No thoughts just ghost who only touches you when the lights are off.
When he can't see his own skin next to yours. He stays hidden under long sleeves and and pants even when it's just the two of you. Ghost doesn't believe you when you tell him he's beautiful.
"Ugly fuckin' mug, should be a sin jus' to touch you." He whispers into your neck, bodies still sweaty, hidden in the dark. The web of burned tissue over his chest snug against your back.
"I don't know what you see in me." When your hands wander down the length of his arm. Fingertips jumping over neat rows of raised scars, broken by potholes made of shrapnel and bad nights.
"It's fuckin' disgusting, is what it is." When the side of his face brushes your cheek, his lips kissing your jaw. Words never form quite right with all the scar tissue pulling at his mouth.
He would rather tell you ten times over how wrong you are about him than to accept that you love him. You do. You love him. You love every inch of him, the hills and valleys of scars and the warp of ink over the worst of them, the way he laughs like a broken engine, the way he leans to the left side when he's tired.
You love him and it's never enough. You'll keep loving him.
Rommy, what's your take on the recent discovery that you can find out if an author used AI in their fic on ao3?
I think it's a very helpful tool that will soon be less helpful the more people know about it, unfortunately (;_;)
So far it only works for finding Claude in the html, and that is extremely easy to remove. Furthermore, it doesn't show how the ai was used, just that it was. So someone could write a fanfic on their own and toss it st Claude for "improvements" then use their original doc as defense it wasn't ai generated.
For some people, that makes a big difference. For me, any ai use is enough for me to ditch the fanfic.
This doesn't mean a fic that won't flag as ai isn't ai, there's no way to detect all ai. It can just find this specific instance.
Im glad it's there, but the way people are hunting down ai users with intent to harm only means more fics will be wrongly tagged as having no ai ┐(￣ヮ￣)┌ honestly I just want the damn bubble to burts already.
Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.
Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.
Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.
Word Count: 9k
note: And the story comes to an end, at least for now. Thank you so much for walking with me through this journey🧡
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She heard him dust his boots heavily on the porch, then the door opened, and he stepped inside, bringing the cold air and the smell of pine and sweat with him. His eyes found her immediately, still standing by the stove where she'd been keeping the stew warm.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
She felt her face heat under his gaze, and her hands tightened on the wooden spoon she was holding.
"You're home," she managed, and immediately felt foolish. Of course he was home. She could see him standing right there.
But his expression softened slightly, and he set down his lunch pail by the door.
"I am," The words came out rough. Like he'd been working hard. Or thinking hard. Or both.
He shrugged out of his coat, hung it on the peg, and crossed the small space between them in a few strides.
She tensed with anticipation, expecting him to reach for her, to pull her close the way he had last night. But he stopped just in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him, and his hand came up to cup her face instead.
Gentle. Almost careful.
"Feelin’ alright?" he asked quietly.
The question caught her off guard. She'd expected... well, she wasn't sure what she'd expected. But not that.
"I'm fine," she said honestly.
His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, and something flickered in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or concern.
"Any discomfort?"
She shook her head.
He studied her face for another moment, like he was checking for signs she might be lying to spare his feelings. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead -brief, almost chaste- before stepping back.
"Smells good," he said, nodding toward the stove. "What is it?"
"Stew," she answered still processing the gentleness of that kiss. "It's been ready for a while. I was just keeping it warm."
"Sounds good." He moved past her toward the washbasin, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm starvin’."
She turned back to the stove, ladling stew into bowls, and tried to ignore the way her heart was still racing.
It was so stupid that the fact that he was careful and gentle with her still affected her, but she was still getting used to it. To matter. To have a voice. To like and dislike things and be checked on. To be cherished.
“Do you want to wash after you are done?” she heard herself ask without thinking.
He paused, his hands stilling in the basin where he'd been splashing water on his face. Then he straightened, reaching for the towel she kept hanging nearby, and turned to look at her.
"After dinner?" he repeated, like he was making sure he'd heard her right.
She nodded, focusing very hard on ladling the stew into the second bowl. "I could heat water for the tub. If you'd like."
There was a pause, just long enough that she glanced up to see if something was wrong.
He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something between surprised and... pleased, maybe.
"Yeah," he said finally, his voice a little rougher. "That'd be good."
She nodded and carried the bowls to the table, setting them down with hands that were steadier than she felt.
Offering to heat his bathwater wasn't scandalous. It was a perfectly normal thing for a wife to do for her husband after a long day of work.
Except they both knew what had happened the last time she'd helped him bathe.
When she'd washed his back with careful hands. When he'd been sitting in the tub and she'd been close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. When the air between them had been charged with something unspoken and inevitable.
And now -after last night- there was nothing unspoken left.
She sat down across from him at the table, smoothing her skirt unnecessarily, and picked up her spoon.
