn’t want to face it, but desperation and fear made your thumb swipe to answer before you could think.
“Oh god, Bucky! Please hurry,” you whimpered, your voice trembling, cracking under the weight of your panic, tears already pricking your eyes.
A rasping, familiar-sounding voice cut through the line, low and deliberate, dripping with a cruel, predatory hunger.
“Hmm… I don’t think it’s Bucky you’re speaking to, pretty girl,” it purred, each word twisted by the modulator, sinking into your bones like venom. “Try again, hm?”
Your blood ran cold, your body freezing as the memories of the past week flooded back, the calls, the shadows, the voice promising to spill your guts, to paint the walls with your blood. Your knees buckled, and you sank onto the couch, clutching the phone so tightly your knuckles ached.
What you didn’t know was that Bucky was on the other end, hidden in the shadows just outside the dorm, the Ghostface mask discarded but the modulator pressed to his lips. His free hand was wrapped around his cock, straining painfully against his jeans, stroking himself slowly as he fed off your fear, each tremble in your voice sending a jolt of pleasure through him, his arousal twisting with his obsession.
“Where’s Bucky? What did you do to him?!” you shrieked, tears streaking your cheeks, your voice raw with panic and desperation.
“Oh, don’t get mad at me now,” the voice rumbled, low and teasing, a sick edge of amusement lacing every word.
“God… you looked so fucking sexy in that little nurse costume tonight.” His voice dropped, a husky growl that made your stomach lurch with a mix of dread and shame.
The realization hit like a punch, he’d been watching you, his eyes hidden behind that hollow mask, drinking in every inch of you.
“W-what?” you squeaked, your body trembling, your thighs pressing together instinctively as heat bloomed despite your terror, a betrayal that made your cheeks burn with shame.
“If only you knew, pretty girl,” the voice rasped, deliberate and ravenous, each word dripping with lust.
“I wanted to rip that tight little skirt off you, pin you to the wall, and fuck you raw right there in front of everyone. Watch those pretty thighs shake as I spread you open, my knife tracing along your skin, just deep enough to make you beg.”
A shiver ran down your spine, your body betraying you again with a pulse of heat between your legs, your shorts suddenly too tight, too warm. You were utterly ashamed, horrified that his words twisted, vile, could spark anything but fear. The voice seemed to press into your ears, heavy, intoxicating, wrapping around you like a noose.
“Stop… please…” you whispered, your voice barely audible, shaking with both terror and the sickening pull of his words.
“Stop? Oh, I’m just getting started, sweets,” the voice purred, low and deliberate, each syllable a caress and a threat.
“I’d tie you up, wrists bound tight behind your back, that pretty mouth of yours gagged with your own panties, soaked from how fucking wet you’d be for me. I’d fuck that tight little cunt of yours, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, my knife gliding along those gorgeous thighs, carving my name into your skin so you’d never forget who owns you.”
Your breath hitched, your thighs clenching tighter, heat pooling low in your belly despite the horror screaming in your mind. Your hands twisted in your lap, nails digging into your palms until they stung, your body caught in a sick tug-of-war between fear and the shameful arousal his words ignited.
You wanted to hang up, to throw the phone across the room, but you couldn’t move, pinned by the weight of his voice, by the vivid images he painted his knife grazing your skin, his hands claiming you, his cock stretching you open.
“Please… don’t…” you begged, your voice shaking, tears streaming down your face as you fought to hold onto reason, to drown out the heat pulsing through you.
“Why? Afraid your little Bucky won’t like it?” the voice hissed, the words sharp and mocking, cutting through you like glass.
“Or are you afraid you’d like it too much, hm? That you’d come screaming my name while I fuck you bloody, my knife pressed to your throat, my hands buried in your guts, feeling you clench around me as you break?”
“Stop! Stop!” you shouted, your voice cracking with desperation, your hands trembling so badly the phone nearly slipped from your grip.
You slammed it down onto the couch, ending the call before the horror could escalate further, before his words could pull you deeper into the twisted fantasy he was weaving.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your ragged breaths, your chest heaving as you curled in on yourself, trembling uncontrollably.
Your mind reeled, the rasping voice still echoing in your head, each word a blade carving into your sanity. The shame was overwhelming, the way your body had responded to his threats, to the sick promise of pain and pleasure, making you feel dirty, broken.
You didn’t know it was Bucky on the other end, his hand still stroking his cock, precum slicking his fingers as he groaned softly, the sound of your fear pushing him to the edge, his obsession with you burning hotter with every whimper you let slip. He was just outside, hidden in the shadows, the modulator discarded now, his breath heavy as he watched the dorm windows, knowing you were inside, trembling, his.
You sat there, curled into a ball on the couch, your heart pounding, your body still humming with the aftershocks of his words. The dorm was too quiet, every creak a threat, every shadow a reminder of the voice that had promised to claim you, to break you.
The city was hushed as Bucky returned, distant party shouts fading. You curled on the couch, nurse costume rumpled, stockings laddered, trembling from the Ghostface call’s lingering threats, knives, blood, carving his name into your thighs.
Shame burned; your body’s heated response to the terror felt filthy, your thighs clenching at the memory.
Bucky slipped inside, coat draped over his arm, mask hidden, his calm too perfect. A faint metallic tang clung to him, masked by rain and leather.
“Hey,” he murmured, locking the door, crossing to you in quiet strides. His blue eyes scanned, door, windows before settling on you, reading your tremors, your flushed cheeks.
“You okay, doll?” he asked softly, crouching, vibranium arm on his knee, flesh hand brushing your hair, lingering on your jaw. He knew your whimpers from the call, his cock twitching at the memory, your fear his creation.
“Fine,” you lied, voice cracking, avoiding his gaze, shame twisting inside.
He smiled, teasing yet dark, feeding on your dependence.
“Shower’ll help,” he coaxed, voice intimate, pulling you up. “Just us, wash the night away.”
You nodded, craving his safety despite doubts. In the steamy bathroom, he unzipped your costume, knuckles grazing your spine, exposing your bra, eyes darkening over your curves. You stepped under the hot spray, Bucky joining, his naked body pressing close, chest to your back, arm steadying your waist.
“Lean on me,” he whispered, lips brushing your shoulder, soaping his hands. They glided over your shoulders, kneading knots, trailing to your breasts, circling nipples until they pebbled, dipping between thighs, teasing your core just enough to make you gasp, arching into him. “Bucky…” you breathed, half-protest, half-plea.
“Just relaxing you,” he murmured, vibranium hand on your hip, flesh fingers parting your folds gently, stoking heat. Steam wrapped you, his touch blurring fear and want.
The water cooled; he wrapped you in a towel, drying you gently, then himself.
“Lie down,” he said, gesturing to the bed. You sank face-down, towel loose, trusting. He straddled your hips, oil-slick hands kneading your shoulders, drawing moans.
“That’s it, doll,” he whispered, kissing your temple, thumbs grazing your ass, thighs, teasing close to your core, his arousal pressing against you.
“Breathe,” he murmured, lips at your ear, hand cupping your neck, stroking your pulse. You melted, fear fading, shame dulled by his possessive care. You didn’t mention the call, the doubts buried under his touch.
Bucky smiled against your skin, savoring your surrender, knowing the cycle, fear, salvation, control would continue, his darkness binding you tighter.
And then it hit you, the sharp, cold drag of metal against your inner thigh, sending a shiver ripping through every nerve in your body like electric fire. Your breath caught, your chest tightening as panic flared hot and vicious, choking you.
You turned toward him, eyes wide with dawning horror, and froze. He was already watching you, his gaze dark, intent, unblinking, a predator's stare, stripping you bare without a touch.
The knife gleamed in his hand, the blade slick with the promise of pain, its edge tracing lazy patterns on your skin, close enough to prick if you so much as breathed wrong.
“Remember what I said on the call…” His voice was low, husky, a rasping whisper that slithered down your spine like ice-cold fingers. “…how I’d love to fuck that pretty little mouth of yours… shove my cock down your throat until you choke on it, tears streaming, begging for air while I hold you there.”
Your brows furrowed, confusion mingling with terror, your mind reeling as the pieces slammed together. “B-Bucky…? You didn’t-”
“Oh, but I did, you stupid little slut.” The knife traced slow, deliberate lines along the tender skin of your inner thighs, light enough not to cut deep but enough to draw thin beads of blood, the sting making you jolt with every inch of contact.
The cold steel made your stomach clench, your pulse hammering in your ears like a war drum, fear and unwanted heat twisting in your gut.
“Every filthy word, every promise to gut you like a pig while I fucked your holes raw, that was me, doll. Your protector, your killer, your fucking owner.”
Before you could pull back, he shifted with brutal efficiency, twisting you effortlessly until you were facing him on your knees, the blade now pressing lightly at your stomach, the tip dimpling your skin, threatening to pierce if you resisted.
Your hands flew to your chest instinctively, trying to cover your heaving breasts, your hardened nipples, trying to keep some shred of dignity, some part of your body under your control. But he grabbed your wrists with his vibranium hand, pinning them above your head, the metal unyielding, cold as death.
“No…” you whispered, voice cracking, tears already brimming and spilling down your cheeks, hot and salty. Your thighs clenched together, slick leaking despite the terror, your pussy betraying you with a shameful throb.
“Hey, hey… shhh,” he murmured, cupping your jaw with his free hand, tilting your head gently, forcing you to look into his eyes, those same blue eyes that had whispered comfort now gleaming with sick hunger.
The contrast of his touch, soft, almost tender, against the threat of the knife pressing along your skin made your heart pound harder, your nerves alight with dread and disgust.
“It’s still me, doll. Still the same Bucky.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, lips warm, breath hot and ragged against your skin.
“The one whose fingers you came on last week… squirting like a desperate whore while I finger-fucked that sloppy cunt.” His voice dropped lower, darker, almost predatory. “…the same fingers that held the knife that slit poor Lukie’s throat, gutted him like the pig he was, his intestines spilling out hot and steaming while he begged like a bitch.”
Your stomach turned violently, bile rising in your throat as the image flashed, Luke's body twitching, blood pooling thick and crimson, his guts writhing on the floor like worms.
Your hands trembled in his grip, pressing against your thighs as you tried to shrink into yourself, curling away from him, but he held you fast.
“B-Bucky… please…” you whispered, voice barely audible, a mixture of fear, shame, and revulsion churning in your gut. Your pussy clenched again, slick dripping down your inner thighs, the betrayal making you sob harder.
“Never liked him anyway,” he murmured, dragging the knife slowly down to rest against the flat of your stomach, the cold metal making you shiver uncontrollably, goosebumps erupting as it traced lower, teasing the edge of your pubic bone.
“Too pushy… hands all over you, thinking he could touch what's mine. I watched him bleed out, doll, his cock twitching in his pants as he died, probably thinking of you even then. Pathetic.”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting in the dim light, scanning every reaction on your face, the way your lips parted in horror, the tears streaking your cheeks, the flush of shame betraying your body's response.
“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” His tone was soft, almost coaxing, but every word carried the weight of threat, obsession, and control, the knife pressing just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood across your stomach, warm and sticky.
All you could do was cry, body trembling, breath shaking, snot mixing with tears as you shook your head, whispering "No, please, Bucky, don't-"
Suddenly, his hand was at your throat, fingers wrapping around your neck, not enough to choke the life out, but enough to make your pulse spike, black spots dancing at the edges of your vision, your airway constricted just enough to remind you he could end it all.
The knife traced along your jaw, glinting as it moved with slow, deliberate menace, the tip pricking your chin, forcing your head up. “I asked you something, sweets,” he murmured, the rasp in his voice sending tremors down your spine, his breath reeking of blood and lust.
You nodded frantically, shivering violently, unable to speak through the sobs, your pussy clenching traitorously at the dominance, slick coating your thighs in a humiliating flood.
“Good,” he said with a satisfied hum, laying back on the bed beside you, the knife still pressed against your skin, a cold reminder of his control as he dragged it lower, teasing the blade against your swollen clit, making you buck and whimper in terror.
His other hand trailed lightly along your hip, then down your side, fingers dipping into the slick mess between your legs, smearing it across your stomach like war paint. “Now… come closer. Show me how good you can be, or I'll gut you right here, fuck your dying corpse while your blood soaks the sheets.”
Your mind was spinning, heart hammering, the room blurring through tears as he was the same Bucky you loved, the one who'd held you through nightmares, fucked you gentle and sweet and at the same time, the predator, the killer, the one who'd orchestrated every whispered threat, every terrifying phone call, who'd slit throats and spilled guts to claim you.
“Or,” he continued, voice low, dark, dripping with menace, “would you rather hang from a tree, your own guts wrapped around your neck like a noose, your pussy stuffed with my knife as you bleed out for me?”
You froze, shivering, caught between terror and the impossible thrill of knowing he could and might do it, your body responding with a gush of slick that made him laugh, low and filthy.
The knife pressed closer, tracing a line down your ribs, drawing another thin cut, blood welling hot and sticky, and your pulse raced, each thrum of fear mixing with something you couldn’t quite name, arousal, submission, horror twisted into need.
Every glance, every touch, every slow movement of the knife and his fingers was a test, and you were utterly, helplessly at his mercy, your sobs turning to whimpers as he forced your head down.
You knelt between his thighs, naked and trembling, palms pressed flat against the tops of his muscled thighs for balance, the knife's edge now resting against your back like a cold brand.
The room felt heavy, dim, the low light catching the edge of the blade on the nightstand, a silent reminder of who he really was, the killer who'd gutted your friends, who'd threatened to do the same to you while jerking off to your fear.
“Fuuuck, pretty girl,” he drawled out, voice low and gravelly, full of dark amusement as he lounged back, cock hard and leaking, veins throbbing under your gaze.
“Didn’t know my cute roomie could arch like that, like a desperate whore begging to be filled.” He smirked down at you, thumb brushing your bottom lip roughly, prying it open to test the stretch before he fed himself to you, his nail digging in until you tasted blood.
“Now come on,” he said, tapping his cock against your lips like a warning and a promise rolled into one, the salty precum smearing across your mouth.
“Suck it, or I'll carve that pretty throat open and fuck the hole myself.”
You obeyed, terror choking you as you opened your mouth, heat and adrenaline buzzing through you like poison. He was big, huge even, too big for your mouth, the girth stretching your lips obscenely, the head pushing against your tongue with a salty, musky taste that made you gag.
The stretch made your jaw ache, your throat protest, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you choked and drooled all over him, spit bubbling from the corners of your mouth, dripping down his balls in messy strings. He watched every reaction with a predator’s patience, his smirk curling darker as your saliva dripped onto his thighs, mixing with the blood from the shallow cuts he'd made.
“Yeahh, that’s right. Choke on it, you filthy cunt,” he growled, fisting your hair so hard your scalp burned, roots pulling as he yanked your head down, forcing more of his cock into your throat until you gagged, retching, snot and tears streaming down your face.
He started pounding into your mouth, slow at first, then faster, his hips rolling with a dangerous rhythm that made your throat convulse, bile rising as he fucked your face like a hole. Your whines and tears were muffled against him, vibrating around his cock, but he only moaned at the sensation, his balls slapping against your chin with wet smacks.
You felt yourself getting wetter, shame and heat twisting in your belly like a knife, a drop of slick running down your inner thigh, pooling on the sheets in a humiliating puddle.
“Fuck, doll, you suck me so good, like the cock-hungry slut you are,” he moaned, gripping you harder, his other hand grabbing the knife from the nightstand, pressing the flat blade against your cheek as he thrust deeper, the cold metal a threat that made your pussy clench.
“Gonna cum down this throat, huh? Fill you up until it leaks out your nose, you’d want that, right? Or should I cut you open now, fuck your bleeding mouth while you gargle on your own blood?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a command, low and lethal, and your whole body trembled as he said it, your throat convulsing around him in terror and unwanted need.
And then he did, hot spurts of cum hitting the back of your throat, thick and bitter, filling you until you had no choice but to swallow or choke, the burn making you gag harder. It overflowed, leaking from your lips in sticky strings, dribbling down your chin as you licked up every drop like you were starving for him, your tongue swirling around the head to clean him, shame burning you alive.
You were utterly wrecked, eyes teary and red, mascara streaked in black rivers down your face, slick with spit and cum, your chest flushed and trembling as you tried to catch your breath, coughing up strings of saliva and semen.
He sat up, still looming over you, cupping your jaw with one large, rough hand, fingers digging in bruisingly.
“Open up,” he murmured, voice dark and commanding. You obeyed automatically, your lips parting, tongue out like a whore. He leaned over and spit into your mouth, a wet, obscene glob landing on your tongue, mixing with his cum.
“Now swallow,” he continued, voice dark velvet, and you did, shivering as he watched you gulp it down, his thumb forcing your mouth closed until you obeyed.
“You like this, huh?” he taunted, thumb dragging along your lower lip, smearing the mess.
“Getting wrecked by your killer roomie, choking on my cum like a good little fucktoy.” His words curled into your brain like smoke, filthy and degrading.
He kissed you then, slow but possessive, forcing his tongue into your mouth to taste the mix of himself and his spit, his teeth biting your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, the copper tang mingling as he sucked it clean.
He didn’t have to say it, the knife glinting nearby, the darkness in his eyes, the way he held your jaw just a little too tight, it was all a reminder: you weren’t just with your roommate.
You were with the predator you couldn’t stop craving, the one who'd coerce you into every filthy act, horror and desire twisted until you broke.
You were trembling, slick and aching, your pussy dripping like a faucet, and Bucky’s eyes roamed over you like a predator studying its prey, the knife still in his hand, its edge catching the dim light, a cold promise that made your stomach flutter in a delicious, sick mix of fear and anticipation.
But tonight, that predator was going to coerce you into every filthy degradation, his obsession a chain around your neck.
He leaned closer, pressing warm, possessive hands along your sides, sliding one hand over your hip to spread your thighs roughly, the other brushing your back before gripping your ass hard enough to bruise.
“Look at you, doll,” he murmured, voice low, dangerous, a dark thrill woven through every word. “Every inch of you… mine to ruin.”
His lips trailed along your neck, teeth grazing lightly at first, then biting down hard, leaving purple marks that throbbed, making you whimper and squirm.
You moaned softly, pressing closer despite yourself, chest rising and falling, your pulse thundering as blood rushed to your swollen clit.
Then he shifted, dragging the knife slowly along your inner thigh, the flat side pressing against your slick folds, smearing your arousal on the blade. Not cutting, not yet, but the cold metal against your hot, dripping cunt made you jolt, a gasp tearing from your throat as fear spiked.
"You feel that?" he whispered, voice low and rasping, his breath hot on your ear. "Knife against your sloppy pussy, slick and hot… mine to touch, mine to claim." He pressed it flat against your clit, just enough to make your knees buckle, your breath catch, your heart hammer in your chest like it was trying to escape.
The edge teased your entrance, dipping just slightly into your wetness, the threat of pain making your cunt clench around nothing.
“Everything about you is mine, you worthless slut,” he growled, the knife now tracing up to your tits, the tip circling your nipple until it hardened painfully, a thin line of blood welling as he nicked the skin. “Every sound, every tremble… it’s because of me. Beg for it, or I'll slice this pretty nipple off and make you eat it.”
You gasped, shivering, hips arching toward him instinctively despite the terror, your pussy gushing slick onto the blade.
“Yes… Bucky… please…” you breathed, voice trembling, heart racing, shame flooding you as your body craved the horror.
He pulled back just slightly, dark eyes locking with yours, filled with filthy hunger. “Good girl,” he whispered. “Mine. Every inch. And don’t forget… the knife isn’t for threat. It’s for thrill. For fear. For making you my bleeding, begging fucktoy.”
He pressed the blade against your throat now, the edge biting just enough to draw a shallow cut, blood trickling down your collarbone as he forced your head back.
And with that, he resumed, pressing his mouth to your bloody nipple, sucking hard, tongue swirling the copper taste while his fingers plunged into your cunt, three at once, stretching you brutally.
"Filthy whore, getting wet from a knife at your throat," he snarled, biting down on your tit until you screamed, his fingers curling to hit your g-spot with vicious precision, making you squirt messily onto his hand, the wet slap echoing in the room. "Look at you, pissing yourself like a bitch in heat. Beg me to cut you deeper while I finger-fuck this sloppy hole."
You sobbed, hips bucking, "Please… cut me… fuck me bloody…" the words forced from your lips by coercion and need, horror twisting into ecstasy as he nicked your other nipple, blood dripping onto your stomach.