He did the same, taking a bite of the stew and making a low sound of approval.
"This is good," he said. "Real good."
"Thank you."
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted with awareness. Of each other. Of what had happened. Of what would happen again.
Eventually, he cleared his throat.
"Had a hell of a time concentratin' today," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.
She looked up. "Oh?"
"Yeah." He took another bite, chewed, swallowed. "Miller nearly had to pull me out of the way of a fallin' log. And Davidson caught me splittin' the same piece of wood three times without realizin' it."
Her eyebrows rose. "That doesn't sound like you."
"It ain't." He finally looked at her then, and there was something in his gaze that made her stomach flip. "Kept thinkin' about last night."
Heat flooded her face instantly.
"About you," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "About comin' home to you."
She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if she was supposed to say anything.
But he didn't seem to expect a response. Just went back to his stew, though she could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw worked as he chewed.
Like he was holding himself back from saying -or doing- something more.
They finished the meal in that same charged silence, and when he pushed his bowl away, she stood to clear the table.
His hand slowly caught her wrist as she reached for his bowl.
She looked at him, her pulse jumping.
"I meant what I said," he said quietly. "About givin' you time. Few days, at least."
She swallowed. "I know."
"But… that ain't mean I don't wanna touch you." His thumb brushed across the inside of her wrist, a slow movement that made her skin tingle. "If that's alright."
She thought about the way he'd looked at her when he came home. The careful way he'd touched her face. The kiss to her forehead that had been almost reverent.
She thought about the fact that she'd spent the entire day thinking about him too. About last night. About the future.
"It's alright," she said quietly.
His expression changed -something dark and satisfied crossing his face- and he released her wrist.
"Go on then," he said. "Heat the water. I'll clear the table."
"You just got home," she said, already moving toward the stove to check the water she'd kept simmering. " I'll handle it."
"If I help, you can get started sooner," he countered, already standing and reaching for his bowl. "And honestly, the idea of a bath sounds real good right now."
She couldn't argue with that logic.
They worked in tandem, her hauling the tub from its spot in the corner while he carried the first pot of hot water, both of them moving anticipating each other's movements.
By the time the tub was half-full, she'd settled onto the chair nearby the fire, waiting as he added the last pot of cold water to temper the heat.
He straightened, testing the temperature with his hand, then started unbuttoning his shirt.
She didn't look away.
There'd been a time when they'd given each other privacy for this. When she would've turned the chair to face the wall, or busied herself with some task on the other side of the room.
But that time had passed.
Now she watched as he shrugged out of his shirt, the firelight playing across his shoulders, highlighting the old scars she'd traced with her fingers more times than she could count. And the new ones, faint red lines down his back where her nails had raked him last night.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, catching her staring, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.
"Ain't fair, you know," he said, reaching for his belt. "You gettin' to look while I can't."
"I'm not the one getting in the bath," she deadpaned.
"True." He unfastened his belt, pushed his trousers down, and stepped out of them. Then his drawers followed, and he was bare, crossing the short distance to the tub without a hint of self-consciousness.
She'd seen him naked before. Many times, especially over the past two months. But there was something different about watching him now, in the firelight, knowing what it felt like to have that body covering hers. Inside hers.
He stepped into the tub with a low groan of relief, sinking down into the water until it lapped at his chest.
"Christ, that's good," he muttered, his head falling back against the rim.
She stood, collecting his discarded clothes and adding them to the basket near the door, very aware of his eyes tracking her movements.
When she turned back, he was watching her with an expression that made her stomach flip.
"You gonna help me?" he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. "Help you?"
"Yeah." He shifted in the tub, settling deeper. "I'm real tired. And last time you helped -when I had that cut on my hand- it was..." He paused, and she could see he was fighting a smile. "Real helpful."
She crossed her arms, trying to hide a smile. "You seem perfectly capable of washing yourself."
"Do I?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher. "Because I'm rememberin' how good it felt when you did it. Your hands in my hair. On my back."
Heat crept up her neck at the memory. At the intimacy of it, of touching him like that, tending to him.
"That was different," she said. "You were actually injured."
"I'm injured now," he said, deadpan. "Emotionally. From workin' all day thinkin' about my wife and not bein' able to do anythin' about it."
Despite herself, she felt her lips twitch.
"That's not a real injury."
"Feels real to me." He held her gaze, and the playfulness faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. More intent. "Come here."
It wasn't quite a command. More like an invitation. A request.
She crossed to the tub without hesitation and knelt beside it. His eyes tracked her movements, and when she reached for the soap, his hand caught her wrist.
Gently. Like he'd done at the dinner table.
"I promised I'd give you time," he said quietly. "And I meant it. But I want to touch you. Want you to touch me. That alright?"
She looked at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the tension in his jaw, at the way he was holding himself still despite clearly wanting more.