Bucky leaned over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress like a cage, his dark eyes locked on yours with a hungry intensity that made you whimper.
Every motion was controlled, deliberate, commanding, and every word dripped with obsession and filth, coercing you into submission.
“Feel me, doll?” he rasped, thrusting slowly at first, his thick cock splitting you open, the stretch burning as he forced inch after inch into your tight, dripping cunt, bottoming out with a grunt. “Every inch of this fat cock buried in your worthless hole… mine to wreck.”
You moaned, arching into him despite the knife at your throat, nails digging into his broad shoulders, body trembling under the rhythm of his dominance, blood from your cuts smearing across his chest.
He smirked, lips brushing against your temple as he nicked your earlobe, blood trickling warm. “Bet little Jaime could never make you feel like this, huh? That pathetic fuck couldn't even get you wet, let alone fuck you until you bleed for him.” His voice was low, rough, dark, possessive. “Couldn’t even come close to what I’m giving you… this cock owning your guts.”
Heat rushed through you, every nerve alight with horror and ecstasy. His words, coupled with the feel of him buried inside you, sent shivers down your spine, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.
His hands gripped your hips firmly, nails digging into flesh until blood welled, tilting you, guiding your movements with his own, forcing you to feel every vein, every ridge as he slammed into your cervix.
“You’re so fucking perfect for me, my bloody little cumdump,” he growled, thrusts growing harder, faster, relentless, the wet slap of skin echoing, your slick and blood mixing in a filthy mess.
“Every moan, every tremble… it’s all because of me. Mine, doll. Mine to feel, mine to claim, mine to breed and break.”
You gasped and whimpered, hips rocking instinctively against your will, heart hammering as his lips latched onto a bloody nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing as he bit down, drawing more blood.
Every sound you made seemed to fuel him, his obsession dark and unrelenting, the knife now tracing your belly, carving shallow initials, his, into your skin, blood beading as you screamed in pain and pleasure.
“Look at you… trembling for me like a gutted whore,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous.
“Screaming silently, begging silently… you’re mine, doll. And no one else could ever touch you like I do, fuck you while I slice you open, make you cum with my knife in your guts.”
His thrusts became faster, harder, more commanding, pressing you fully into him, every inch of your bodies moving together in a dark, thrilling rhythm of horror.
Your breath came in ragged gasps, every nerve alive, utterly consumed by him, by his dominance, his obsession, his claim, your body surrendering even as your mind screamed.
“Cum for me, you filthy bitch, or I’ll gut you right now,” he snarled, pressing the knife to your throat, the edge biting deep enough to draw blood, and you shattered, squirting around his cock in a messy flood, sobbing as he laughed, pumping you full of his cum, marking you inside and out.
You sagged against Bucky, chest heaving, body slick with sweat and trembling from his raw intensity, skin stinging from shallow cuts he’d carved into you.
The air reeked of sex, blood, and his cologne, shadows jagged in the dim light. His vibranium hand gripped your hip like a vice, flesh hand tangled in your hair, pinning you to his chest, every touch a possessive brand.
“Bucky…” you whispered, voice shaky, fear and desire cracking through. “You’re not… gonna kill me, right?” Your heart pounded, the knife’s cold ghost lingering, his brutal fucking still pulsing in your core.
His dark eyes locked on yours, a slow, disarming smile spreading, warm and boyish, masking the predator beneath.
“Kill you, doll?” he murmured, voice soft, almost hurt, thumb gently brushing your lip, smearing blood, saliva, and cum.
“My sweet girl, why would I ever hurt you?” His gaze softened, blue eyes pleading innocence, drawing you in. “You’re my world, my everything. Those cuts? Just love bites, marking what’s mine.”
Your throat tightened, Luke’s spilled guts flashing, wet ropes, crunching ribs, but his tender tone, the way he cradled your face, melted doubt.
“The… killings… the call…” you stammered, the rasping threats, fucking you bloody, carving his name, echoing, shame slick between your thighs.
He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lips warm, lingering.
“Shh, doll, that was to keep you safe,” he coaxed, voice velvet, manipulative. “Guys like Luke, staring at you, wanting you, they’re dangers. I protected us.”
His hand slid to your hip, fingers tracing a cut gently, soothing the sting, his eyes wide with feigned vulnerability. “You trust me, don’t you? I’d never let anyone hurt you.”
“I… trust you,” you whispered, voice trembling, clinging to his warmth, his lie weaving safety around your fear. His smile deepened, manipulative, feeding on your surrender.
“Good girl,” he purred, thumb stroking your cheek, smearing blood like affection.
“You’re mine, doll. I’d kill to keep you safe, gut anyone who looks at you.” His voice stayed soft, convincing, masking the feral edge. “But you? I’d rather die than harm you.”
Your pussy clenched, terror and desire tangling, his words a drug. He tilted your chin, eyes earnest, fooling you into belief.
“I only give what you need,” he murmured, knife’s flat edge teasing your throat, cold but not cutting, a playful threat. “Your tears, your screams, your sweet cunt, they’re mine to cherish.”
“I’m yours,” you breathed, tears spilling, body leaning into him, trusting despite the horror.
He kissed you gently, lips tender, sucking your bloody lip, groaning softly, vibranium hand cupping your ass, pulling you onto his lap. His cock hardened against your thigh, slick with your mess.
“Feel that?” he whispered, voice loving, grinding slowly. “That’s me, worshipping you. My perfect girl.”
“Bucky… please…” you whimpered, lost in his facade, needing his lie.
“Say it again,” he coaxed, eyes soft, knife nicking your back just enough to sting, love disguised as pain.
“Yours,” you sobbed, clinging tighter, pussy aching.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, sliding into you slow, stretching you with tender thrusts, each one a claim.
“Forever mine.” His movements were gentle, binding you in devotion, his obsession hidden behind love’s mask, the cycle complete, your trust his ultimate victory.
The worst (and best) thing your mother has ever done to you is marry this man and give you a mysterious, handsy stepbrother.
▸ PAIRING: Stepbrother!Nick Fowler x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, stepcest, brother kink, lots of groping and inappropriate touching, semi-public (aka driving) fingering, spanking, oral (f!receiving), a lil service dom!nick, a lil brat!reader
▸ WORD COUNT: 7K
▸ A/N: icb nick became my largest kinktober fic but here we are. like this man is a deranged pervert (he likes referring to himself as older brother for god's sake), you have been warned. a reminder that i am not responsible for your media consumption, please heed warnings!!! if you liked this fic, please reply/reblog/like (or all 3!) <3
↤ Seb-O-Ween (Kinktober) Masterlist
When Nick Fowler became your stepbrother, you knew he would be nothing but trouble. It’s tough enough that your mother decided to remarry without consulting you, yet it doesn’t compare to the struggle of having a new brother now living under your roof. Your previously all-female household transformed with the sudden influx of testosterone.
You had sulked and pouted through the entire announcement. It’s not entirely your fault, your mom had dropped a bombshell on you. Hey, honey, so I’ve been seeing this man for months behind your back and he proposed to me last night and he’ll be moving in with us. Oh, also he has a son, which means you now have a brother!
However, Nick didn’t let you act like a brat for too long. With a firm grip on your elbow, he quietly urges you to sit and listen properly. To act like the adult that you are and not some wronged child.
You’re not entirely sure why, but you do as you’re told.
There is an air of mystery around Nick. Your mom is extra hush-hush when it comes to talking about what he does for work, which means she says absolutely nothing at all. Your suspicion is that she doesn’t know either. When you asked him once, he gave some poor excuse of an answer about being an accountant — a job nobody wants to hear about, which means it does not prompt further questioning. But you had given him a stink-eye that signaled you smelled his bullshit.
Nick had only smiled, calm and rehearsed.
There are times when he disappears for days. No one seems to sound any alarms. When he returns a week or two later, it is as if nothing has changed. Nobody mentions the newly-healed scar on his jaw or the fact that his nose is now slightly crooked. Your questions to your mother are answered by waves of indifference and a reminder telling you to behave around your new brother.
Beyond that, it’s the authority that he commands in every room. While his father is clearly the new head of the household, there’s a firmness to Nick’s stance that has everyone on edge. You’ve noticed his father squirming more than once when Nick is being particularly curt, but the older man doesn’t point it out. Your mother chooses not to address the tension, which leaves you at an impasse.
Whatever he does for a living, it’s clear that he is used to being the one in charge.
It’s not only his secret occupation that bothers you. It’s the way that he behaves around you. In front of your parents (yes, plural now), he is calm and cordial. When they turn their backs to him, his eyes flash with something more dangerous. A look that you can’t quite pinpoint, but still has goosebumps rising on your skin.
There have been multiple occasions when he has stood a little too close for comfort. Shuffling behind you in the kitchen to grab a mug above your head, hips brushing yours as his arms cage you in. One arm on the counter next to your hip and the other reaching above your head.
Or when he comes to the breakfast table late and slides a warm hand around the back of your neck as he slips into the seat next to you, rumbling “morning” to the parents and another one softly to you. His touch leaves behind hints of his cologne that tickle your nose throughout the day.
Or when you are coerced into attending weekly, family movie nights and he is on the couch next to you after he strongarms you into joining. His arm settles comfortably around your shoulders as if it belongs there, as his fingers absentmindedly trace circles on your bare skin.
His behavior is a little too… intimate for your taste. Then again, you’ve never had a sibling so your head justifies this as normal. Maybe this is how all siblings — step or otherwise — interact.
That said, you aren’t blind. You know Nick is stupidly attractive with his piercing blue eyes, strong jawline, rugged features, large build, toned chest (not that you’ve seen it that much), and— you get the point. So the butterflies in your stomach when he is being more assertive with you, when he uses his big brother voice, is something you don’t question.
You’re used to being an only child. A brat really most days. So it’s a different kind of feeling when you have someone around who apparently feels like he has authority over you.
You’re not sure whether it’s a good thing yet.
It’s difficult to describe Nick. This is clear when you’re out for lunch with a friend from college, Jeanie. Since your mom is taking the family car for the day, a beat-up Subaru that has lasted longer than it should, you tell her that you can just grab an Uber home.
“I could pick you up,” Nick interjects from the kitchen where he’s sipping his coffee. “I’m running errands around there anyway. Save you the money.”
Your mom is obviously delighted that her new son is doing a favor for his new stepsibling. You, on the other hand, still have trust issues with him and hence the so-called errands he's running. So this nice act he’s selling, you don’t buy it.
So when Jeanie asks you what’s happening with this new marital arrangement, you don’t really know what to say. “You know, you haven’t told me much about this new brother of yours.”
Stiffening, you brush her off with another scoop into your shared dish, shoving it into your mouth to avoid answering. “There’s nothing to tell.”
She wiggles her spoon at you teasingly. “Oh come on, you’ve been the center of attention your entire life and now you’re sharing the spotlight. There must be something. What’s he like?”
Nick doesn’t really feel like a brother. Not with the way he lets your name sweetly roll off his tongue. Not with the way your stomach traitorously flips every time he brushes against your skin. Not with the way you can’t help but drown in his sapphire eyes.
“He’s fine. A normal adult man,” you opt to say, praying that she drops this.
“Show me a picture,” she grins, leaning forward and her eyes dart to your phone on the table.
For one reason or another, you don’t find yourself reaching for your phone. There are certainly countless family pictures that your mom has shared in your new family group chat where both you and Nick are in. Ones that download automatically to your phone. You tell yourself you’re too lazy to delete them, but a tiny part of you refuses to admit that it’s nice to keep his photo in there too. Eye candy and whatnot.
But you’re hesitant to show him to Jeanie. No doubt he’s attractive — and single as far as you can tell based on his comings and goings. Jeanie is also a man-eater and will devour any remotely good-looking man on sight. You’re not sure if you want Nick to be subjected to that. Her touching him. Touching what’s yours.
Fuck. Where did that come from?
He’s your stepbrother. He’s not yours.
“Oh, shit. Hot guy alert. My god, that is a tall drink of water in this drought. He’s really giving tall, dark, and handsome. Wonder how old he is. Don’t turn too fast— shit, wait. He’s walking this way.”
Then you hear your name. It’s said with that familiar heat coating his tongue. You can feel your insides twisting as you look up to find Nick by your table, lips curled into a pleased smirk. The fuck is he so happy about?
With your mouth dry, you clear your throat. “Nick, you’re early.”
“Wrapped up early, figured I’d check in on my baby sister.”
Those words shouldn’t have an effect on you. Yet, they do. You mask the excitement with a frown. A feigned protest at the term of endearment sits on your tongue but Jeanie beats you to it. “So you’re the new brother,” she purrs and you know that sound. She’s a woman on the hunt. “I’m Jeanie. I’ve heard great things.”
Nick’s eyes never once stray from you. The deep look in his eyes focused solely on you is flattering. Jeanie is a stunner and you’ve always had to fight for attention growing up around her, especially with men. Nick doesn’t even blink at her. His smile tips up even higher. “Have you really? Been talking about me?”
“No,” you spit out, crossing your arms over your chest petulantly.
“Don’t have to be so shy.”
“I’m not.”
Nick looks at you, appearing entertained.
Jeanie seems oblivious to the tension and instead asks, “Why don’t you join us? We still have dessert to order.”
Unfortunately for you, Nick seems out to get you today. “I could use dessert.”
“Nick,” you huff with a look. He disregards your tantrum and pulls up a chair.
Dessert is relatively uneventful for the most part. While you expect both of them to be insufferable, Nick is actually decent at managing Jeanie. Every question she throws at him, he expertly deflects. He forces his gaze to shift to her every time she asks him something before it is inevitably drawn back to you.
His eyes are calculating, like he’s assessing you and indulging in how you squirm uncomfortably.
When the bill comes, Nick smoothly slides his card onto the platter before handing it back to the waiter.
“I can pay my own bills, Nick,” you say with a purse of your lips.
The corner of his lips twitches. “I know you can, doesn’t mean you should. Let big brother take care of you.”
Jeanie laughs delightedly in the background, but your ears are ringing with the sudden heat that floods your body. Your skin ripples with warmth. Something about the way his lips curl around the syllables. How he says big brother.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you choose to look away and abandon this battle.
As the three of you step out of the restaurant, Nick wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you closer. You bite back a shiver when his fingers brush your slightly exposed midriff. “I should get this kid home before it’s too late. Good to meet you, Jeanie.”
You instinctively bite back. “I’m not a kid.”
Jeanie again ignores the push-and-pull between the two of you. She smiles brightly at Nick, fluttering her lashes at him. “Would you mind dropping me off at home too? I don’t live far from you guys.”
Nick glances at you for a brief second, and you can only look away. Then you hear him say, “Sure.”
As Nick leads the two of you to his car, much nicer and much newer than your family car, Jeanie prances to the passenger side door. It prickles some unknown irritation inside you as you press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, stomping quietly over.
However, before either of you can enter, Nick says to Jeanie, “She’s actually been getting car sick lately sitting in the back, so I’ll take her up front with me.”
Your friend looks more than mildly disappointed and, as much as you love her, you do take some satisfaction in the way Nick takes your side.
If there were sides.
Once Jeanie is tucked safely in the backseat, Nick reaches over for your door. A gentleman. You look at him with a frown, you seem to be doing a lot of that around him. “I don’t get car sick.”
“I know.”
Again, you aren’t sure what to make of that.
Confirming that you’re strapped in the passenger seat, Nick pulls out of the parking lot. The ride home is quiet, at least for you. He keeps Jeanie entertained by answering all her questions, which you admittedly also eavesdrop on.
“So what do you do for work, Nick?”
“Accounting.”
“Sounds thrilling. Do you like it?”
“Pays the bills.”
“What do you like to do outside of work?”
“Gym.”
“Mmm, you do look fit. Think you can bench me?”
“Wouldn’t know, wouldn’t try.”
You hide your smile.
When she finally exits with a promise to visit more often, no doubt to see one person that isn’t you, Nick heads out to the road again.
That’s when you feel it — a large, warm hand on your bare knee, inches below where your skirt ends. Where your skirt has ridden up slightly, but you don’t bother to adjust. For no reason whatsoever.
You don’t acknowledge the hand. In fact, you keep quiet despite the tensing of your thigh.
“What’re you thinking about?” Nick breaks the silence.
“What do you mean?”
“Been pretty quiet.”
“I’m always pretty quiet.”
“Not when you’re with me, kid. Always find something to complain about.”
You scowl, and he chuckles.
His hand lifts from your leg to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You resist turning to look at him, to see what expression he’s making — if he’s even looking at you at all. Then his hand slides down to cup the side of your neck, thumb reaching up to stroke your jaw.
It’s such a soft gesture. Brotherly. However, there is something about it that makes you tense. The way his grip is so firm on you.
Coughing to ease the thickness of the air, you shrug. “I’m fine, just lost in thought, I guess.”
“Anything you want to tell your big brother about?”
That is what has you whipping around to fake a gag at him. “Don’t call yourself that.”
You swear you see his eyes darken slightly, but his gaze is glued on the street ahead. “What do you want to call me then?”
“Nick. That’s your name.”
His lips curve again. “Kinda like calling you baby sister.”
You roll your eyes. “Only because you know it pisses me off.”
“Mm,” he hums, “I do enjoy riling you up.”
And when his hand joins his other one at the wheel, you try not to let it show how much you’re already missing the loss of his warmth. It’s a little pathetic how drawn you are to him. How you’re so easily affected by him.
It’s not as if it’s your first time with boys. You’ve had plenty in your lifetime. Hell, just last week, you indulged in an old friend. The fact that you sought him out only after Nick sat a little too close to you during movie night is purely coincidental.
Most of the time, you brush off these interactions with Nick. Maybe he is just being a good stepbrother. Maybe your hormones have just been on haywire since he arrived, since you haven’t lived in proximity to another man in a long time.
Though, you should’ve known better. You should’ve listened to your instincts.
It all comes to a head one day when you need to go pick up a few... items.
Jogging towards the door, you call out, “Mom, gonna take the car to head to the mall. I need to grab some stuff.”
“Alright, sweetheart. See you for dinner!”
Before you can make it out of the house, Nick is suddenly by your side. The keys in his hand jingle. “I’ll drive. We can take mine.”
You swallow the urge to tell him no for the sake of being annoying. Nick’s calmness is unnerving sometimes, you can’t help but want to poke the bear sleeping underneath. “Why are you going?”
“Need to pick up a couple of things too.”
“What kind of things?” You ask, suspicion lacing your voice.
In lieu of answering, he manhandles you out with a hand on your lower back.
“So what do you need to pick up?” He prompts when you’re finally on the main road.
You shoot him an annoyed look. “You didn’t even answer my question.”
“A few shirts and suits for work.”
A snort escapes you. “Ah, yes, your accounting job.”
He looks at you with a small smile. “You don’t like it?”
“I don’t like a liar.”
“Serious accusation,” Nick teases. “Why do you think I’m lying?”
“Because I’m not an idiot.”
“You never answered my question.”
When you think about what you have to pick up, you can feel heat lick your cheeks. So you deflect. “None of your business.”
After Nick parks the car, you whirl around in the lobby of the mall. “Meet back here in an hour?”
“Eager to get rid of me?”
Not necessarily but you are antsy to get your stuff and get going before he can question it too much. It’s not embarrassing per se, but you’re still a girl and he’s still a guy. Brothers don't help sisters shop for what you're looking for. Right?
“Come with me first,” he says instead.
“Why?”
“Want your opinion.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “It’s a shirt and tie, can’t be too difficult. I’m sure you’ll look good in anything.”
The compliment slips out before you can bite your tongue and, of course, Nick catches it, judging by the massive smile on her face. “Come on.”
You end up being maneuvered to the department store where there are racks and racks of similar-looking pale shirts. You follow Nick around as he plucks out a few things then disappears behind the curtain.
You’re on the couch facing said curtain, scrolling through your phone. The curtain shifts slightly and you notice that he never pulled it all the way shut. It’s not like you intend to peek. It’s not your fault that you happen to get a glimpse of his broad back flexing, muscles rippling and all, as he shrugs on a shirt.
Definitely not an accountant’s build.
When Nick steps out, the air is punched out of your lungs. Somehow, he looks even better from the front. The fabric fits him perfectly, stretching across his broad chest. He throws on a suit on top and you’re practically drooling, the phone in your hand nearly slipping out of your grasp.