He was asking. Checking. Making sure she was comfortable.
Just like he had last night.
"It's alright," she said quietly.
His grip on her wrist loosened, and he released her with what looked like effort.
"Good." he said, his voice rough.
----
She worked the soap between her hands until it lathered, then pressed her palms to his back. He made a low sound -half groan, half sigh- and let his head fall forward, giving her access.
She started at his shoulders, working the soap across the muscles, feeling the tension there start to ease under her touch. Then down his spine, she let her thumbs press on either side, the way she'd discovered he liked weeks ago and felt him exhale slowly, deeply.
Her hands knew this body now. Knew the old scars, the puckered one on his left shoulder blade, the long raised line that ran from shoulder to spine. Knew the new marks too, the faint red scratches she'd left last night, already fading but still visible in the firelight.
Evidence of what they'd done. What they'd become to each other.
"Lean forward," she said quietly.
He did, bracing his forearms on his knees, and she reached for the cup sitting beside the tub.
She poured water over his head slowly, watching it darken his hair from brown to almost black, watching it run in rivulets down his neck and shoulders. Then she set the cup aside and worked the soap through the wet strands.
Her fingers found his scalp, and she began to massage in slow, deliberate circles.
The sound he made was involuntary. Deep and rough and so unguarded that it sent a flutter through her stomach.
"That's..." He trailed off, seeming to lose the words.
"Good?" she offered, her fingers still working, applying gentle pressure as she moved across his scalp.
"Yeah." His voice had gone thick. "Real good."
She took her time with it. Working the soap through every strand, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made his breathing deepen. She'd done this once before when he'd injured his hand, but that had been different. An assistance.
This was something else.
When she was satisfied, she rinsed his hair carefully, filling the cup again and again, pouring the water slowly so the soap wouldn't run into his eyes. Making sure to get every bit of lather out, combing through the strands with her fingers.
She set the cup aside and sat back slightly, her hands stilling.
He started to reach for the soap, but she picked it up first.
His hand stilled in mid-air, suspended between them.
"I can-" he started, his voice careful.
"I know you can," she said simply.
She dampened and worked more soap in her hands until they had a lot of lather, and waited.
For a moment, he just looked at her. She could see him processing what she was offering. What she was saying without words.
That she wasn't finished. That she wanted to keep touching him.
Then, slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement might break whatever spell this was, he settled back against the tub. His arms came to rest along the rim, palms up, open.
Giving her access.
She brought the cloth to his chest, and his breathing changed immediately, deeper, more controlled, as she began to work the soap across his skin.
She started at his collarbone, tracing the hard line of it from shoulder to shoulder. Then down, over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. She could feel his heartbeat under her hand, strong and steady but faster than normal.
He was affected by this. By her touch.
She moved her hand in slow, careful circles. Across to his left side, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each breath. Then back to center and across to the right. Thorough. Methodical.
But not impersonal.
She was hyperaware of every point of contact. Of the way his skin felt warm and slick from the water. The way his muscles tensed slightly when she touched certain spots. Of the way he was watching her through half-lidded eyes, his jaw tight.
His eyes had closed at some point, but she could see his hands gripping the edge of the tub, knuckles pale. He was holding himself very still. Letting her work. Not reaching for her even though she could see he wanted to.
She moved lower.
Over his stomach, feeling the muscle shift under her touch. Her hand traced the line where his torso met his hips, where the hair grew thicker, and she felt him tense.
His eyes opened.
She met his gaze -steady, deliberate- and brought her hand beneath the water.
Down, over his hip. Along his thigh.
And then, because there was no reason not to, because this was part of washing him, just like everything else, she brought it between his legs.
His breath caught audibly when her fingers made contact.
She worked carefully, the same way she'd washed the rest of him. Trying to be practical about it, though there was nothing clinical about the way her own heart was racing now. About the way her face felt warm despite the cool air in the cabin.
She felt him harden under her touch, the change immediate and undeniable, but kept her movements steady. Thorough. Washing him the way he'd need to be washed, trying not to think about the fact that she was touching him there.
When she shifted slightly to reach more thoroughly, his hips shifted forward involuntarily, a sharp, sudden movement that made the water slosh slightly in the tub.
Chasing the contact.
He caught himself immediately, forced his hips back down, and she heard him exhale through clenched teeth.
"Can't help it, sweetheart," he said, his voice wrecked. Strained. "You touch me like that, I-"
He cut himself off, gripping the tub harder, his whole body gone rigid with the effort of not moving. Of not reaching for her. Of not asking for more than she was offering.
"I know," she said quietly, and meant it.
She could see what this was doing to him. Could see it written in every line of his body, the tension, the restraint, the way he was barely holding himself together.
But he wasn't asking her to stop, or to do more. He was just letting her touch him, letting her explore. Letting her learn him at her own pace.