“What do you think?”
Fuckin’ perfect.
Before you can respond, a clerk swoops in. Her blonde hair is swirled up into a neat updo as she straightens her uniform. “Oh, it fits you perfectly! I’ve never seen anyone wear this better.” She is laying it on thick with her hand on his arm as she leans over with a giggle.
Nick casually steps away from her touch and turns to you with more light in his eyes. “What do you think, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart? You cock a curious brow. He’s never called you that before. “Um, yeah. Looks good.”
The woman clearly can’t take a hint when she offers, “I can help you bring—”
“That won’t be necessary, we’ve got it.” Nick’s curt and coldly polite. It’s enough to send her off with her tail tucked between her legs.
You tamp down the excitement bubbling inside you.
Once he’s paid, again with his hand on your lower spine, he navigates you out. “Alright, let’s go to whatever you need to do.”
Your lips press together into a thin line. “You can wait at the food court. I won’t take long and I’ll come find you when I’m done.”
It’s Nick’s turn to raise a suspicious brow at you. “What are you buying?”
“It’s not a big deal. I’ll find you later.”
His eyes narrow. “Is this for drugs? Are you buying off someone because if you are—”
“Oh my god, I’m getting bras and underwear okay! Jesus, why’d you have to make me say it out loud?” The confession has blood rushing to your face and you rub it furiously, hoping your cool fingertips will ease some of your humiliation.
Nick looks like he’s swallowing a laugh and all you can manage is a glare. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
Your objections fall on deaf ears as Nick makes his way towards the women’s floor. “Nick, come on. Please. This is so embarrassing.”
“What’s so embarrassing about underwear?”
“Nick!”
He fails to muffle his laughter this time as he hooks an arm around your neck. “I’m a grown man, little sis. I’ve seen my fair share of them.”
“You’re so fucking insufferable.”
If anyone sees you smile at his laugh, you’ll deny it.
Thankfully, Nick lets you roam around on your own as you pick out simple colors and designs. While your eyes are drawn to the pretty lace pieces, you convince yourself that they aren’t as practical. At some point, Nick does pop up behind you but disappears again before you can say anything.
When you slink over to the fitting room, Nick once again appears and drops a couple more into your pile.
“What?”
“Try ‘em on.”
Without questioning him further, you jump in behind the curtain. That is when you notice the new red lace bra in your hands and a sheer pastel blue one. They’re stunning. Of course, Nick would have good taste in lingerie. He probably has loads of experience, you think bitterly to yourself.
After trying on your choices, you stare at the two pieces hanging. Taunting you. Biting the bullet, you slip on the red one first. You hate to admit it but it looks gorgeous on you. The push-up gives you extra generous cleavage, the color complementing your skin.
“How’s it going in there?”
Nick’s voice makes you jump and you instinctively cover yourself up. “Fine.”
“Let me see.”
Your brain doesn’t catch up fast enough before he slips past the curtain and into the room. Your arms immediately tighten to cover yourself further. “Nick, what the fuck!”
“Language, sweetheart.”
He shamelessly, appreciatively rakes his eyes up and down your figure, gaze leaving behind a trail of fire.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, “I knew it would be perfect for you.”
“It’s a little much,” you clear your throat, arms still wrapped like a shield around your body. It only serves to push your breasts closer together.
His palm lands on your bare waist, sliding around to your abdomen. The touch sends shivers down your spine. “No, this is beautiful. You should get it.”
Your skin tingles under his gaze. You should be embarrassed. You’re half naked in front of Nick. You should also probably be alarmed that your stepbrother is in the changing room with you in a lingerie store.
But you’re not.
“Try on the other one.”
The two of you stand quietly, his stare still on your body and yours on his eyes. “Um, shouldn’t you go wait outside?”
“Try it on.”
Thrill shoots up your veins. Your heart is thrumming a little harder, a little faster. You wonder if he can hear it too. You should tell him to leave. You should shove him out of the dressing room. But you don’t.
Secretly, you’re preening in his attention. That his eyes are only on you and have only been on you.
Biting your bottom lip, you nudge him to the corner. “Can you at least turn around?”
He slowly turns with his hands up, shoulders shaking with a chuckle. You take off the red one and slide on the next one. When your gaze darts up to the mirror, you catch Nick peeking over his shoulder. “Nick!”
Unapologetically, he rolls his shoulders. “Just making sure you’re okay.”
Your fingers reach around to clasp the back but they’re flimsy and you’re struggling to hook them together. That’s when a pair of hands much larger than yours take over, fingers brushing against your spine. A gasp hitches in your throat as Nick deftly loops them through.
His hands slide down your back and up your sides as he hooks a chin over your shoulder, his stubble tickling your bare skin. His eyes roam over your body once more in the mirror.
The material is practically transparent, your nipples clear as day underneath the see-through fabric. The thin lace offers zero support. This is the most impractical piece of clothing you have ever seen. And yet—
“Gorgeous.”
Your brain can barely comprehend the situation. Nick smiles to himself and you swear you feel the slight brush of his lips against the back of your shoulder before he exits, leaving you to change again.
You’re still in a daze when you change back to your clothes, when Nick guides you to the cashier, when he swipes his card for everything you tried on. You almost miss the cashier cooing at how sweet it is that he’s buying lingerie for his girlfriend. Your mouth opens to correct her but Nick squeezes your hip.
Then you’re in the car again and Nick’s palm is on your leg, sliding higher and higher until they sneak in between your thighs. You don’t stop him. He doesn’t stop going higher.
A guttural moan rises from his chest as his fingertips brush your damp panties.
“When did you start getting wet?”
Your breathing falters again as he starts teasing your clothed slit with a finger. He doesn’t look fazed, keeping a close watch of the road ahead.
Nick hums thoughtfully when he slips a finger under the fabric to touch the moisture between your legs. Your legs involuntarily fall apart wider, granting him more access as you lean back with a soft sigh against your seat. He doesn’t push his finger in, he merely hovers. Drifting his fingertip lightly over your sensitive slit, grazing your clit until you’re sliding further down, desperate for more.
“When did you start, sweetheart?”
You whine slightly, one hand gripping the door and the other wrapping around Nick’s wrist. Whether it’s to push him away or keep him there, you’re not sure. The latter seems to be more likely. “I-I don’t know.”
“Was it when you were watching me change? Or was it when I was watching you?” He asks, voice almost sickeningly sweet as he dips two fingers now under your underwear. He hooks them on your waist and tugs the fabric down your legs, letting them fall to the floor as your thighs part even more. “Tell me.”
“Hnng, when I was changing, when you saw me in — fuck, Nick — the first bra.”
“Yeah? You enjoyed me looking at you like that?”
“Yeah,” you pant lightly, “liked seeing how much you liked how I looked in it.”
“We can do a repeat, you can do a little try-on for me again when we get home.”
Your tongue swipes your bottom lip as you tilt your head to look at him. His fingers now have full access to your aching pussy, but he’s still not doing anything more than stroking it lightly. Fucking tease.
“Nick, please,” you whimper. “Fingers. I want your fingers in me.”
He chuckles low, chancing a brief glance at you. “My sweet, sweet sister. So desperate. Are you like this with everyone?”
No. Your libido’s been through the roof since he moved in. It doesn’t help when he comes in drenched after his morning runs, even shirtless at times. Sometimes, he even steps out of the bathroom with nothing more than a towel wrapped around his waist. The man knows he’s attractive and he knows what he’s doing.
It’s evident now in the way he’s been touching you the last few days.
You wriggle against his hand, hoping for more, but Nick only smiles. “Why don’t you ask me nicely?”
“I did,” you whimper. “Please, Nick. Your fingers in me, please.”
“Yeah, you going to let big brother take care of you?”
Fuck, he’s such a kinky fucker.
And you like it.
A deep moan escapes you as you nod. “Yes, please. Take care of me.”
Nick finally pushes a finger into your tight opening. No matter how wide you spread your legs, how much your skirt has ridden up, it’s still a squeeze. “So fuckin’ tight, sweetheart. Look at you. Dripping and clenchin’ around me.”
“‘M so wet, Nick,” you whisper.
“You are, sweetheart. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
Your eyes slide shut as Nick begins fingering you slowly with one at first. Your body slumps back against the leather seat and the car’s rumbling vibrations only prove to fuel the heat brewing in your belly.
With the delicious friction lighting a fire inside your pussy, you can’t help but writhe against his hand. The base of his palm grinds against your clit as he adds another finger inside you. It’s so easy for him to slide in and out, in and out, triggering a new wave of electricity through your veins.
You’re a weak woman, putty in his hands. He is clearly a man with plenty of experience because he watches your every twitch, every jerk of your hips to find the right spots to hit. He strokes your insides intentionally, fingers reaching deep inside of you, and curls his fingers just right.
When you start to get too close, Nick slows down his ministrations which only leaves you frustrated. You whine as he pauses his hands at a stoplight, seeming to take pleasure in how you wiggle your hips into his hand. He brings you up only to drag you back down, again and again, until he’s parked outside your home.
By the time he turns the engine off, your entire body is on fire. Beads of sweat cling to your neck as you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting patiently for Nick to continue.
Nick grins salaciously as his fingers begin working you again. Fast and slow. Pumping in and out and twisting thickly inside you. You’re pretty sure the car is shaking with how you’re floundering in your seat. “Think you can cum on big brother’s fingers now? Be a good girl. Cum for me before our parents can see. Bet they heard the car pull up already. You don’t want them to come out here and see their little girl creamin’ all over her big brother’s fingers.”
It’s the final straw. Your pleasure crests and you’re grinding against his hand to ride it out, your back arching off the chair. Your pussy seizes around his fingers, pulsing as the orgasm rocks through you. Nick’s entire body turns to look at you as your chest heaves with stuttered breaths.
“Gorgeous,” Nick smiles, leaning over to leave a chaste kiss on your forehead. He slowly drags his fingers out of you, pulling another whimper from your pouty lips, and sticks them in his mouth. He moans at the flavor of you, sticky and wet on his tongue. “Fuckin’ sweet, like how I always pictured it. Such a good girl.”
The fog in your brain persists as you rest back, gulping in deep breaths. However, when it clears, the reality of the situation sinks in fast. Panic flares in your gut. “We shouldn’t have done that. Fuck, Nick. What have we done? We’re siblings for god’s sake.”
“Step siblings,” Nick corrects.
“Still, it’s not— we shouldn’t have. We live together, Nick. Fuck, this was a mistake.”
Nick catches your chin and kisses you deep, drinking in your moan as he does so. He tastes a little like him and a little like you. “Listen to me. You can walk away right now. We’ll act like this never happened. I can try and pretend like I don’t know how fucking sweet your pretty cunt tastes.”
“Nick!”
Then his lips curl up into a slow grin, tongue dragging across his teeth. “How about this — if you want your big brother to take care of you, then, when you see our parents, you call them mom and dad. If not, then you call them as you always have.”
You have refused to call his father by anything other than Mr. Fowler. He’s not family. You vowed to never call him dad because he isn’t yours. However, this is Nick’s bargain. If you acknowledge the man as your father, then you acknowledge Nick as your brother.
But it also means that you’re giving Nick the green light to give you what you really want.
When you step past the threshold and see the two in the kitchen, you freeze. They haven’t noticed you yet. Nick stands one step behind you, a sly smile dancing on his lips.
“Hey, Mom,” you blurt out and she turns and Nick’s father looks up from his phone at the table. They’re both looking at you expectantly. Waiting.
With your heart hammering against your ribs and your lips trembling, you say, “Dad.”
The way both their faces illuminate should have some sort of effect on you, but you squeak when Nick’s hand slides up your thigh and grabs your ass. The three of them make some small talk, you may have responded with a word or two, but you can’t really process the conversation with how he’s squeezing the soft skin. A gush of cool air hits you between your legs every time he kneads a cheek, separating and exposing your pussy. Your underwear is still tucked into his back pocket, cotton hanging out for all to see.
“Why don’t you both clean up for dinner? I’ll make something special tonight so it’ll take some time, but this is a big day, isn’t it? We’re a family now.” Your mother swipes away a tear as Nick’s father tucks her into his side.
Any other time, you may have softened at the sight, but right now, you’re too busy struggling to stand. Nick leans you against his side. “Sounds good, take all the time you need. We’ll get ready for dinner.”
While your parents immediately launch into dinner prep, Nick leads you upstairs and straight into your room, locking the door behind him.
Within seconds, he has you pressed up against the door, lips crashing down on yours. He swallows your whimpers and nudges your legs open with his knee. “Look at you, my little sister’s a desperate little whore. Do you spread your legs for anyone?”
Gone is the cool and composed stepbrother you know. In his place is this feral man with fire in his eyes and a rougher grip. Nick yanks you towards your bed, plops down and bends you over across his legs. His fingers go back to working your ass, pulling apart your cheeks to check on your pussy.
“Your cunt’s glistening, sweetheart. So fuckin’ wet for me.”
“Nick, please,” you whimper.
“Tell me, when was the last time you fucked anyone?”
You don’t think your answer will be the one he’s looking for so you seal your lips shut.
A palm lands on your ass with a crack, jolting you forward. The skin throbs with a dull sting from the blow. “Nick!”
“Answer my question.”
“Why does it matter?” You squirm in an attempt to free yourself from him.
However, Nick keeps you down, your legs dangling over his. He hits you with another slap on your other cheek, hand immediately coming down to soothe the sharp, sudden pain. “Because I want to know the last time you let another man in here.”
Another slap, then another, and another. At this point, you’re leaking all over his pants. You’re panting desperately, and all you want to do is have his cock fill you up. Your ass is burning with every hit, but it only exacerbates the flame burning bright in your core.
“Fuck, last week!” You finally cry out, hand flying to your mouth to muffle your sobs. “Stop please. It hurts.”
“Who fucked you?”
“An old friend! I was horny, so sue me.”
Nick laughs low, more menacing rather than amused. “Next time you want someone to fill this cunt, you come to your big brother. You got it? No one else gets to taste this, or touch this, or especially fuck this.”
You nod eagerly, desperate to get this pain over and done with. “Nick, please. Fuck me. I want you.”
“Good girl,” he coos, “at least you’re honest.”
Nick picks you up and tosses you onto the bed, quickly tugging your shirt off and your skirt down, leaving you naked and ready for him. He pulls his own shirt over his head and begins unbuttoning his jeans. You’re suddenly exposed to his delicious set of abs.
“You’re not an accountant,” you say matter-of-factly.
He only chuckles, but doesn’t respond, confirming your suspicions. Instead, he opts to slant his lips over yours again, swiping his tongue along your bottom lip, drawing out a gasp that allows him to slip in. With your tongues twisting together, spit stringing between the two of you, Nick rubs your breasts before shifting down and taking confident licks of your nipples.
“Nearly bent you over in that changing room earlier,” he groans against your tits. “Fuckin’ perfect tits with these pretty nipples. I wanted to suck you over the fabric, wanted you to walk out and hand over bras wet with my spit at the register.”
Nick swallows another gasp before it can slip into the air. He drags his tongue up to your neck and presses deep against the sensitive skin before trailing his lips back down. He sucks on your tits, hands toying and pinching and squeezing. You bring your fist to your mouth and bite down to stop yourself from whimpering too loud.
He makes his way south until he’s lifting your legs and throwing them above his shoulder as he splays out between them. He doesn’t waste a breath as he begins to lap up your leaking juices. His tongue pushes inside your opening, loosened now from his fingers, strokes up your pussy, as his lips close in around your clit. He switches between fucking you with his tongue and teasing that sensitive bundle of nerves with his thumb.
“Tastes like honey, sweetheart,” he groans against your spread legs. The sound has you lifting up from the bed, moaning needily as he continues to pleasure you. “I’ll always take good care of you. If you ever need someone to lick this cunt clean or to fill it up with cum, you’re going to ask me. Gonna ask your big brother.”
“Hnng, yeah, okay. God, fuck, that feels so good.” Your fingers twist in his short hair, tugging on it as your stomach clenches with wanton need.
“Repeat it for me, sweetheart. I’m only going to ask my big brother to take care of me.”
“Nick,” you whine, “that’s embarrassing.”
“Come on,” he coaxes sweetly.
Biting on your bottom lip, you force your eyes open to look at him where he’s positioned. His lips are shiny with spit, chin glistening with your juices. Eyes on you. Always only on you. How can you say no to him?
“I’m only going to ask my big brother to take care of me,” you echo shyly.
“To lick your cunt, to fuck your pussy.”
Your complaint dies in your throat when Nick begins fucking you with his fingers and his tongue again, alternating between the two until you’re writhing on the bed. “Fuck. Nick, please. Only you. Licking my cunt. Fucking my pussy. Filling me up. Nobody else.”
“That’s my good girl,” he praises again and your toes curl with desire. “Only moved in here for you. Gave up my nice house so I can be under the same roof as you, pretty girl.”
You’re so close, you can practically taste your second orgasm of the day. However, a knock sounds at your door, which has both of you going rigid.
“Hey, honey.”
Fuck. Fuck.
Your heart stops in your chest as Nick sticks his head back between your legs. Biting your tongue, you try to hold back your whimper as his tongue swipes along your sensitive skin again. Your fingers wrestle against his head in your attempt to push him away. “Stop it, she’s going to know.”
“Answer your mom, sweetheart,” he only smiles against your cunt, breath hot against the moist skin.
He is relentless, hold never once loosening on your hips as he pins you down onto the bed and eats you out.
You have to reply, otherwise she’ll get suspicious. “H-hey, Mom.”
“Dinner’s ready! Have you seen Nick? He’s not in his room,” she says quizzically from the other side of the door.
That’s because he’s there between your legs, eating your pussy like it’s a five-course meal. “Um, not sure—” you muffle a yelp when Nick nips the inside of your thigh and you shoot a glare at him. “I’ll find him and make sure we come down for dinner.”
“Great, thanks, honey.”
As soon as the two of you hear her footsteps fading away, Nick goes all in. He’s pushing his fingers inside of you the same time he’s licking you all over, pressing his tongue against your clit, circling it. You’re a mess underneath him, nearly thrashing around as he fucks you open with his mouth.
Every nerve inside of you is buzzing. Your heart is in your throat. Your body is strung so tight and you’re just waiting for that moment when your pleasure climbs and climbs and climbs, before you completely crumble in his hands, stars exploding before your eyes.
You shove your face into a pillow to dampen the sound of your cries, your moans, your whimpers as your hips grind down against his face to draw out your orgasm. Nick doesn’t let up, instead licking up your cream until you feel overstimulated, until you have to push his face away from between your legs.
“Fuck, I’m too sensitive,” you whine.
“Pretty when you cum, sweetheart.”
A short laugh escapes you as you throw an arm over your eyes. Your body sinking into the mattress as you feel your muscles finally unwind. “I can’t believe we did that,” you huff then peek at him. “I want to return the favor but we should probably head downstairs first. Don’t want them coming back up to check on us.”
“It’s not a favor. Like I said, I only want to take care of you,” Nick says as he crawls up to kiss you. You taste yourself on his tongue, feeling that familiar warmth stir again inside of you.
“Well, I guess I’ll just have my own dessert after dinner. A little cream in my tea?”
Nick sighs with a content smile. “I can work with that.”
Bucky offers to paint your house and your insides.
▸ PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader (Established Relationship)
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, pwp, feminism at risk because of bucky (but not really), window sex, fingering against wall, creampie, no protection (wrap it pls)
▸ WORD COUNT: 2.9K
▸ A/N: deep in the trenches of home renovation and a good ol menty b. still wrote this out inspired by the godawful task of painting walls in an apartment. half crack fic at this point im sorry <3
Feminism becomes a foreign concept when you find yourself watching your boyfriend work away at your newly purchased apartment. Now, don’t get you wrong — you know your way around certain things, but those things do not include a power drill or home renovations overall. So when you got quoted an arm and a leg to repaint your walls, Bucky declared, “Fine, I’ll do it myself.”
This is where your predicament begins because, while you had no problem shelling out those dollars, Bucky thought it would be absolute insanity to give in for mere wall painting. So he got himself rollers, brushes, and buckets of paint (all in one go, all in one arm, mind you) and got to work.
And you’re left staring at the way his back ripples as he chips away at your home — and what a sight it is, indeed.
You told him that you wouldn’t lift a finger because he insisted on doing this instead of paying an expert. Bucky had no complaints about it. Why would he? You’re his princess and you shouldn’t have to do anything to ruin your pretty little hands.
But then Bucky started whirring that drill in his hand, biceps and triceps flexing as he began to painstakingly unscrew every single thing from the wall. You got curious, you’ve never really used it before, so you asked him if he could teach you.
Innocent, right? Right.
Wrong.
Because then his gruff voice was in your ear, telling you exactly how to switch out the screwheads, instructing you to remove all the outlet and light switch covers, the whirr of the drill as loud as the voices in your head telling you to jump his bones. Shivers snake down your spine at the low rumble from his chest and the firmness in his orders. Those shivers turn into heat between your legs when he smiles proudly, “Good girl.”
You go back to your chair with trembling legs like a newborn fawn and continue drinking him in. Painting walls shouldn’t be as erotic an activity as Bucky makes it out to be. He gets on his knees and edges the baseboards, slow and steady, all clean lines. He’s precise in his movements, so casually competent that you can taste the saliva in your mouth.
All this in a white tank and paint-stained jeans, by the way. It’s a scene straight out of PornHub, they should be paying him commission for you to be paying this close attention to him.
But then it’s almost winter and the heater is running in full force at the apartment, so then Bucky sheds the single layer that is keeping your sanity intact. The white fabric pools by your feet as he grumpily goes back to the walls and begins painting once more. Not only do you get the delicious sight of his godforsaken arms, but you also get the sharp lines of his abs, his broad, beefy shoulders flexing and curving, and that mouthwatering V-line disappearing in a smattering of hair underneath his pants.
You’re this close to getting on your knees and ripping it off with your teeth.
Still, you maintain some semblance of self-control. It would be too easy to give Bucky the satisfaction of knowing how little it takes to turn you on, too quick to inflate his ego to overblown proportions when it’s already the size of the sun.
However, once he’s done with the walls — done in record time, he goes to work on the ceiling, which means now you’re forced to pay attention to his height as he stretches his stick upwards — and not even the one you want. How he doesn’t even need a goddamn ladder and uses the extended roller to place bold strokes all across your ceiling.
Not to mention, there is something about seeing paint splatters across his body. Toxic chemicals be damned, you’re about to lick those stains off his abs. He looks like a working man and there is nothing more than you love than when you put a man to work.
Maybe feminism is about all the men you made work along the way.
As if Bucky could smell you past the paint, he looks at you when he’s halfway done, wiping the nonexistent sweat from his brow. A slow smirk curls on his lips because he knows exactly the million and one thoughts going through your mind, none of which is remotely appropriate enough to ever say out loud.
“What’re you looking at, doll?”
Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as you try to resist a smile. “Just the view.”
“Good view?”
“Oh, the best.”
“You know it’s even better up close.”
Say less. You’re immediately on your feet, Bucky lets the long handle (again, not the one you want) clatter to the floor as you jump and wrap your legs around him. He smoothly props you up, one cold arm around one leg and the warmth of his flesh around the other.
“Seeing me work got you all hot and bothered?”
You haven’t wasted a single second, you’re not about to start now. Your mouth is immediately on his neck, tasting the column of it like it’s your last meal. His scent — part cologne and part something that is so naturally him and his not-so-fragile masculinity — intoxicates your senses, you can barely think straight. A hazy fog of unbridled need rolls across your mind as Bucky presses you up against the freshly-painted wall and kisses you senseless.
Thank god the wall’s dry because this is your favorite top. That’s your last thought. Most of your mind is occupied by the fact that he’s holding you so firm against the wall that he did so well. A reminder of how skillful your boyfriend is in and out of bed.
“We don’t have curtains,” you whisper against his lips, giggling lightly.
While you don’t have direct neighbors, there is another apartment building right across from yours and you get a glimpse into someone else’s kitchen from your vantage point.
“Never stopped you before,” he murmurs right back, never once straying away from your mouth. He slowly shifts your skirt up and up until it hikes around your hips, at the same time unbuttoning his pants to loosen the tightness confining his growing cock.
“Buck,” you whine, “I don’t wanna get the cops called on me before I even move in.”
“Your house, your rules,” he only mutters, more focused on the task at hand — the task being you when you’re being a brat in his arms. His arm wraps around you to keep you up while the other sneaks between your legs. Liquid gold drops straight to his fingertips, coating them with a sticky, slick mess. “Fuck, honey, you got this wet just by watching me work? You like seeing me work for you, don’t you?”
An eager nod is all you manage when Bucky starts teasing your pussy lightly. His fingers lightly trace your moist lips, his sharp blue eyes discerning every twitch on your face, the parting of your lips.
“Princess just needs to sit there and look pretty while I do all the work,” he grins, dipping a finger in to test the waters — and the water is wet. Drenched really. Soaking. “I’m at your beck and call, doll. Anything you want, all you needa do is ask.”
The whimper that leaves your lips is sinful to say the least, the last signal Bucky needs before he pushes a finger into you and curls it in deep. It’s thick and it’s full as you squeeze your legs together around him, socked heels digging into his back. “Bucky, please. Fuck, I need you.”
“Tell me I’m yours.”
Your eyes glaze over. This man and his need to be possessed by you. You would never think that the big bad Bucky Barnes would be on his knees for a woman, but he worships them — no, actually, he only really worships you. He kisses the ground you walk on before crawling those lips up and between your legs.
“You’re mine.”
“That’s right, doll. All yours,” he grins, beaming with nothing less than pride. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. So tell me, what do you want?”
How is this even a question? Your brain can barely compute anything more than his smell, the feel of his firm chest against you, his bare arms around you, his fucking fingers inside of you, and he wants you to talk. Now, that’s just asking for too much.
“Don’t need to tell you what I want, Buck, you gotta know.”
He groans, deep and guttural as he captures your lips again. His teeth are greedy as they nip your sensitive skin, tongue shoving deep inside your mouth as his fingers sink further inside of you. The friction lights the fuse that sits in your belly and you feel that spark setting your limbs on fire as you wrap tighter around him.
“I know, baby, I know. I always know what you want, what you need. I just like hearing you ask for it. Makes me feel needed, you know.”
Fuck, how are you supposed to say no to that? Of course, you need Bucky, it isn’t even a question. No other person has ever been able to satisfy you like this. All you want is him all the time here, there, everywhere.
“Want you, Buck. Want you inside.”
“I’m already inside.”
What a tease. “Hnnng, you know what I mean!”
“Come on, princess, say it for me. Tell me what you want.”
“I want your cock! Please, just want your cock inside me. Want you to fill me up, keep me full,” you whine, smacking his chest in irritation.
“Atta girl,” he grins.
It doesn’t take him long to shove his pants down, keeping one strong arm around you. His muscles flex behind your back, against your skin, and your brain fizzles out with need at how deliciously tense he feels. You know he doesn’t have to put in that much work to lift you — super soldier and all — so he’s purposely flexing to show off. Typical man. All they want is to please you!
“Ready?”
You shoot him an irritated look which he only chuckles at. His laughter tapers off when he aligns his thick, leaking tip with your entrance. The first push in is enough to send the entire fiber of your being into a frenzy, every part of you blazing with undoubted need. No matter how many times Bucky has fucked you before, no matter where, it doesn’t ever get old.
He sinks you down onto his length, all the way to the hilt the way both you and he like it, and lifts you up again against him, pulling you away from the wall. A small yelp slips past your lips as you wind your arms around him for support. At the same time, he lets out a raspy breath, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s stopping himself from letting go too quickly.
“I got you, doll. Never need to worry. I work out to keep in shape for you, you know.”
These are just words — empty words. You know it (do you?), but it’s not as if you can help the way your brain gets rewired to his words. He does everything for you. Everything he does is for you. He lives to serve and please you, as he should be.
While your mind is still trying to sift through the haze clouding your senses, Bucky has lifted you and carried you over towards your window. You don’t realize it until your back presses against the cool surface.
That is when your heart drops as you peer over your shoulder warily. “Buck, wait, people will see!”
“Let them. They’ll know how well I take care of my girl, how all I want to do is get her cumming around my cock.” He starts fucking into you slowly at first, then picks up the pace. You’re already too fucked out of your mind and he hasn’t even started. All of that pressure built the entire time Bucky was busy flexing his muscles in front of you, acting like he’s the most capable man on the planet, which he is, but he doesn’t need to remind you of it.
Your stomach feels tight, the heat growing between your legs only intensifying the more he fucks up into you. All he’s doing is sliding in and out of you, his jeans down to his knees, and you’re completely putty in his hands.
What’s worse is that he keeps flicking his gaze over his shoulder, keeping an eye out for your neighbors across the street. But he doesn’t say a word — you don’t know whether you have an audience. Bucky wouldn’t tell you either, he knows you like the thrill of not knowing. The suspense. The idea that someone out there could be watching him fuck you like a ragdoll against the window, turning you into his personal, exhibitionistic slut.
“Fuck, baby, your pussy’s so tight. Always so good for me. I wanna feel your cream all over me, want to see my cock coated with it. Gonna make you clean it for me after as a thank you for taking care of you, hm? You like sucking my cock, don’t you? I’m doing it for you, you know. I just want to please you.”
Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the thought. If only his team could see him now. The usually ill-tempered Winter Soldier spewing out all this filth for you, his princess. Making it seem like it’s your idea, that it’s what you want, when he loves the idea of you sucking him off with both his and your cum on his cock.
“Buck, please, ‘m not gonna last. I need to cum, I can’t,” you mewl desperately, the tension coiling tight in your stomach, wringing the last of your breath from your lungs. “I wanna suck you off after. Please, please. Just make me cum.”
“Like I said, princess, all you gotta do is ask,” he grunts with one last final grin before he thrusts up into you, plunging into you over and over until you’re writhing against the glass.
Bucky buries his face in your neck, tongue laving at your skin, at the sheen layer of sweat. His forehead presses against the window as he does so. Both your breaths, the heat of your bodies, fogging up the glass. Only your back is visible, maybe even the sight of Bucky’s thick cock every time he pulls out of you. Whoever is watching — if they are — is getting one hell of a show.
Because Bucky Barnes is already a sight to behold. But a determined Bucky Barnes who just wants his girl to cum? It’s another experience altogether.
Pleasure twists inside you like a wire, electricity coursing through the lines to light up every single one of your nerves. “Buck, please, fuck, I’m gonna cum, please—”
“That’s right, doll. Cum around me. Scream for me. Let them all know how good I make you feel, how only I can make you feel like this.”
And you do, babbling incoherently about how it’s Bucky and it’s always been Bucky. Your big, beautiful brain splintered into dysfunctional pieces with the help of his cock alone. Times like these make you question whether this is healthy, and you always come to the same conclusion.
Bucky is with you to please you. Everything he does is for you. What more do you want from a man?
And you come apart so easily, all edges melting away into a puddle inside of you as your orgasm crashes over you in waves, pulling you under, knocking the air out from your chest. Feeling you spasm around him with the result of your orgasm, Bucky spills inside of you, painting your insides white with ropes and ropes of cum. The gravelly groan that rises from his throat has you chasing his lips again, wanting him to finish with your mouths connected.
Bucky steals the breath from your lungs, inhaling deep as your mouths move together, as he fucks the last of his cum inside you, pushing it deeper and deeper. Yet, you can still feel oodles of cum leaking out from where the two of you are still joined, chests rising and falling with labored breaths.
Your head thumps back against the glass as you let your eyes slide shut, pure contentment sliding over you like a cozy blanket.
“Mmm, did you enjoy that, doll?”
Praise slut. You roll your eyes and laugh, shoving weakly at his chest. His deliciously wide, paint-streaked chest. “You know I did, you egomaniac.”
“I live to serve,” he smiles, gaze still lazy with the satisfaction of an orgasm, “and you are the only one I aim to please.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” you sniff quietly.
For a moment, Bucky goes soft and he appraises you with keen eyes. Eyes full of adoration that can only belong to a man in love. You nearly ask him to move in with you right then and there.
Instead, you choose a safer option — one that doesn’t require a full commitment, because you know Bucky would say yes in a heartbeat.
“Hey, what if I told you I want another color for my walls?”
His answer is swift and curt. “Doll, I love you, but that’s not happening.”
Instead of responding, you sink down to your knees and grab onto his wet cock, flashing him a devilish little smile. The one that you know always works on him. “Even if I ask you with a pretty please?”
This time, he does pause, eyes quickly darkening as he watches you risk bruising your pretty knees for him. His cum dripping out of your cunt and pooling on the floor.
M4F :: 27:03 ⭑ [DDLG] [CNC] [Cum Marking] while you sleep [Belly Button] [Cum on Feet] [Coat Your Lips] [Paint Your Face] [Feeding You Cum] [Good Girl] [Fucking You Awake] [Creampie, piv]
🩶 07. bad day comfort fuck. ⭑ audiogasmVA // pornhub
M4F :: 24:41 ⭑ [Smut at 15:18] [Buildup + Foreplay] [Daddy Kink] [Bad Day at Work] [Boyfriend Domesticity] [Hurt Comfort] [Oil Massage] [Fingering] [Rough Sex, piv] [Mutual O.] + [Creampie]
🖤 08. drunk daddy needs u. ⭑ audiogasmVA // pornhub
you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.
series warning: actor!bucky x f!actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, bucky is an asshole, grumpy x sunshine vibes, angst, smut, slow burn (or at least my attempt at a slow burn).
this series is complete, with requests for drabbles open.
pairing: mob!bucky barnes x reader
word count: 18k (this is the longest fic i've ever wrote🫢)
warnings: dark themes, mob!au, possessive/obsessive behavior, stalking undertones, mentions of violence, blood, public intimidation, collar kink, dom/sub dynamics, choking (light), spit kink, power imbalance, unprotected sex, aftercare (rough + soft), implied murder, manipulation, cnc undertones (always with consent cues), language, general mob violence.
summary: Bucky doesn’t just want your loyalty—he wants your complete surrender. Obsessive, dangerous, and possessive in a world of power and blood, he pulls you into his empire one step at a time. And the more you give, the more you realize that belonging to him doesn’t feel like losing yourself at all—it feels inevitable.
a/n: written as part of my 1,000 follower celebration! 🖤 thank you endlessly for the love and support—this piece is one of the darkest and most indulgent I’ve ever written. honestly, i've been working on this since before i even started this account and finally decided to post. make sure to be on the lookout for the blurb day this weekend. vote here if you haven't already!
You knew better than to be here.
There are places in the city where the air smells like money and gun oil, where men speak in soft voices that decide loud outcomes. Verona is one of those places—Bucky Barnes’ place—four floors of glass, velvet, and a heartbeat you can feel in your teeth. When the elevator opens and you step onto the mezzanine, the beat swallows you up: bass like a pulse, lights like the blink of an animal eye, everything slick with shadow and intent.
You shouldn’t be here in a borrowed dress and shaky courage, clutching an envelope your boss shoved at you with an apology he didn’t mean. But debt makes liars out of the meek and messengers out of the innocent, and you’d rather face the devil you don’t know than the landlord who surely does.
Two men in black stand at the balcony rail, watching. One taps his earpiece when he sees you; the other steps forward with a look you can’t quite read. Not hungry. Not kind. Just… aware.
“Delivery?” he asks.
Your mouth is dry. “For Mr. Barnes.”
He nods, and for a second you think he’ll take it and send you away. Instead: “He’ll want to see you.”
They lead you down a hallway that drinks sound, plush carpet under your heels, walls that look like onyx. You realize halfway that you’ve left a world with rules and stepped into one where rules have names—names that don’t include yours.
At a set of double doors, the first man knocks once and doesn’t wait for an answer. Inside, the music is a rumor; the air smells like leather and smoke and the clean bite of whiskey. There are people in the room—three men at a long table, a red-haired woman by a bar cart, another man by the window. They all look, but only one looks like he owns the word.
Bucky Barnes sits with the lazy gravity of a planet. Dark hair, pushed back; shirt sleeves rolled to reveal forearms roped with muscle and veins; a watch that could buy a house and a knife on the table that says he doesn’t have to. When he lifts his eyes to you, the rest of the room becomes scenery.
“What’s this?” he asks, not because he doesn’t know, but because he wants to hear you talk.
You hold out the envelope. “From—” You say your boss’s name. It sounds like a confession. “He said to deliver it personally.”
Bucky doesn’t take it at first. His gaze maps you like a patient study: the way you shift on your feet; the thinness of your dress straps; how your fingers grip the paper as if you could strangle fate with it. Then he stands, slow, and even standing he’s not in a hurry. He comes close enough that you can count the flecks of steel in irises that look like winter water.
“Name,” he says.
You tell him.
He says it back, once, like he’s fitting it to his mouth. The sound lands heavy somewhere behind your ribs.
The redhead—she’ll later introduce herself as Natasha—takes the envelope when he finally inclines his chin. She lays it by the knife and slides a letter opener under the flap with a practiced wrist. A stack of bills thumps onto the table. The man by the window whistles low.
Bucky doesn’t look down. His attention stays where it lies—on you—like the rest of his empire can run itself for the length of a glance.
“You work for him?” Bucky asks.
You shake your head. “I… do admin. He’s my boss.”
A hum, almost amused. “And he sent you?”
“Everyone else said no.”
“And you don’t say no?”
Your throat tightens. You don’t want to be brave. You want to be unremarkable, forgettable, the sort of person who drifts through life like fog—felt, never held. “I needed the money.”
Bucky’s attention flicks, barely, to Natasha’s hands as she counts. “He still short?”
“A little,” she says, bored, and writes something in a leather book with a fountain pen that surely cost more than your rent. “He bought himself time, not mercy.”
Bucky’s jaw ticks once. He turns back to you like nothing else matters.
“You’ve got a good face,” he says. It shouldn’t sound like a verdict. “Honest. That a habit or an accident?”
Your laugh is thin. “Bad genetics.”
Something changes in his expression—something like the angle of a blade catching different light. He closes the distance by half a step. “Don’t make jokes to hide from me.”
The words should sting. Instead they slide under your skin, an instruction you almost want to obey.
He reaches into his pocket and brings out a card. No name, just a number and a single embossed initial: B. He extends it between two fingers. Your hand moves before prudence can weigh in.
“If he sends you again, you come to me first,” he says. “If he sends anybody again, you tell them you’re done. If anyone gives you trouble, you call that number.”
You look at the card like it’s a live wire. “Why—”
“Because I said so.” He says it quietly, but the room hears. “And because you don’t belong to him.”
“Then who do I—”
He smiles. It’s small, the kind of smile that says he remembers how but doesn’t need it often. “We’ll get there.”
It’s less a dismissal than a stay of execution. One of the men—the one who’d tapped his ear—returns to your side and opens the door. You move because there’s nothing else to do, because you can feel Bucky’s gaze on your spine like a hand.
In the hallway, your escort’s voice is almost gentle. “Don’t lose the card.”
You don’t.
—
You try to return to your life as if you can fold it back like clean laundry. You go to work. You make lists. You stock your fridge with cheap groceries and let fruit go bad because your appetite has shifted to something the grocery store doesn’t sell. You sleep less. You dream more.
The first time you see the car, it’s parked across from your building, black paint drinking the streetlight whole. It doesn’t have plates you can read and the driver doesn’t look at you when you pass. The second time, the driver does: a small nod, a look that says the neighborhood’s teeth don’t bite as hard when this particular animal prowls.
You tell yourself it’s coincidence until coincidence becomes a routine. The black car is there when you leave for work and when you return. Sometimes it disappears for hours and you feel the absence like a chill. Sometimes it idles while you put your key into your door, and you feel watched without feeling hunted.
On a Thursday, it rains the way the city mourns—messy, loud, insistent. You forget your umbrella and come home soaked, hair pasted to your neck, dress clinging like a needy hand. The lobby smells like old paint and damp mail. You take the stairs because the elevator whines and you’d rather owe your thighs than a mechanic.
He’s waiting on the third-floor landing like he’s always belonged there.
Bucky Barnes, sleeves rolled, top two buttons undone, water beading on his wrist where a watch slides silver against his skin. He’s a contradiction all the way down: expensive and unbothered, clean and dangerous, a man comfortable enough to be in your building and patient enough not to break down your door to prove a point.
Your heart does something juvenile in your chest. He looks at you like that’s the point.
“Thought you might use a hand,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts when your gaze drops involuntarily to his fingers.
“I—” You hoist your tote higher. “I’m fine.”
“Not what I asked, doll.”
The word lands differently than on TV lips. It’s not a generic pet name; it’s a claim, a clue to how he thinks. Doll—something you can hold, dress, arrange. Something that looks fragile and therefore requires protection. Something he keeps.
You should bristle. Your bones, traitors, soften.
“You can say no,” he says. “But don’t lie to me.”
It’s strange—how the permission makes refusal harder. You hand him the tote, and he takes it like it weighs less than his attention.
He follows you up the stairs, quiet as a thought. On your landing, you fumble the keys twice. He watches your hands and doesn’t laugh. When you get the door open, you step inside and turn because you’re not certain of the rules here, if you’re supposed to invite him or if he’s supposed to come in anyway.
He sets your bag just inside the door and leans one shoulder against the frame, the picture of courtesy as performance art.
“Lock’s loose,” he says. “Get it replaced.”
“I’ll tell my landlord,” you say. It sounds like telling a god about a rainstorm.
“Don’t.” He produces a small card you recognize: the same black with the same initial. He writes a name on the back with a pen that appears like a magician’s trick. “Call this number. Tell him I sent you.”
“Is this… your handyman?”
“Something like it.”
Silence hums. The rain makes a steady patter against the window down the hall, as if the weather is pretending to be domestic.
“Why do you care?” you ask. It’s an honest question, and you don’t know if you want an honest answer.
His eyes move across your face and land where your pulse beats in your throat. “Because you’re mine now,” he says, with the quiet certainty of someone describing the color of the sky.
You think you should slam the door. You don’t. You think you should tell him he’s wrong. You can’t remember how to say the word.
He doesn’t push. He taps the doorframe twice with two knuckles and steps back. “Get some sleep, doll.”
“Bucky,” you say, before you can stop yourself. The name tastes like you shouldn’t be allowed to have it.
He turns his head slightly. You meet his eyes and—for a blink—you see the man nobody else is allowed: the boy who learned the world wouldn’t love him unless he promised to bleed for it, the man who became its favorite knife.
“Use the number if you need me,” he says, and then he’s walking away, his profile carving the hallway into something you want to live in.
You lock the door the way he told you to. It doesn’t feel like safety. It feels like conceding to a weather pattern.
—
The next morning, the lock guy arrives at eight sharp, polite and competent and gone in under twenty minutes. He refuses your cash. “Mr. Barnes sends his regards,” he says, like this is the nineteenth century and you’re a duchess with a benevolent patron. You try to say no; he leaves a receipt and a smile that says it’s not worth arguing with gravity.
At work, you stare at spreadsheets until the lines ripple. Your boss buzzes around like a fly against glass. He doesn’t mention Verona or the debt or sending you into the lion’s den. He doesn’t look at you directly. When his phone rings and his face drains, you watch with a detached interest. He’s still short, you think, remembering Natasha’s voice. He bought himself time, not mercy.
At lunch, a courier drops a white box on your desk. Inside: a slice of cake that tastes like it costs more than your shoes, and a note written in a hand you know instinctively is Bucky’s: Eat. People forget. —B.
You want to toss it. You eat every bite, your tongue chasing sugar like a sinner who’s only ever been given salt.
That night, the black car follows a half-block behind as you walk home. When a man on the corner spits too close to your feet and steps into your path, the car drifts to the curb and idles there, a suggestion with an engine. The man mutters something to the air and slinks away. The car doesn’t move until you’re inside your building.
You think of cages. You think of umbrellas. You think of birds that don’t know they’re being fed because the hand is gentle.
—
When the summons comes, it’s not a summons. A man in a charcoal suit appears in your office lobby and says, “Ma’am? A car’s waiting.” He doesn’t use Mr. Barnes’ name. He doesn’t need to.
You could say no. Your mouth opens. “Let me get my coat,” you say instead, and hate the small relief you feel at deciding any part of this yourself.
The car is not the one from your street; it’s nicer, somehow—quieter, leather that smells like it came from the hide of a better animal. The city slips by the windows as if the route has been polished. You watch familiar blocks become unfamiliar angles. You text no one because there is no one to text. At some point, your phone buzzes: unknown number, a single message. Bucky: Do not be afraid of me. Be afraid of what I’ll do to anything that tries to touch you.
You stare at it until your eyes sting. You don’t answer.
The house is something out of a magazine that forgot to tell the truth about what kind of men buy houses like this. Black stone, iron gates, a sweep of steps that wants to teach you to walk differently. The front door opens before you reach it. Natasha is on the other side, barefoot on marble, a silk blouse tucked into trousers that would fit no one else as well.
“Hi, doll,” she says, teeth sharp in a friendly smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Come on in.”
“Do you call everyone that?” you blurt, because fear makes you rude, and rudeness feels like control.
“Only what belongs to him.” She winks like it’s a joke. “He’s in his office. I’m supposed to make sure you aren’t lost.”
You’re not sure which verb her boss gave her. Watch you. Assess you. Prepare you. You follow her down a hallway that smells like cedar and money. The walls are hung with art that probably has provenance documents thicker than your lease, but it’s not the art you notice. It’s the mirrors—subtle, built into the architecture, an arrangement that lets whoever sits behind the desk see anyone coming from anywhere.
When Natasha opens the office door, you understand what you’re walking into because your body does before your brain names it.
Bucky is behind the desk, jacket off, tie loosened as if he only ever means to strangle. He stands when he sees you. That alone is an intimacy.
“Doll,” he says, and the sound of it in this room is different than on a stair landing. It’s less claim, more invitation.
“Mr. Barnes,” you say, because you like pretending you can choose distance.
“Bucky,” he corrects gently. “Come here.”
Your legs carry you across the rug, which is so soft you think of secrets in fabric. He rounds the desk instead of letting you stand on the other side like a client. When he stops in front of you, you realize you’ve been holding your breath and release it in a shakier exhale than you mean to allow.
He studies you for a beat too long. You wish you had worn a different dress and you also wish you were naked. It’s a new kind of helplessness: wanting to be seen and to hide, simultaneously.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Yes,” you say, before you can decide whether you mean food.
He registers that, and something like amusement dials the caution in his gaze down by one degree. “Natasha,” he says without looking away. “Have dinner sent up in thirty.”
“And if she’s full by then?” Natasha teases from the door.
“She won’t be,” he replies, and the certainty is obscene.
When you’re alone, he tilts his head toward a low couch by the windows. You sit. He takes the corner opposite you, closer than a colleague would, farther than a lover, his knee an inch from yours. He doesn’t touch you—yet. You feel him like a weather system.
“I sent for you because I don’t like coincidences,” he says. “And because I don’t like owing strangers.”
“I didn’t do anything,” you say, which is true and not.
“You came when I asked.” He says it like it’s an act of faith. “That earns thanks.”
You don’t know what to do with thanks from a man who has his name tattooed on the city’s throat. “You’re… welcome?”
He breathes out once, like you’ve said something that matters. “I want to be clear with you.” He shifts, forearms on his thighs, posture like a confessional. “This life is blood and glass, and either you walk around it or you walk through it. If you walk through it with me, I’ll make sure you never bleed unless I want you to.”
The honesty freezes you, the way a lake goes still under midnight. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a promise,” he says, soft as a bruise.
Your stomach flips. Somewhere behind your ribs, the part of you that wants to be good bangs a spoon against the table and tells you to leave. Another part—the part that is tired of running errands for men who would sell you for a debt, the part that craves someone who will look at you and keep looking—leans toward the flame.
“Why me?” you ask, and hate that it sounds like you hope there’s a reason.
“Because you don’t know how to lie to me yet,” he says simply. “Because you walked into my world and didn’t try to make yourself smaller. Because I like the way your mouth argues and the way your eyes agree.” He says your name again, low. “Because you feel like mine.”
“And what do you feel like?” you ask.
“Like the answer to a question you haven’t admitted you’re asking.”
Silence, heavy enough to bend light. His hand moves—a small thing, a slow thing—and then his knuckles are under your chin, tilting your face up. He doesn’t make it rough. He doesn’t have to. Power isn’t volume; it’s precision.
“Say my name,” he murmurs, not because he needs you to remember it, but because he wants to hear the surrender in your voice when you give it.
“Bucky,” you breathe.
He nods, as if you’ve passed a test he wrote in pencil just now. His thumb skims your lower lip, a touch so light that your body leans forward to make it more. He lets you. When your mouth parts, when your tongue darts without permission to taste him, he hums and presses his index finger between your lips.
You don’t think you’re the kind of person who takes a man’s finger into your mouth on a first… whatever this is. You are, apparently, exactly that kind. The pad of his finger rests heavy on your tongue; you close your lips and your eyes, and heat flickers down your spine like a lit match.
“Good girl,” he says, and you hate that the sound that escapes you is less language than prayer.
He withdraws slowly, purpose in every millimeter, like he’s teaching your mouth a tempo. When his finger leaves your tongue, you catch yourself chasing it. He smiles like he’s felt that in his own body.
“I’m not going to take anything from you you don’t give,” he says, voice gone lower, the kind of low that ruins futures. “I’m going to make you decide that you want to give it.”
“That sounds like manipulation,” you say, because you need the protest to survive yourself.
“It’s seduction,” he says, and brings his thumb back to your mouth. “Open.”
You do. He presses just enough to feel the refusal that never arrives. He says your name and you answer with your throat.
There’s a knock. He doesn’t flinch. He removes his hand and sits back, composed in a breath. “Come.”
Two staff bring in trays—covered dishes, glassware, a wine bottle that probably has a pedigree. They set everything on a low table and vanish like trained ghosts. You watch his profile as he lifts lids and reveals roasted chicken, herbed potatoes, a salad that glows green like it was picked in a kinder city.
“Eat,” he says, and you picture the note with the cake. You take a bite because your body remembers hunger even when your mind has gone on strike.
He watches you for a while, like this is part of the test too—how you hold a fork, how you chew, whether you thank him. You do. He acknowledges it with a small tilt of his head, as if you’ve put a coin in a machine that will someday dispense something you can’t afford.
He eats, too. It feels illicitly intimate—this ritual of domesticity staged in a lion’s mouth. Your knee brushes his. The world holds its breath.
“You work in an office,” he says, not quite a question.
“I do,” you say. “It’s not exciting.”
“Good.” He takes a sip of wine and doesn’t offer you any, which should offend you. It steadies you instead—there are rules here, and you will learn them. “You like it?”
“I like… leaving at five.”
“Mm.” He sets down his glass. “What would you do if you didn’t need the money?”
You think of answers that sound like the truth in other mouths. Travel. Paint. Open a dog rescue. You swallow chicken that suddenly tastes like confession. “I don’t know.”
“Liar,” he says, but he says it fondly. “Try again.”
“Sleep,” you say, surprising both of you. “And wake up without my first thought being a number.”
He considers that, and for a moment you glimpse something like anger on your behalf. “I can give you that.”
“You can’t buy sleep,” you say.
“I can buy the things that steal it.”
You’re about to argue when he reaches over, plucks a piece of potato off your plate with his fingers, and holds it in front of your mouth. The gesture bypasses your cortex and lodges in your throat. You part your lips and let him place it on your tongue. His knuckles brush your lower lip; your breath catches on them.
“There you go,” he says, as if you’ve done something right.
By the time the plates are pushed away and the staff have silently returned to make the evidence disappear, your body is thrumming. Not just with desire—though that’s there, low and insistent—but with… alignment. Like you’ve been slightly off-kilter for years and something about being observed like this has nudged you into balance.
“Come,” he says, standing, and the word is both invitation and command. He offers you his hand. You stare at it for one heartbeat too long. Then you take it.
He doesn’t lead you toward a bedroom. He leads you down another hallway to a room with double doors painted white. He palms them open and steps aside so you can enter first.
It is not a bedroom. It is a room that looks like someone took all the things you’ve ever quietly liked and curated them into a space shaped like your spine. Shelves with books by authors you actually read, not the ones you pretend to. A small couch in a fabric you once touched in a store and couldn’t afford. A window seat with cushions in a color that flatters your skin. On a dress form in the corner, a silk slip in your size and a sweater so soft your fingers itch.
You don’t ask how he knows. You already know the answer. The city would call it creepy. The part of you that wants to be known calls it relief.
“What is this?” you ask, voice thin.
“The dollhouse,” he says, and the word should send you running. Instead it lands soft and terrible in your chest. “A place that’s yours. In my house.”
No one has ever made room for you like this. Not even you.
“I didn’t—” You swallow. “You didn’t have to—”
“I didn’t do it to impress you,” he says, and you believe him. “I did it so you’d understand the shape of what I want.”
“What do you want?”
He steps behind you, his reflection appearing over your shoulder in the window’s black glass. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. “Your loyalty,” he says, voice a ribbon around your throat. “Your honesty. Your time. Your fear—of everyone but me.” He waits, and the waiting is the first real touch. “Your surrender.”
There it is, the word he planted days ago like a flag. You should say no. The old parts of you perform the motions of resistance. But another part—the part that is so tired of pretending not to be built for this—leans back an inch, a silent confession.
He notices. God, he notices everything.
“Turn around,” he says.
You do. He’s close enough now that you can count his lashes. The smell of him fills your head—clean and metallic and human. His hand rises like you’re on a string and he’s a gentle puppeteer, and when his fingers curl around your throat they don’t squeeze; they cradle. A pulse hammers against his thumb. You don’t know whose it is.
“Use your words,” he says, the warning in his tone wrapped in velvet. “If I ever touch you when you don’t want me to, you’ll tell me and I’ll stop. If I tell you to do something you can’t, you’ll say so and I’ll change the order.” His eyes search yours and find purchase. “I don’t break my toys. I keep them.”
“I’m not—” You swallow the word. Owned. The truth looks different when it’s the one you choose. “I don’t know what I am.”
“Good,” he says softly. “Don’t decide yet.”
He releases your throat and slides his hand to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, not to control you but to hold the animal hush of the moment still. When he leans down, he pauses a breath away, and you feel the hover of his mouth like heat on skin.
“Tell me to kiss you,” he murmurs.
You should make him earn it. You should say please. You should do something clever. “Kiss me,” you hear yourself say, and realize it’s the cleverest thing you’ve ever done.
He does. It’s unhurried, heavy with intention, a claim that tastes like smoke and a future you’re already explaining to no one. His mouth moves like he’s memorizing you and rewriting you simultaneously. When you open for him, he groans into you, the sound threaded with restraint. His hand tightens at your nape—not a threat, a tether.
You don’t notice you’re shaking until he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours. “Breathe,” he says, and inhales with you, exhaling slow, like you’re both learning how.
“I… this is—” You fish for the right noun. Dangerous. Wrong. Perfect.
“New,” he supplies, and smiles against your cheek. “For you. Not for me. That’s why you’ll be safe.”
You laugh, a small broken sound. “That’s not how safety works.”
“In my world, it is.”
You should argue. Instead you lean into the palm he cups against your jaw. He rubs his thumb along your cheekbone like he’s smoothing mortar into a foundation.
“Go home,” he says finally, and you blink.
“What?”
“Go home,” he repeats. “You’re going to think about this if I let you. If I keep you, you’ll follow because you’re drowning, not because you want to swim.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, a brand. “I only want you to come back when you’ve decided to drown on purpose.”
It’s cruel, how kind that is. It’s a mercy that feels like a blade.
“Will you—” You don’t know how to ask the question without sounding like a child asking the dark to wait outside. “Will your car…?”
“Yes.” He strokes your hair once, a gesture that goes straight to some soft animal rooted in your hindbrain. “You’re watched until you say you don’t want to be.”
“And if I say that?”
He smiles without humor. “We’ll renegotiate the terms until you understand you do.”
You should be offended. You find yourself relieved by the clarity.
He walks you back through hallways that look like fortresses pretended to be homes. At the front door, he helps you into your coat like a gentleman except his fingers linger at your collar in a way no gentleman would. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear like he’s hanging a piece of art.
“Goodnight, doll,” he says.
“Goodnight, Bucky,” you answer, and the way your voice trembles on his name registers in his eyes like something he will later collect interest on.
In the car home, you stare out the window at a city you thought you knew. It looks the same and different. Like someone has adjusted the focus and the edges have sharpened.
At your building, the driver gets out and opens your door before you can reach for the handle. He doesn’t ask if you want him to walk you in. He just does. At your door, he waits until your key turns and the lock catches—the new lock, firm and certain.
“Good night, miss,” he says, touching two fingers to the brim of nothing, as if he’s wearing a hat that has to be imagined.
“Does he… do this for everyone?” you ask, because you have to ask someone.
The driver’s face doesn’t move much. “No, miss.”
You close the door and lean your forehead against it, listening to the sound of the car leaving. The apartment is exactly as you left it: a plant you forgot to water, a cup in the sink, a blanket on the couch that never warmed you up as much as you told yourself it did.
On your kitchen table, where there was nothing when you left, there’s a small box. Your heart trips and bolts like a deer. You look for signs of forced entry and find none, because men like him do not force anything they own. They open it.
Inside, on black velvet: a slim gold chain and a charm shaped like a key. Not a real one—decorative, delicate, the kind of thing you could wear every day and forget until a man’s finger hooked it to pull you closer.
A note, written in the same sure hand:
For when you’re ready to let yourself in. —B.
You hold the charm until the edges bite.
You should be afraid. Maybe you are. But when you carry the box to your bedroom and set it on your nightstand, when you curl around the emptiness that looks like a body-shaped decision, fear sits in the corner and says nothing. Desire takes the chair by the bed and watches you sleep.
You dream that night of a room with mirrors and a man who won’t touch you until you ask. You dream of a dollhouse where the furniture rearranges itself until it looks like home.
In the morning, you put on the necklace without telling yourself you’re just trying it. It lies against your skin like a promise you haven’t made yet. On your way out the door, you lock it with the new lock and whisper to the empty hall, “I’ll call you,” because you are a liar who wants to tell the truth.
On the street, the black car idles half a block away. It merges into traffic when you do, not too close, not too far, the distance of a hand at the back of your skull. When you pass the corner where the man spat near your shoes, he looks up and looks away before his gaze can land. You feel like the city itself has decided you’re breakable glass behind a velvet rope.
At your desk, your boss hovers and clears his throat and attempts to bully a spreadsheet. You stare at the numbers and think not of debt but of ratio: how much of you belongs to the world, how much to yourself, how much to a man who said what you are like it was his to name.
At lunch, you almost text him. You don’t. At 3 p.m., a paper bag arrives with a sandwich that tastes like someone researched your favorite bread and paid a person to bake it before dawn. No note this time. He’s giving you space to use the rope you’ve been handed.
You make it to dusk before you break.
In your apartment, you stand by the window with the city bleeding pink into blue and the necklace cool against your skin. You hold your phone like it’s a weapon you can point at yourself. You open the text thread and type nothing and then you type:
I’m not afraid of you.
Then, because honesty is a habit you’re growing like a dangerous plant, you add:
I’m afraid of how much I’m not.
The dots appear fast, like he had the thread open too. His reply arrives:
Good. Come back when you’re done being afraid of that.
You don’t type for a long minute. The car downstairs doesn’t move. Neither do you.
Finally:
Tomorrow.
A beat. Then:
I’ll be ready.
You lock the phone and set it face down. In the mirror, the charm on your necklace catches the last light and throws it onto your collarbone like a mark.
You sleep without dreams, as if a decision has been made by a part of you that doesn’t use words. In the morning, when you tie your shoes, you reach for the door and pause with your hand on the knob. You look down at the charm. You close your fingers around it and whisper, not to the empty room but to the version of yourself that has been waiting on the other side of the door all along:
Okay.
You open the door. The black car glides to the curb like an answer.
You’re done pretending you don’t know the question.
You keep your word.
The next evening, the car meets you with the inevitability of the tide. It’s a different driver this time—broad shoulders, a scar near his temple, eyes that note your necklace and mark something down you can’t see. He opens your door; the city folds around you as the car slides through it like a blade in silk.
You expect the house. He takes you to Verona.
The club is louder tonight, or maybe your body is the drum. Lights shiver up the walls, white and blue and sinful red. The line outside snakes halfway down the block—dresses like invitations, suits like threats—yet the car pulls directly to a side entrance where a man you’ve never seen lifts the latch the moment your heel touches pavement.
Inside, bass thumps your bones into a new arrangement. You pass people who try not to stare and fail. The hallway is the same as the first night, but you are not. You feel it in your skin: a secret stitched under your dress, an answer on the back of your tongue.
Bucky’s office door is open. He stands with his back to the city, hands in his pockets, a silhouette that would make angels rethink their career choices. When he turns and sees you, the room pauses in deference.
“Doll.”
Your reply is softer than you intend. “Bucky.”
Natasha’s there, too, perched on an arm of the leather sofa, phone in hand like an accessory. She watches the way you walk toward him and files it in the cabinet behind her eyes. “You look good,” she says, and you know she’s not talking about your dress.
Bucky closes the space. He doesn’t touch you. He lets the air handle that. His gaze drifts to the necklace and back. “You decided,” he says.
“I decided,” you echo, and the gravity between you doubles.
He breathes in like the answer tastes. Then: “Walk with me.”
He takes you through the club, not fast. Eyes cut toward you and away again, the world taking its cues. His hand hovers at your lower back without contact, and the absence is more electric than any touch. On the second floor, he brings you to a balcony that overlooks the main floor—a view that makes the dance floor look like an altar.
“You ever been worshipped?” he asks conversationally. The question lands in your stomach like a swallow of heat.
“I… don’t think so,” you say, and it sounds like a confession.
He rests his knuckles on the railing, close enough that your arm hairs lift. “You’re about to learn what it looks like.”
You don’t get to ask what he means. He’s already moving, and when Bucky Barnes moves, the city rearranges to suit. He leads you down a set of stairs tucked behind velvet curtains and onto the very edge of the dance floor, where the lights are low enough to grant intimacy and high enough to ensure visibility.
He faces you. For a long beat, he just looks—head tilted slightly, eyes moving over you with a deliberation that makes your knees stupid. Then he lifts his right hand and offers it for your left.
“Hand,” he says, and your body supplies the answer before your mind can pretend it’s got standards.
The pad of his thumb strokes once along the base of your fingers, a slow reassurance that hides a claim. He takes your other hand and places it on his chest, just above his heart. It’s a simple thing, a public thing—and indecent in how it derails you. His heartbeat is steady. Yours scrambles to catch up.
“Breathe with me,” he says, like last night, like always, and you swear your lungs figure out their choreography only because his are willing to lead.
Music swells. He doesn’t dance, not exactly—he moves you—guiding you with a pressure at your waist, a shift of his palm, the way his hips dictate a pattern your hips are desperate to recognize. It is not complicated. It is not innocent. It is a liturgy, call-and-response. Every slide of your body against his writes a line in a book you will not be allowed to close.
When he leans down to speak into your ear, his breath grazes your skin. “You feel that?”
“Feel what?” you manage, and he smiles because he knows you know.
“Every eye,” he murmurs. “Every wish. Every man in this room who will go home tonight and try to decide if it’s envy or terror he tasted.”
“I don’t—” Your mouth is dry. “I don’t want them.”
“You don’t have them,” he says, and the certainty in his voice buckles your resolve and cements your spine simultaneously. “You have me.”
He turns you under his arm. The necklace glints at your throat; his attention flicks there and sticks.
When he settles you against him again, palm splayed warm at your lower back, he lowers his voice further, speaks into your neck like a secret. “I’m going to give you two rules,” he says. “Here. Now.”
“Okay,” you breathe.
“One.” His thumb presses—a brief, controlled weight at the side of your spine that has your body saying yes in a language older than your lips. “You don’t look at anyone else when I’m holding you.”
You nod, a small tilt, quick.
“Two.” He raises your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. It should be courtly. The heat that pours out of you in response proves it’s not. “When I tell you what you are, you believe me.”
“What—” The word stumbles. “What am I?”
He smiles like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Mine.”
You swear you hear the click of something locking into place far away, in the bones of the building, in the bones of you.
He keeps you there longer than is reasonable, a slow circuit through one song and then another, until you have a catalog of what his chest feels like under your palm and what his hands can make your feet do. It’s possessive. It’s tender. It’s a warning delivered as seduction.
At some point there’s a movement in the corner of your eye—the shift of a group, the eddy of a current around a rock. A man in a suit that cost less than his ambition shoulders through the crowd toward the edge of the floor, two goons in his wake like badly trained dogs. He has a ring that tries too hard and a face that thinks it’s a face.
He says Bucky’s name, casually wrong. “Barnes.”
The music doesn’t stop. The world does.
Bucky looks at him without looking at him. “You have business?”
The man glances at you. It’s a glance that attempts to be insult and invitation at once. It fails to be either. “Didn’t know you were training a new pet,” he says, loud enough to be heard, not loud enough to be safe.
You don’t have time to flinch. Bucky’s hand tightens fractionally at your waist—not to bruise, to anchor. His eyes don’t change temperature. His tone remains conversational.
“John,” he drawls. “I thought we weren’t doing metaphors anymore after you embarrassed yourself with the horse thing.”
A few people within earshot laugh the way people laugh at funerals when a child says something honest. John’s mouth flattens. “You’ve got territory on my block and I’ve got questions.”
“Is that right?” Bucky says. “You can send them to my accountant. He’ll ignore them for me.”
John squares his shoulders in a way that suggests he’s had success squaring them in other rooms. “Or,” he says with the confidence of a man who has never heard the sound of his own bones breaking, “we could schedule a talk. Tonight.”
Bucky’s attention returns to you long enough to press his mouth to your temple. The contact undoes you and reassembles you in the space of a heartbeat. When he looks back at John, his hand spreads wider at your waist, a seal.
“I have plans tonight,” he says. “You’re not in them.”
John’s gaze darts again to your necklace. He smiles, small and rotten, and leans toward one of his goons to murmur something meant to be a weapon. The goon laughs too quickly.
Bucky hears. Of course he hears. He’s been listening to rooms his whole life.
“John,” he says, and his voice is no longer conversational. It slips a register into something else—cold and precise, the sound that moves through a crowd before the knife does. “Look at me.”
John does, because there are orders human bodies can’t refuse even when their minds are arrogant.
“If you ever refer to her as an it again,” Bucky says, enunciating the pronoun until the syllable bleeds, “you’ll be feeding soup to your good hand with your bad hand for the rest of your life. Are we clear?”
The music goes on. The room gets quieter the way a room does when it chooses a side.
John swallows. He tries to mask it as disdain. “We’re clear.”
“Good.” Bucky angles his head toward the exit with the smallest of movements. “Go home. Tell your mother you were brave today. Let her clap for you.”
John steps back. His goons do the math and add themselves to the distance.
Bucky doesn’t watch them go. He tips your chin up with one finger—light, intimate, an antidote to the display. “You all right?”
“You threatened to break his hand,” you say faintly.
“I said I’d make him relearn how to use it,” Bucky corrects softly. “It’s educating.”
Against yourself, you laugh. The sound loosens something low in his chest; you feel it with your palm still on him.
“Come on.” He tucks you into his side and steers you back toward the private corridor. “Enough music. I want to hear you instead.”
You feel the words between your legs.
Natasha’s gone from the office when you return; a penthouse key lies on the desk. Bucky pockets it. He looks at you with a consideration that reads like patience but feels like pressure. “We go upstairs,” he says. “We go at your speed.”
You nod. You don’t trust your voice; you’re afraid it will crawl out of your mouth and kneel.
In the elevator, mirrored walls give you back a version of yourself you recognize less by the second. The charm at your throat catches the downlight; Bucky’s eyes track it and then your mouth. When the doors slide open, you step into a space that sits on top of the city like a crown and a sniper’s nest at once.
His bedroom is not the dollhouse. It’s darker, bigger, a museum of restraint. The bed is an invitation written in black linen. The windows unspool the skyline like ribbon.
He doesn’t touch you right away. He shows you his hands. It’s a small thing. It eases the butterflies in your chest.
“Words,” he says. “Tell me what you want.”
You stand there with your heart in your throat and the city at your feet and the man who could ruin or save you—probably both—waiting like he has time. You realize suddenly you have never been asked this. You have been taken, persuaded, nudged. You have never been given the floor.
“I…” The first things that come are small, to fill the silence. “I want to be kissed. I want to be—” Your voice lowers of its own accord. “I want to be handled.”
His jaw flexes. He takes a step. “Gentle or not?”
You swallow. “I don’t know.”
“We can find out,” he promises.
“And I want—” You don’t mean to say it. The truth takes you by the throat and steadies your head. “I want to stop thinking about anything else.”
Something like pride flares in his eyes—not pride in himself; pride in you. “Come here.”
When you do, he lifts his hand to your throat again—lighter than before, a check, a hello—and waits for your body to settle. It does, to a pitch you hadn’t known your strings could harmonize at. He bends and kisses you, slower than downstairs, deeper than last night. You meet him with a hunger that embarrasses you until you feel the soft noise he makes into your mouth and understand that hunger is the point.
“Dress,” he says against your lips, and your hands find the zipper with a competence that feels like proof. He watches it slide, the fabric slackening, the shape of you emerging less like a reveal than a memory he’s been carrying. The dress puddles. His breath stutters—just a little, just enough—and his eyes go heavy.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, which is not a new sentence in the world and yet feels like the first time it’s ever been truthful. “Turn.”
You do. He unhooks your bra with a practiced ease that should annoy you. It doesn’t. The straps drop. His hands skim down your arms and leave your skin wanting them back. He sets the bra aside like an object of moderate interest and covers your shoulders with his palms, warm and sure, aligning you with himself and the window and the future.
“Look,” he murmurs, angling you so you can see yourselves in the glass: your bare skin, his suited frame behind you like night about to happen. “See the city? That’s mine. See you?” His mouth ghosts your ear. “That’s mine, too.”
The possessiveness should scrape. It soothes. It gives you a place to be.
His fingers bracket your hip bones and pull you back against him, and when you feel him—hard and unambiguous—your knees think about giving out. He holds you up with a hand splayed low on your belly, a promise and a predicament, and the other hand climbs, steady as a clock, to cup your breast.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, and rolls your nipple between finger and thumb, gentler than the words promise. Heat shoots downward, a precise line. Your mouth opens on a sound you didn’t hire.
“Good,” he says, satisfied, and keeps going—building, not rushing, teaching your nerves how to read him. His pace is unhurried, as if you have all night and every night after. Maybe you do.
He sinks to his knees behind you without warning. The act would be servile on another man. On him it reads like a coronation. He kisses the small of your back through the silk of your slip, then pushes it up, hands patient, mouth impatient. When he presses his lips to the top of your thigh, your skin goes electric.
“Foot up,” he says, and lifts it onto a low bench you hadn’t noticed, opening you with a choreographed ease that must have been discussed long ago between his body and gravity. He hooks a finger in your panties and slides them aside. The air bites you. His breath cools you. His mouth destroys you.
You hear yourself say his name like a warning, like a theology. He hums against you, pleased, and the vibration makes your grip on the bench go foolish. He doesn’t devour. He eats. Lingering, savoring, mapping. Every time your hips try to chase and run, his arm tightens around your thigh, reminding you who leads. You yield for the first time in a way that counts—your body telling the truth your mouth is still working up to.
“Bucky, I—” You don’t know how to finish the sentence. He finishes it for you, pulling back just enough to say, “You can, if you ask.”
You gasp, angry in the way only people on the edge are angry. “Ask?”
“Words,” he says, and his mouth returns to your undoing, slower now, coaxing you toward a place where language loses jurisdiction.
“Please,” you hear yourself say, a whisper, a plea, a prayer, and he gives it to you like a man who knows the value of his own charity: fully, thoroughly, precisely. You come like you’ve been trying to do it for years and someone finally delivered the right set of instructions in the right voice.
He stands while you’re still drifting, hands steady, mouth soft when it takes yours, letting you taste exactly what he’s made of you. “Good girl,” he says, and this time the words land somewhere that has nothing to do with obedience and everything to do with recognition.
He eases you onto the bed and sheds his jacket, then his tie, then unbuttons his shirt with a patience that makes you ache. You watch him like a starving thing learning the geometry of a meal. Scars ladder his shoulder, white lines written in a hand you don’t yet know. He catches your gaze tracing them and says nothing. The silence is trust.
When he frees himself from his trousers, you forget to disguise your reaction. He smiles, small and male and not unkind. He kneels on the edge of the bed and drags his hands up your calves, your thighs, until his thumbs sit in the hollows where your legs meet your hips.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he says. The sentence is naked, not at all vulgar. “Not to take anything. To give you something you can’t unknow.”
You nod like the student who’s finally understood the subject.
He reaches to the nightstand. There’s nothing performative about the condom; he rolls it on easily while looking at your face like the slide of latex is secondary to the slide of your pupils widening. When he settles between your knees, his hand returns to your throat—not squeezing, just there, a reference point, a compass. The head of him rests at your entrance, status, promise.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do. He pushes in slowly, watching your face like a monitor, reading your microflinches, adjusting his angle as if you’ve spoken them out loud. The stretch burns and gives, the pain small and bright, the relief wider and darker. He seats himself to the hilt and stills, chest rising, a man with a map getting his bearings.
“Breathe,” he reminds you. You do. He smiles, praise without words, and pulls nearly out before easing back in—again, again—building rhythm, testing how your sounds break and reassemble with each stroke.
You wrap your legs around his waist; he grunts, low and grateful, and pushes deeper. His forehead tips to yours; the charm on your necklace kisses his throat. He kisses you back with his mouth and his body both, the motion tightening, the control absolute.
“Tell me whose you are,” he says, not a command you can disobey, but a door you’ve been walking toward since you stepped into the club with an envelope like a talisman.
“Yours,” you say, first as an exhale, then as a sentence, then as a decision. “I’m yours.”
“That’s right,” he breathes, and the way it breaks inside him almost makes you cry.
He flips you before you know you want it—onto your hands and knees, a hand flattening in the small of your back to keep you against the sheets, the other circling your hip like a brand. He braces, draws out, and drives back in with a force that steals the noise from your throat and replaces it with a better one. The headboard knocks a rhythm. You reach for the pillow; he catches your wrist and pins it behind your back gently, a restraint more erotic for the care of it.
“You take me so well,” he says, and somehow it’s not a compliment about your body but about your character. “Good girl. Good. You’re mine. Say it.”
“Yours,” you gasp, and then again when he hits a place inside you that draws sparks up your spine. “Bucky, I—”
“Ask,” he reminds you, breath roughening. “Use your words.”
“Please,” you say, raw. “Please let me—”
“Now,” he says, a gift, and you come hard enough to see white, hard enough to forget names and find them again on his tongue when he presses himself into you and follows with a shudder that feels like a promise being signed.
He doesn’t collapse. He lowers you. Difference. You notice it even in the fog. He presses kisses along your shoulder blade, the base of your skull, a reverent inventory. He eases out slowly, discards the condom, returns with a warm cloth. He cleans you with a gentleness that rewires your understanding of power.
“Water,” he says, and brings it to your mouth. He tells you to drink and you listen without pause. The combination is a fuse.
When he lies down, you go without being told, fitting yourself to his side like space learned your shape while you were busy. His hand draws circles at your hip, slow and grounding. The city hums through the glass like applause buried under traffic.
“Tell me what hurts,” he says into your hair.
“Nothing,” you whisper, which is not true, but none of it is bad.
“Tell me what scares you.”
You hesitate. He waits. You realize he will wait until you are old if that’s what it takes. “How easy it is,” you say finally. “To say yes to you.”
He exhales, long. “It won’t always be easy,” he says. “But it will always be simple.”
You tilt your head up, meet his eyes. “What’s simple?”
He taps your necklace. “You ask. I answer. You obey when you want to. You refuse if you must. I keep you regardless.”
“That last part makes the others feel fake.”
He shakes his head once. “It makes them real.”
You close your eyes and let the bed move with his breathing. For a while, there is no conversation, only the American myth of a man who loved a city enough to domesticate it and the complicated truth of a woman who has stopped pretending she wants to live somewhere else.
When you stir, he says, “Stay,” and you realize he isn’t asking. You realize you wanted him to tell you that. You drift.
You wake later to the soft click of keys, a murmured voice—his—somewhere in the apartment. Not gentle. Not unkind. Business, soothed by the knowledge that you are here.
You sit up and find a glass of water replenished and a folded thing on the chair: the silk slip from the dollhouse room. It’s the exact shade that makes your skin look expensive. You put it on. When he returns, the look he gives you composes a new national anthem.
“Come,” he says, and leads you—hand at your back—to the dollhouse. It’s exactly as you left it and slightly different, a blanket added to the couch, a book you mentioned once under the window seat. He sets a small velvet box on the table between you.
You feel the shape of what’s inside before he opens it. It’s not a ring. It’s a band—thin, gold, a circle with no jewel, simple enough to ignore and impossible to miss. He lifts it between his fingers.
“This is not a marriage you don’t want,” he says with a wry tilt of his mouth. “It’s a declaration you do.”
“Declaration of what?” Your voice is steady. You surprise yourself.
“That you belong to me,” he says, as if reading a weather report. “And that I belong to you in the way a wolf belongs to the woods that raised him. Not tamed. Not leashed. Home.”
He slides the band onto the chain beside the key. It chimes a quiet chime. Your throat works around a lump that tastes like acceptance.
“If you wear it,” he says, “my people will treat you as me. My enemies will treat you as me. Every door opens. Every mouth shuts. Every hand helps.” He pauses, and the silence is a bow with a string drawn. “And every man who thinks a circle on a chain is less binding than a circle on a finger will learn remedial math.”
You laugh. It comes out cracked; he smooths it with his smile.
“Do you want it?” he asks.
Want. The word lays you out. “Yes,” you say. “I want it.”
He leans in and kisses the hollow at the base of your throat, right where the chain rests, sealing a contract both of you wrote without paper. When he sits back, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, jaw setting in a way your instincts label as bad news.
“What?” you ask.
He weighs what to say, then doesn’t condescend. “John,” he says. “He didn’t go home like a good boy.”
“Is it—” You glance at the windows as if the threat might announce itself in neon. “Dangerous?”
“It’s inconvenient,” Bucky says, which is the most terrifying answer you’ve ever loved. “I’m going to take care of it. You are going to stay here.”
“I can—” You look around the dollhouse. The safety is almost obscene. “I’ll stay.”
“Natasha will be outside the door,” he adds. “If you need anything, you say her name. If she needs to come in, she won’t ask twice.”
“You think he’ll… come here?”
“I think he’ll do what small men do when they’re seen by big rooms.” He stands, already in motion. “He’ll make a mess where someone else has to clean it.”
He takes your face in both hands and kisses you, not a goodbye, a continuation. “Be good,” he says. “Be mine.”
“I am,” you answer, and watch him go.
The house quiets. Quiet has a sound in spaces like this—money sleeping, security cameras blinking like eyelids. You read three pages and then read them again without absorbing a word. You stand and walk to the window seat and press your palms to the glass and try to name the way your life has moved two inches to the left and landed better.
The first sound is faint. A disturbance of air. Boots on gravel. You tell yourself it’s always like this, alive things outside.
The second sound is not faint at all. Metal on metal, a scrape you can feel in your teeth. Then voices—men who speak in low tones because they think volume equals fear.
You stand. You don’t run to the door because you hear Bucky’s voice inside your head reminding you of the simplest instructions. Stay. Natasha outside. Say her name.
“Natasha,” you say, and the door is already opening because she heard the first sound, not the second. She steps in, a pistol in her hand she didn’t have in the office, hair tied back like a woman who has never once lost a bar fight.
“Come on,” she says, calm, and takes your arm. You’ve never been so grateful to be told what to do. She leads you not into the hall but into a narrow panel you would have called molding an hour ago. It swings shut behind you and becomes a wall. A small light glows just enough to show a corridor that looks like the house put on lingerie.
“Panic passage,” Natasha says lightly as you move. “For when men are stupid.”
“How often—” You don’t complete the sentence. You don’t want to know.
“Often enough,” she says, which is surprisingly reassuring.
You hear a bang behind the wall. Then another. Steps—many, fast—someone shouting no words, just noise. Natasha’s hand tightens once on your wrist. It steadies you more than it should.
“You should know,” she says conversationally as you turn a corner and the passage opens into a room that looks like a safe married an art gallery, “he’s worse when you’re threatened.”
“Worse how?” Your voice shakes. It doesn’t apologize.
“Less polite,” she says, as if discussing weather patterns. “More efficient.”
The sounds explode—closer, louder. Then the quiet returns the way a tide does, dragging a different shoreline behind it.
“Stay,” Natasha says, and slips out through another panel, a ghost learning to open doors in its new house. You stand in a room full of paintings and steel and try to count your breaths like Bucky taught you.
Footsteps. The panel opens. Bucky fills the threshold, the dark of him darker than the passage, blood on his sleeve like punctuation. You make a sound you’ve never made before; he answers with something that unspools the tight band around your lungs.
“You’re okay,” he says, crossing to you. “You’re okay.”
“What—” You reach for his arm and your fingers come away red. It’s not his. “What happened?”
He glances down at the smear on your thumb and something in his face shifts in a way that is not for public consumption. He takes your wrist gently, brings your hand to his mouth, and kisses the blood away like he’s erasing it. The gesture should horrify. It sanctifies.
“They tried the kitchen entrance,” he says, like reporting on a weather front. “They met me instead of the oven.”
“John?” you ask, because some part of you wants to know which names to dislike more.
“He’ll use a pen with his left hand for a while.” He tips your chin up. “You were brave.”
“I hid in a wall.”
“You did what I told you.” His thumb strokes your cheekbone, checks for tears, finds none, finds the wet in your eyes and reads it correctly anyway. “That’s obedience. I like it.”
“I thought I wouldn’t,” you say, honest, dizzy.
“You like being safe more,” he says. “We can work with that.”
Natasha slips back in, unruffled, the pistol gone again like a magician’s rabbit. “Cops won’t come if we don’t call,” she says, as if reminding him to sign for a package. “We’ll handle the clean.”
“Thank you,” Bucky says without looking away from you.
“Welcome to the family, doll,” Natasha tells you, and she means it.
Bucky walks you back to the bedroom, not fast, not slow, steps practiced to the beat of aftershock. In the bathroom, he washes his forearms, the water pinking, then clearing. You watch the blood go down the sink and feel two truths crystallize: this life is dangerous; this life, with him, feels less so than the office did.
He towels off and turns. The adrenaline in him has changed flavor—less violence, more possession. He cups the back of your head and kisses you, not frantic, not delicate, an affirmation.
“You all right?” he asks again.
“Yes,” you say, surprised at the steadiness. “Now.”
He searches your face for lies and finds none. The relief in his exhale feels like pride in you. He lifts you onto the counter. The mirror shows you: a woman in a silk slip, a man with wet hair and clean hands, a necklace that explains both.
“Give me your wrist,” he says. You do. He fastens a narrow bracelet—gold, subtle—just below your pulse. A key is engraved so small you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know to look. “House access,” he says. “Any door that matters recognizes you now.”
“Any door?” You look at him, a smile rising without permission.
“Even mine,” he says, and the softness in it would be dangerous if anyone else heard. You tuck it away where you keep those kinds of victories.
He lifts you into his arms and carries you to the bed. The act is not a flourish; it’s logistics with affection. He lays you down like an offering and takes his place between your thighs like a demand. When he enters you this time, there’s no hesitation. He sets a pace designed to remind your body of the map he drew earlier. You meet him willingly, greedily, a new word in your alphabet.
He talks to you while he moves, low, a cadence that braids filth with fealty: how good you look, how well you take him, what sounds are his favorites. He tells you you’re his a dozen ways and you say yes to each because each is different and all are true.
He rolls you and takes your wrists in one hand, pins them to the mattress above your head, his other palm around your jaw, reminding you where to keep your eyes. They stay on his. You realize you like being fed instructions almost as much as you like following the ones you write.
“Open,” he says. Your mouth does. He spits—soft, obscene—into your tongue and you swallow on command. Heat roars through you, any lingering tremor from the intrusion downstairs burned off by this specific brand of sacrilege.
“Good girl,” he growls, and you clench around him so hard he breaks rhythm, swears, laughs breathlessly against your throat, and punishes you by fucking you better.
You come with his name in your mouth and his hand on your throat and your wrists owned by his palm. He follows a breath later, hips grinding, a sound ripped from his chest that you will hear later in the quiet parts of the day and feel between your legs. He breathes into your ear like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he doesn’t weight you down with oxygen.
After, he doesn’t untie anything that isn’t tied. He loosens every hold with touches that re-teach your body the difference between restraint and care. He brings water. He feeds you a strawberry from somewhere; the sweetness detonates on your tongue like a reminder that the world contains simple pleasures between complicated ones.
“Sleep,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”
“Will you leave if—” You stop. You hate asking for reassurance. You love it when he gives it.
“If the world ends, I’ll make it wait until you wake up,” he says, and curls his body around yours like he means to shield you from meteorites.
You dream of keys that fit every door. You dream of a city whose teeth are bars on a cage and of a man who knows how to open it without making you feel small.
By morning, the story of John’s bad night is already cautionary folklore whispered in kitchens and alleyways. You don’t hear the exact details. You hear the satisfied hush in Bucky’s people’s voices when they say his name and yours in the same sentence.
You wake to coffee and a note propped against the cup, his handwriting decisive: Eat. I took a call on the terrace. Don’t open to anyone but me. —B.
You drink because he told you to and because you want to. The combination continues to scare you in all the best ways.
When he returns, he’s crisp—suit, clean shave, a look that makes you think of a knife drying on a dish towel. He surveys you like a good thing he expects to find where he left it. He touches the chain at your throat as if to check a knot.
“Come meet the people who keep your world running,” he says, and there is no condescension in your world.
He gives you the back-of-house tour like a king introducing a queen to those loyal. Kitchens large enough to feed an army. A security room with a wall of screens that makes you understand how he’d known your steps before you took them. A courtyard full of rosemary and men who don’t smoke near it because someone’s learned their lesson.
People call you miss and ma’am and a name that sounds different when said by those who know who will kill for it. They look at your bracelet, your necklace, and then your face, measuring heat against signal. You are polite because you want to be, not because you have to.
In the garage, he stops by a car you recognize: the black animal that watched your block at night. He leans his hip against it and folds his arms. “There are rules if you stay with me,” he says, as if he hasn’t already been giving them to you in digestible bites.
“Tell me,” you say.
“Don’t lie to me.” He ticks a finger. “Don’t endanger yourself.” Another. “Don’t pretend you don’t like what you like because you think I’ll like you better softer.”
“Is that a rule or a preference?” You bite your lip to stop the laugh that wants to come out.
“Both,” he says easily. “Also, don’t feed the internal critics. I know their names. I’ve killed men with those names.”
“Bucky,” you say, half scandalized, half delighted, and he grins, the feral boy under the tailored man.
“And mine?” you ask, because if you are going to belong, you want the caloric content.
“My rules are simple,” he says, stepping into your space, which is now his space, which is now your space by transfer of gravity. “I don’t lie to you. I keep you safe even when it costs me. I don’t make you small to make myself big. I don’t ask what you can’t give. I don’t drop you.”
He says the last one quietly, like it is a private vow.
You feel it land in the place in your chest that has been holding brittle things for years. “Okay,” you say, and it is assent and gratitude and an oath of your own.
The days take on a shape. You still go to work—at first because you are stubborn, then because you are amused by the way your boss startles every time the black car idles near the curb. Paperwork loses its sting when you know the man who signed your lunch is a warlord who brings you cake. When you leave the office, the car is always there. You stop pretending it's a coincidence. Your colleagues stop pretending they don’t notice the new systems of your life.
You spend nights at the house often enough that your plant dies and you don’t mourn. Your drawer in the dollhouse becomes a closet. A toothbrush appears; you didn’t put it there. A framed photo of a lake you once mentioned wanting to see hangs above the couch; you didn’t hang it. You find yourself wanting to leave objects for him the way he leaves the world for you.
The sex evolves the way weather does—storm fronts, clear skies, a science you begin to understand. He never stops asking. He never stops telling. Sometimes he’s slow, reverent; sometimes he steers you with a hand on your throat like a compass that always points home. Sometimes he ties your wrists with a silk tie and makes you count so you remember that surrender looks like participation, not absence.
“Where’s your line?” he asks one night, not as he’s about to cross it but when you are both quiet and fucked out and generous.
“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “I’ll tell you when we find it.”
He accepts that with the same respect he gives his pistol. “Good,” he says. “Then we’re not playing pretend.”
The world fails to leave you alone, as worlds do when a woman decides to live in it differently. John is quiet, for now. Others are not. Bucky is a tide. He takes your danger and drowns it. You learn that the most frightening thing about him is not his violence but his mercy—who gets it, when, how he decides to withhold it not out of anger but out of strategy.
You see him negotiate once, watch him refuse to raise his voice the way a conductor refuses to raise his baton until his orchestra is ready to play. The man across the table—Baron, older, a relic of an order Bucky is rewriting—thinks he can goad him into public temper. Bucky eats a grape. It is enough to reset the hierarchy.
After, in the car, you say, “You could have broken his nose with a look.”
“I didn’t want to get blood on your dress,” he says dryly, and then adds, “Besides, everyone here knows what I can do when I move. It’s important they also understand what I can do when I don’t.”
You tuck that away. You are building a lexicon.
The thing that makes you understand the word family in this context is not a dinner or a fight. It’s a Wednesday morning. You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, drinking coffee that tastes like a small country’s GDP. A young man with a scar at his lip and a shyness he wears like armor edges in, eyes on the floor. He reaches for a bagel, fails to make contact because you are also reaching.
“Sorry,” you say.
“Sorry,” he says at the same time, then freezes like a deer at the edge of a clearing.
You smile. “You live here?”
He shakes his head, then nods because it’s complicated. “Work,” he says. “Sometimes sleep.”
“What’s your name?” you ask, and when he whispers Peter, you say it back like you mean to remember. He blinks, surprised. You pass him a plate. He pretends not to notice how you saw his hands shaking.
When Bucky wanders in a minute later, in pajama pants and a T-shirt like someone’s fantasy, he greets the kid first, by name, with an ease that suggests the scar is a story Bucky already knows how to end better next time. He kisses your cheek on his way to the coffee. The kid watches with a look that is not envy but relief—the confirmation that the person who keeps him safe is also kept.
Later, Bucky says, “You did good with Peter,” like you completed a piece of accounting.
“I handed him a bagel.”
“You handed him dignity,” he says. “He’ll remember.”
You think maybe he’s talking about someone else he once handed the same thing.
The rupture comes carefully, the way bad things do when they intend to do permanent work.
You’re leaving your office on a Tuesday. The black car is there. So is another. You notice it the way you notice a smell in your apartment that doesn’t belong to you. It’s beige, anonymous, the kind that belongs to men who want to be ignored until it is too late.
You don’t hurry. You don’t dawdle. You hold your phone and consider the shape of the panic passage in your chest. When you’re halfway to the car, the beige door opens. A man steps out. He has the posture of a man who thinks the world owes him a receipt.
He smiles. It doesn’t reach anything worth reaching. “Hi.”
You stop. Your driver shifts his weight, hand near the door handle. The sidewalk’s noise muffles.
“I have a question,” the man says, and it is the kind of question that sits on top of a threat like a paper napkin on a knife.
“Ask it from there,” you say evenly.
He tilts his head as if charmed. “Has he told you what he did on—” He names a street you’ve never heard of. “Back in the day. They say he never misses. They say he—”
The driver has you in the car before your brain finishes the sentence. The door slams. The beige man is still talking, mouth moving, sound blocked. Your heart is a trapped bird. The driver says, “Seatbelt,” and the command grounds you better than the leather.
“Who is—” You start.
“Noise,” the driver says. “Static. Mr. Barnes will handle it.”
You nod. You already knew that. What you didn’t expect is the complicated reaction tightening in your throat—not fear of the man, not fear of Bucky, but a hunger for the exact version of him that made the beige man show up in the first place. The realization is resignation and victory at once.
At the house, Bucky meets you at the door like a man who has been half-tied to the foyer by restraint. He takes one look at your face and says nothing, which is the right call, and then he says, “Upstairs,” which is also the right call.
In the bedroom, he cups your jaw, thumbs at your ears, a frame around your senses. “Tell me,” he says.
You do. You tell him the street and the posture and the smile. You tell him you weren’t afraid until you were, and then you were in the car. You tell him you are tired of being brave in small ways and want to be brave in a way that either ends the day or changes it forever.
He listens. He doesn’t interrupt. When you’re finished, he kisses your forehead, then your mouth, then your throat, mapping out the places the man’s voice tried to reach and replacing it with his own.
“You did good,” he says. “You got in the car. You let my people do their job.”
“What was he talking about?” you ask, because if you are going to belong, you cannot be allergic to the truth.
Bucky’s jaw works. He sits on the edge of the bed and pats the space beside him. You go because you do. He glances at your necklace and decides how much to take off your shoulders tonight.
“The street he named,” he says. “That was a long time ago. The man who ran that corner put three girls in the ground. One of them… looked like someone I used to be.” He swallows. “I ended it. There were witnesses. Some people tell the story like a warning. Some tell it like a prayer. Some tell it to scare women who belong to men like me into leaving.”
It’s not a boast. It’s not an apology. It’s an index.
“Do you regret it?” you ask.
He looks at you like he loves you, which is a sentence you do not yet know how to write in your head. “No,” he says. “I regret there was no other way.”
You nod. You take his hand. You are more relieved than you are ashamed of the relief. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeats, checking.
“Okay,” you say again, firmer. “I don’t want to be the kind of woman who asks you to be a smaller man.”
He draws a breath like he’d been holding one your whole life. “You won’t be.”
“Good.” You squeeze his fingers. “Then fuck me like the world just tried to make me afraid of you.”
He laughs, broken and reverent. “With pleasure.”
He does. He fucks you like confession and absolution, like a weapon he knows how to dismantle and clean, like a man who understands that the cure for the wrong kind of fear is the right kind of surrender. He wrecks you and remakes you and licks his name into your skin like ink.
After, he doesn’t let you get small in your head. He keeps you on top of him, keeps your breath on his throat, keeps your body on his body so that when your mind tries to leave the room to negotiate with ghosts, he can bring it back with a hand on your ass and a murmur in your hair. You fall asleep on his chest, and the last thing you hear is his heart accusing the night of being too long.
The beige man never reappears. The story does, filtered now through Bucky’s choices rather than other people’s convenience. You start to understand what it means to be with a man who is not so much feared as deferred to by gravity.
There is one more thing the world wants from you before it lets you live like this without protest: a test it pretends is an accident.
It’s not Verona or the house. It’s not even your office. It’s the grocery store, a small one with better fruit and worse lighting, where you go with a list because you promised Bucky you’d cook him the food your grandmother taught you, and he looked at you like you had just offered to build him a private church.
You’re in the aisle with the spices, debating the price of saffron like a person who was poor very recently, when a woman stops beside you. She is ordinary in the way a knife drawer looks ordinary when the drawer is closed. Her hand lingers near the glass bottles a beat too long. She says your name. Not the miss. Not the ma’am. Your name.
You look up. You don’t recognize her. You recognize the eyes—wrong hunger, wrong place.
“I have a message,” she says.
“From?”
She smiles. It is not a smile. “Someone who wants the city back the way it was, when kindness was weakness and the only women who felt safe were too invisible to be worth stealing.”
“That’s not a message,” you say. “That’s a description.”
She tilts her head, approving. “He says you have two choices. Leave him and live. Stay and watch him die.”
The aisle hums with other people’s shopping carts, other people’s dinners. You feel the universe try to force you into a binary that benefits someone who isn’t here.
“No,” you say.
She blinks. “No?”
“Those aren’t the choices,” you say politely. “Those are the threats. The choice is: I stay and we live. Or I stay and we outlive you.”
Something cold and bright moves behind her expression. “You think you can save him?”
“No,” you say, and your honesty tastes like steel. “I think he saves himself. I think I make sure he doesn’t want to stop.”
She leans in like she might whisper. You don’t flinch. She says, “He will die for you.”
“I know,” you say. “That’s why I won’t let him.”
You walk away because you can. Your hands shake only a little when you pick up the saffron. It’s as expensive as blood. It feels right.
At the house, you tell Bucky exactly what happened while the rice simmers. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t do the male thing where he thinks his anger is more useful than your courage. He tastes the sauce when you offer him a spoon and makes a noise indecent enough to be rated.
He says, “Thank you,” and you realize he means for not letting the story tell you who you are.
“Do I need to move?” you ask, because your lease is a fiction and your life is not.
“You already have,” he says, and kisses your wrist where the bracelet sits. “Officially, if you want.”
“Yes,” you say without pretending to consider. “I want.”
The papers appear without effort, not because bureaucracy becomes easier when you’re in love with a mobster but because power prefers signatures that everyone involved would like to keep. Your bag at the apartment becomes a box, then two. You keep one shelf empty for the part of you that enjoys the pretense of independence. He never remarks on it. He fills it with flowers on a Monday and a pile of books on a Friday and your grandmother’s recipe cards laminated by someone with a steady hand and a sense of humor.
You fuck on the kitchen counter after the saffron rice and the lamb, Bucky’s hands under your thighs, your back sliding along a cabinet where knives sleep. He says open and you open. He says look at me and you do. He says mine and you say yes like an antidote.
It doesn’t feel like you’re losing yourself. It feels like you’re being curated.
There is one last thing. It comes on a night that starts quiet and heads toward story.
Bucky has business. He doesn’t say what at first because he knows the difference between telling you everything and telling you enough. You lie in the dollhouse and read until the words blur. You fall asleep to the hum of a house that trusts its doors.
You wake to Natasha’s hand on your shoulder, gentle. “Up, doll.”
You sit up already moving. “What—”
“Nothing bad,” she says, and it’s the most tender lie she knows how to tell. “He needs you.”
She takes you to the safe room. Bucky is there, seated, shirt open, a line of blood along his ribs more dramatic than dangerous, breathing like he ran when he should have walked. He looks up and the look is a man who has been underwater and remembers air.
“I told you I wouldn’t drop you,” he says hoarsely, which is not an explanation. It is, somehow, enough.
You go to him. Natasha leaves because Natasha knows when rooms need fewer people. You kneel between his knees and press your forehead to his sternum and he touches your hair with a hand that shakes. He says your name like a lullaby.
“What happened?” you ask.
“Negotiation,” he says dryly. “They are now more convinced than ever that my terms are generous.”
You pull back and look at the cut. “Stitches?”
“Two,” he says. “Already done.”
You clean what needs cleaning because he has taught you how to help without making him small. You wrap what needs wrapping because he has taught you that care is not weakness; it is logistics.
When you are finished, he draws you into his lap. You go willingly, astride, face to face, a posture that looks like yielding and feels like command. He cups your backside and rocks you gently until your dress hitches and your breath does, too.
“I almost called you earlier,” he says into your mouth.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I wanted to bring you something instead of taking something away.”
“What did you bring me?”
He tips you forward until your necklace swings and the band on the chain clinks the key. He kisses the place where they rest. “A city that will not touch you without my permission,” he says. “And a man who loves you even when he is unworthy.”
You freeze, not because of the word, but because of how easily he says it, like he has said it to only a few things in his life and is not ashamed to add you to their number.
“Say it again,” you breathe.
“I love you,” he says, and the room adjusts its architecture.
“Good,” you whisper, and your hands find his jaw, and you kiss him like a woman accepting a crown.
You ride him there in the safe room, slow, deliberate, a metronome for a new era. He holds your hips, control looser than usual, letting you write this one. You take what you want because he taught you wanting is not a sin and because you like teaching him, too. When you come, you do it with your eyes open and your hand on his throat lightly, a mirror of the first night, an inversion he receives like gospel.
He follows, face against your neck, a sound you own. When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. You stay like that until the night scabs and the house exhales.
Later, in bed, he tucks you into his side and traces your bracelet with his thumb. “We’ll make it official,” he says.
“What’s left?” you ask, because the chain feels official, the bracelet feels official, the way the world moves out of your way feels like a coronation.
“Nothing the state cares about,” he says with contempt and humor. “Everything I do.”
He means ceremony. He means a room where people who would die for him gather to watch him swear to live for you. He means a feast that tastes like a promise and a dance that looks like a lesson.
He means a vow, here, now, in the simplest form:
“Yours,” he says.
“Yours,” you answer.
The city sleeps. The club throbs. The house holds. The dollhouse glows.
You, who once delivered envelopes for other men, deliver yourself to this one. He, who once wrote his name in blood because it was the only ink men respected, writes it now on your skin with his mouth because you asked him to and because he will do nothing you don’t ask for except protect you from every last thing that didn’t have the sense to fear you.
In the morning, the world will try again. Let it.
Tonight, you belong, and the belonging does not diminish you. It crowns you.
Bucky sleeps with his hand on your hip as if the universe might roll and he means to keep you from sliding. When the dark moves, he moves it back. When the light comes, he lets it in.
You wake before him and watch his face in the kind of quiet you used to think you didn’t deserve. You touch the chain at your throat and feel the key and the band and the steady line of the life you chose.
You whisper to the room, to the city, to whatever god oversees men like him and women like you:
Thank you.
And, because you have learned the value of precision:
Mine.
The invitation isn’t a card; it’s a movement.
By late afternoon the city seems to lean subtly in one direction, as if gravity is making its choice known. Cars slide through intersections that suddenly favor a certain route; elevators arrive a little faster if they’re going up to Verona; the phones of men who matter all buzz with the same two-word text sent from a number they don’t save because saving it would look like worship:
Tonight. Upstairs.
You’re in the dollhouse slipping gold hoops into your ears when Natasha appears in the doorway without noise. She looks you over like a sister would, like a soldier would. “You’ll break necks,” she says, which in this house is a compliment and a plan.
“Is this… a party?” you ask, smoothing the silk along your hips. The dress is black as a closed eye, the neckline a law he wrote on your collarbone.
“A vow,” she says. “With witnesses.”
Your throat tightens. It isn’t fear. It’s the old self in you taking one last look around the room she lived in without furniture.
Bucky is waiting at the base of the staircase that leads to the club’s private penthouse. He is in a suit cut so close it feels like a confession, hair tamed, jaw clean, a hand in his pocket like he could draw a gun or a promise with equal ease. The crowd parts around him the way a sea will if it knows what’s good for it.
When he sees you, the mask he wears for the world thins. Not falls—thins—enough for you to see the boy who learned to want like other people learn to pray. He offers you his hand. You take it. The room breathes in.
The penthouse has been rearranged. The bed is gone. In its place: a long table set with flowers that look like expensive apologies, crystal like a threat you intend to keep, candles whose flames behave as if the air has been warned. People ring the room—his lieutenants, the loyal, the necessary. Peter stands near the wall with shoulders back and new steadiness in his mouth. Your driver is present and pretending not to be proud. The kid with the scar at his lip tries not to stare and fails beautifully.
No clergy. No government. Just a city in human shapes waiting to see what its center will do next.
Bucky doesn’t bring you to the head of the table. He brings you to the center. He faces you, takes both your hands, and speaks without raising his voice, because his voice doesn’t need volume to be obeyed.
“I told you I don’t do theater,” he says. A ripple of quiet laughter. “But I do oaths.”
He looks at the people who keep his name alive. “You’ve heard me make them before. To the dead, to the living, to the streets that fed me when I was hungry and to the men who thought they could starve me. Tonight I make one to her.” His gaze returns to you and stays. “And to you, because your lives attach to mine, and mine attaches to hers.”
You blink and the world doubles—him close, the room farther, a mirror you could choose to step through.
“I will not lie to her,” he says. “I will not make her small so I can feel big. I will not ask what she cannot give and I will not drop her when the air turns thin. What belongs to me belongs to her—my name, my shelter, my enemies, my mercy. What tries to touch her will learn the lesson I teach best.”
He tips your chin with two fingers, a touch private and public at once. “And you,” he says softly, for you alone, “what do you want to say?”
Every eye on you now, not like knives, like moons. Your voice is not loud, but the room is trained to listen.
“I won’t ask you to be smaller,” you say, stealing from last night’s truth because it was good. “I won’t make you guess at my mind. I’ll tell you what scares me and I’ll ask for what I want, and when I can’t, I’ll learn. I’ll be brave in the ways that matter, not the ways that look good in stories. I won’t run when it gets ugly. I’ll remind you to eat.” A small roll of laughter, eased. Your mouth curves. “And I’ll belong to you on purpose.”
There’s a sound—low, collective, like a building settling—when you say it. Belong. On purpose. It slides into the floorboards and roots.
Bucky nods, eyes bright with something that doesn’t blink. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a little leather tray. Inside lies the band he added to your chain and a second, identical circle. He takes yours from your necklace with careful fingers and slides it onto your finger carefully, deliberately, not ring finger—the right hand, in this house a signal that writes a different math than the state’s.
He holds your hand up so the room can see. “Mine,” he says, and the room replies without sound and with total agreement.
You pick up the second band and thread it onto his watch chain, hooking it next to the knife charm you’d noticed once and never asked about. He lifts his brow—pleased, surprised, undone by inches—and the small pulse of shock in him feels like a power you intend to use mercifully.
He doesn’t kiss you yet. He turns to the room. “Eat,” he says. “Drink. Make me look generous.”
Laughter that isn’t fake blooms like a bruise in reverse. The table fills. Natasha shepherds servers with the expertise of someone who has run both a ballet and a war. Baron is not present, nor is John, and the absences are pointed the way a gun is. The music is low—strings and smoke, something old enough to have survived being alive.
Bucky doesn’t let go of your hand for the first thirty minutes, not for greetings, not for whispered reports, not for jokes delivered in a dialect of violence you’re beginning to understand. Your other hand picks at a rosemary sprig. He notices and stills your fidget with a thumb across your knuckles, a touch that says calm without humiliating you for needing to be told.
Midway through the first course, the room’s attention shifts the way a flock does when it sight-lines a hawk. The elevator doors slide open without ceremony. A man steps out. He is not Baron or John or the beige messenger. He is dressed better than both and wears his fear like a hat—too visible, too new, difficult to hold when the wind changes.
He approaches Bucky without the deference smart men show and stops too close. “Barnes.”
Bucky looks at him and manages to be bored and deadly at once. “Ruining your own evening’s invitation says something unflattering about your social life, Pierce.”
Pierce. Unimportant enough that you hadn’t heard his name and important enough that he thinks the gate might open just because he said it. He doesn’t look at you. He does look at your hand, at the band. He smiles thin and wrong. “A pity,” he says, “to bring the doll out just to break her.”
Silence. Not fear-silence—expectant. Bucky doesn’t stand. He doesn’t raise his voice. He leans back slightly, head tilting the way a panther’s does while it decides whether the thing that just made a noise is worth noticing.
“Read the room,” he says. “Then try that sentence again.”
Pierce clears his throat like he’s swallowing the part of his soul that still wants to see sunrise. He glances around and realizes he’s the kind of man who mistakes proximity for protection. He tries again. Worse. “She’s leverage,” he says, like he’s announcing the weather. “We’ve all had them. We all know how the story goes.”
You feel the change in Bucky before you see it—the temperature drop, the clarity sharpen. He doesn’t move fast. He doesn’t need to. He places his napkin on the table, rises, and steps into Pierce’s space in a way that redefines the term. When he speaks, it’s soft, persuasive, a lover’s cadence used for a lesson.
“You’re new enough to think that the men here would nod if you called her leverage,” he says. “Look around. Do you see any nodding?”
Pierce’s jaw works. His eyes flip past faces that refuse to rescue him.
“She’s my line,” Bucky continues, and the word lands like architecture. “The one thing you don’t step over if you want to keep walking. She is the reason I leave my temper in the drawer. She is the reason you will, too.”
Pierce blusters. “Sentiment. That’s how empires fall.”
“Empires fall because men like you mistake cruelty for intelligence,” Bucky says, almost kindly. He glances sideways at Natasha. “Escort him to the elevator. Remind him how doors work.”
Natasha’s smile is a knife you’d trust with your hair. She tucks her arm through Pierce’s and steers him, chatting as if they’re about to pick out wallpaper. He resists with exactly the strength he will later regret wasting. The doors close on a last look from him that promises a mess someone else will clean up.
Bucky returns to his seat without needing to fix his jacket. His hand finds your thigh and rests there, grounding you like a palm on a drum. The room exhales and refills with sound, the way a city does after an ambulance siren passes.
“You all right?” he asks, low.
“Yes,” you say, honest. “I liked the part where you didn’t stand up until you were ready to stand up.”
He huffs a laugh. “I liked the part where you didn’t flinch.”
“I haven’t had time to learn how in this dress,” you murmur, and his eyes flare with a heat that is private and about to become public.
“Dance with me,” he says.
You don’t argue. On the small space cleared between tables, he pulls you close—not the respectful distance of a formal set, but body to body, the way you learned downstairs. He sways you through a song that declines to hurry, his mouth at your ear, his breath a script you are willing to speak.
“Say it,” he whispers.
“Yours,” you say, helpless and in control.
When the song ends, the room politely looks away. You feel eyes anyway—the good kind, the family kind. You’re learning the difference.
A crash interrupts the second course. Glass shatters somewhere distant and deliberate. Heads lift. The security men by the door cock their heads like dogs bred to hear the frequency of danger.
Bucky’s hand on your thigh tightens—a notch, not a panic. He looks to Natasha. She’s already moving. He does not release you. The room remains seated by force of will and habit; only the necessary stand. Through the glass you see a red smear across tile that suggests someone taught a lesson too near the linens.
“Kitchen,” Natasha calls, not shouting. “Two.” She vanishes with three of Bucky’s men in her wake. The others hold.
“Static,” Bucky says to you, an echo of the driver. “It’s nothing.”
It’s not nothing. You know that now. But it is not the kind of something that can touch you. Ten minutes later, the men return with jackets unruffled and expressions that say the kitchen will be hiring. Natasha shakes her head once at Bucky: handled. He inclines his chin: thanks.
The room pretends nothing happened because pretending is sometimes an act of mercy.
Dessert is figs and mascarpone and honey that looks like sunlight learned to sit still. Bucky feeds you a bite with his fingers; you lick them clean without being told to be obscene about it. He smiles like a man who built a world where you could.
When the last glass has been drained and the last necessary face has been seen, the room makes the kind of exit that leaves more warmth than smoke. People approach to murmur small sentences that matter—we have you, we have her, call if you need the container—coded language you’re slowly learning. Peter nods at you and grins. The driver touches his forehead with two fingers like a blessing.
At last it’s quiet again. The candles gutter and hold. The city beyond the glass offers its neon pulse to anyone who still needs it. You don’t.
“Come here,” Bucky says, voice different now—grainier, the public stripped off, the private coming through.
He leads you not to the elevator but to a door you haven’t used. A short hallway. Another door. A space that smells faintly of cedar and smoke and the inside of a wrist. It’s small. It’s not the dollhouse. It’s not the bedroom. It’s something else: a room built for choices.
On a shelf: a collar—no lock, no leash, just a wide band of black leather with a single gold D-ring that looks like an eye. Bucky doesn’t reach for it. He stands with his hands loose at his sides and gives you the only thing men like him are never trained to give: time.
“I won’t ask,” he says. “I won’t even suggest. I’ll tell you what it means and you’ll decide on your own feet.”
“Tell me,” you say, throat dry, knees steady.
“It’s not a toy,” he says. “It doesn’t come out for play unless you want it to. It’s not a mark for me to see—it’s a mark for you to feel. It says: I chose this. I wanted this. I chose him. It’s not forever. It’s not a trick. It’s a now that we renew when we want to.”
You step forward. The leather looks softer than you expected. He stays still, a monument that knows it doesn’t need to move to be believed.
“Will you… put it on me?” you ask, and your voice does not sound like anyone else you’ve ever been.
“Yes,” he says, and you feel the way the word goes through him. “If you ask.”
“I’m asking.”
He lifts it with the care of a man allowed to hold a baby for the first time. He comes behind you, not to trap, to honor. The collar circles your throat. His hands—those careful hands—fasten it. It is not tight. It is present. His mouth touches the nape of your neck as if sealing wax. “Look,” he says, turning you toward the mirror.
You do. The woman in the glass has your face and not. The band at her throat gleams. The key on her necklace rests below it; the right-hand ring burns. Her eyes are not pleading. They are not defiant. They are certain in a way that feels like water finding the bowl it was meant to fill.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
“Mine,” you whisper, and his exhale splits his composure. “Yours.”
He kisses you with the collar on. You feel the weight of it against his mouth and the press of your decision between every part of you that intersects his. He walks you backwards until your shoulder blades skim wood and your dress hikes, and then it is hands and heat and a sound he makes that feels like a church falling down around you both. He doesn’t rush, though everything in him wants to. He doesn’t break the moment by breaking you. He opens you, enters you, holds you while you learn what it means to be kept like this. You come with your hands braced at his shoulders, the D-ring cool against your skin, his breath in your mouth, your name on his tongue as if he’s giving it back to you under his.
After, he doesn’t take it off. Not yet. He lifts you, wraps your legs around his waist, carries you like a tale he intends to retell, and lays you on the bed now returned to the room because space obeys him. He licks the choice from your skin. He says thank you into your ribs. When he finally unbuckles the collar, he sets it on the nightstand with a kiss to the leather as if it’s a relic.
“Water,” he says. “Food.”
“I’m not—” You start to say hungry. Your stomach answers for you with a small, polite growl. He grins, fucked-out and fond, and fetches strawberries and a plate of cheese and bread that must have appeared with the candles because Natasha plans five moves ahead and three degrees sideways.
You eat on the sheets, laughing when honey drips on your wrist and he licks it off with a reverence that makes you shiver. You drink water. You breathe. You look at him. He looks at you like he intends to keep doing that until he learns the parts of your face no one else noticed.
“Tell me a secret,” you say, drunk on safety.
He thinks. Not long. “I sleep better when you breathe on my neck,” he says. “I didn’t know I liked that. I was certain I didn’t.”
“Tell me another,” you say, greedy.
“I re-read the same three books when I’m afraid I’m becoming the kind of man who only knows new violence,” he says. “It’s a stupid method. It works.”
“Tell me yours,” he adds gently.
“I wanted someone to tell me what to do,” you say, the shame gone like smoke in this air. “But I only wanted that person to be you.”
He doesn’t gloat. He kisses your knuckles the way he did at the balcony rail and says, “Good. Now you’ll learn to tell yourself what to do and I’ll make sure the world doesn’t punish you for it.”
You sleep with his hand on your hip and the collar in the dark like a star that is only for you to see.
The days that follow don’t turn into legend. They turn into life. That’s rarer. Pierce disappears from the places you might see him, which means he has either learned or has been taught. Baron sends a bottle of Barolo with a note that says to the lady who eats saffron, which is his way of admitting defeat while pretending he’s being courtly. The beige car stops parking across from your office. John signs with his left hand. Peter gains weight and loses the habit of flinching when doors open.
You work. You don’t if you don’t want to. Bucky doesn’t tell you to quit; he tells you the doors you walk through belong to you. You keep doing the thing with the list on the fridge; now it includes items like bullets and burrata and it doesn’t feel like a contradiction.
Sometimes, you go back to your old apartment just to stand inside the space where you pretended to need so little. You water the plant that came back from the dead because kindness can work retroactively. You sit on the floor and let the light run its fingers through your hair and realize the only thing that has changed is the part of you that believed your life had to fit inside these walls to be yours. You lock the door behind you not because you have to, but because he would want you to.
On a Saturday at the market, an older woman at a spice stall eyes your bracelet and necklace and the ring on your right hand and says, “You found a man who learned to be worth a woman.”
You smile. “I did.”
“Wear it,” she says, tapping the chain. “Not the gold. The certainty.”
You bring saffron home because it tastes like celebration and work. You cook. He eats. You let him feed you with his fingers because some nights that’s your liturgy. He kisses you slow at the sink with your hands wet. You grind pepper into his hair and he laughs like a man who thought he’d forgotten how.
One evening, the sky lifts a little earlier. The city acts like a dog that has been walked. Verona hums. The house breathes. You and Bucky sit on the window seat in the dollhouse with your legs pressed together and a book open across both your knees. He reads the line again, the one he always returns to when he is afraid of becoming too sharp.
“‘And you? When will you begin that long journey into yourself?’” he quotes, thumb rubbing your knee.
You tip your head to his shoulder. “I already did,” you say. “The day I walked into the wrong room with the right envelope.”
“Because you’re mine?” he asks, teasing but not entirely.
“Because I decided to be,” you say, and he kisses your hair like an amen.
There’s a knock, then a pause, then Natasha’s voice through the door: “Dinner.”
You call back, “Two minutes,” and Bucky calls, “Three,” and she laughs because she knows he always adds one for indulgence.
You close the book. He sets it on the sill. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you like a man who intends to do it again tomorrow. When he pulls back, his forehead rests to yours, and his whisper is a thing that belongs to no one else.
“Mine.”
“Yours,” you answer, a vow renewed in plain clothes.
The city lights itself. The room holds you. The collar sleeps on the nightstand like a star that remembers the names you gave it.
You stand and walk toward dinner without looking behind you. You don’t have to. Everything you want is walking beside you, and everything that might touch you without permission has learned a different route.
When you pass the mirror, you catch yourself—necklace, ring, mouth kissed, eyes clear—and the woman who loved a mobster smiles back at you not like a warning, but like a promise kept.
✿ G E N R E ✿
she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama
!!! images are not depicting reader’s appearance. only capturing vibes !!!
✿ P A I R I N G ✿
s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)
✿ S Y N O P S Y S ✿
your senior year of high school started, and you're just trying to make it through without completely falling apart. easy enough—until you're paired up with rafe cameron for a two-week project in art class. no big deal… except for the fact that you've been lowkey crushing on this guy since fifth grade, and saying hi without spiraling into a thousand worst-case scenarios? yeah, not exactly your style.
so when caution and overthinking crash into impulsiveness and intensity, things are bound to get messy. he's pushy where you're hesitant, instinct-driven where you're always second-guessing, and somehow, the two of you drive each other crazy in ways that aren’t always for the better. but differences like that don’t always end in disaster—sometimes, they create the kind of chaos neither of you can walk away from unchanged.
and while you're just trying to survive the two weeks without turning into a total awkward mess, rafe finds his patience tested, and every principle he's ever stood by starting to come undone.
✿ G E N E R A L C W ✿
➥ explicit content in separate extras or will be marked as such
swearing, strong/suggestive/unfiltered language (dirty jokes & references to sex), suggestive themes, lots of overthinking/awkwardness from reader's side, hints at anxiety, tension, drama, attempt at canon!season1!rafe, reader and rafe are both 18
✿ A B O U T R E A D E R ✿
➥ meet killing me softly!reader
NO description of her appearance except that she’s abled
✿ A / N ✿
i wanna try doing things organically aka developing their dynamic in a way that's not too rushed. this fic is a mix of everything. fluff, comedy, suggestive themes, jealousy, angst, drama. it’s an attempt at showing something real.
+ changed my posting rhythm; pls read this announcement for more information
+ this series will contain approx. 35 chapters
+ it's mostly written story with some smau elements
✿ A D D I T I O N A L S T U F F ✿
➥ S U M M A R Y O F E V E R Y P A R T (not up to date)
➥ A S K S
➥ M E M E S
✿ S I D E C O L L E C T I O N ✿
this is where i collect everything that doesn’t fall under the main storyline of killing me softly — headcanons, blurbs, what-ifs, possibly one-shots, and random emotional chaos.
i highly recommend reading all extras for the whole experience + adds a lot of bg info to the main plot
☆ indicates explicit content // 18+ // mdni
✿ P A R T O N E
✿ P A R T T W O
✿ P A R T T H R E E
✿ P A R T F O U R
✿ P A R T F I V E
✿ P A R T S I X
✿ P A R T S E V E N
✿ P A R T E I G H T
✿ P A R T N I N E
✿ P A R T T E N
✿ P A R T E L E V E N
✿ P A R T T W E L V E
E X T R A
➥ rafe confronting topper about his ride offer
E X T R A
➥ wheezie teaching rafe reaction pics
✿ P A R T T H I R T E E N
✿ P A R T F O U R T E E N
✿ P A R T F I F T E E N
✿ P A R T S I X T E E N
✿ P A R T S E V E N T E E N
E X T R A
➥ rafe buying you a gift at the gas station
✿ P A R T E I G H T T E E N
✿ P A R T N I N E T E E N
✿ P A R T T W E N T Y
E X T R A / ☆
➥ rafe has a solo session
✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - O N E
✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - T W O
✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - T H R E E
E X T R A / (☆)
➥ the boys' group chat reacting to your announcement
✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - F O U R
A L T E R N A T I V E C H 2 4 / NOT CANON
➥ the original version i wrote but reworked
✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - F I V E
✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - S I X
✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - S E V E N
✿ P A R T T W E N T Y - E I G H T / (☆)
...
✿ F I N A L E
R. C. M A S T E R L I S T | T A G L I S T F O R M
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