She finished washing him, moving the cloth down his thighs, along his calves, even taking each foot in turn and working the soap carefully between his toes.
When she was done, she rinsed her hands and rested it in her thighs, very aware that her sleeves were damp from the water. That her face was heated. That her breathing wasn't entirely steady.
And he was sitting there in the cooling water, his eyes on her, his chest rising and falling with breaths that were deeper than they should be.
Then he exhaled slowly and opened his eyes fully.
"Thank you," he said.
She nodded, not trusting her own voice, and stood.
"I'll get you a towel," she managed.
She crossed to the chest where they kept the linens, taking perhaps a moment longer than necessary to find one. Using the time to steady herself. To slow her breathing.
Behind her, she heard him shift in the water. Heard the quiet splash and the sound of water streaming off his body as he stood.
When she turned back, towel in hand, he was standing in the tub, water sluicing off his skin in rivulets that caught the firelight.
She could see all of him.
His broad shoulders. His chest. His stomach. The dark hair that trailed down from his navel. His thighs, thick with muscle.
And between them, the evidence of exactly how much her touch had affected him.
Still hard. Still wanting.
She felt her face heat again, felt that now-familiar flutter low in her belly, but she didn't look away, didn't drop her gaze or pretend she hadn't seen.
Just held out the towel.
He stepped out of the tub carefully, water dripping onto the floor, and reached for it.
But instead of taking the towel immediately, his hand caught hers.
Gently. The way he'd done at the dinner table earlier.
He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Slowly. His lips were warm and soft against her skin.
His eyes held hers the entire time.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he said quietly, his voice still rough with want. With restraint. "You know that?"
She didn't know what to say to that.
Didn't know if there was anything she could say that would adequately express what she was feeling, the strange mix of power and vulnerability, of curiosity and nervousness, of wanting to touch him more and being afraid of what might happen if she did.
So she just stood there, her hand still caught in his, her heart pounding.
Then he released her and took the towel, wrapping it around his waist with movements that were just slightly less controlled than usual and walked to the bed.
"Come here," he said quietly.
She complied, and he reached for her hand, pulling her down to sit beside him. For a moment, they just sat there. Close but not touching beyond where his hand still held hers.
Then he brought their joined hands to his lap and traced his thumb across her knuckles.
"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly. "Wash me like that."
"I know."
"But you did anyway."
She nodded.
"Why?"
The question was gentle, curious. Not demanding. She considered it for a moment, then chose to be honest.
"Because I wanted to," she said finally. Simply. “Wanted to help you, and… wanted to touch you.”
His thumb stilled on her hand.
"You wanted to," he repeated, like he was testing the words.
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You tell me, sweetheart. Am I pushin' too hard? Askin' for too much?"
She looked at him, at the genuine concern in his eyes, the way he was watching her like her answer actually mattered, and felt something warm settle in her chest.
"No," she said firmly. "You're not."
"You'd tell me if I was?"
"I would."
He studied her face for another moment, then nodded, seeming satisfied.
"Good," he said. "Because the last thing I want is for you to feel like you have to... like any of this is somethin' you're doin' out of duty."
"It's not," she said quietly. "I promise."
He swallowed, and she watched his throat work with the motion. Then he shifted slightly on the bed, his thighs separating just enough that the towel around his waist loosened, falling open slightly.
The evidence of his arousal was impossible to miss.
His hand tightened on hers for a moment, then released.
"Then," he said, his voice rough. "Would you be willin' to... help me with my situation?"
Her eyes flicked down, then back to his face.
She'd done this before. Multiple times, actually, in the weeks leading up to last night. He'd touched her, and both had discovered what she liked, what made her gasp and arch into his hand. And she'd explored him in return, learned the weight of him in her palm, the rhythm he preferred, the signs that told her he was close.
It had been part of learning each other. Part of him making sure she was comfortable with intimacy before they took that final step.
But somehow this time felt different. Maybe because now she knew what it felt like to have him inside her. Knew what he sounded like when he lost control completely.
"Alright," she said quietly.
His eyes darkened, and she saw relief and want on them.
She moved to stand between his knees, and he reached for the towel, pulling it away completely and tossing it aside. Then his hands came to rest lightly on her hips.
"You don't have to," he said, even though she'd already agreed. "If you're too tired, or if-"
"Bucky," she interrupted gently. "I said alright."
He exhaled slowly, and his grip on her hips tightened slightly.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay."
She started to reach for him, but the angle was awkward; she'd have to bend forward, lean down, and her back would start protesting within minutes.
He seemed to realize it at the same time she did.
"Here," he said, releasing her hips. "Get the stool. You'll be more comfortable."
She retrieved the small wooden stool they kept by a corner and positioned it between his knees. When she sat, his hands settled on her thighs this time, palms warm even through her skirts.
She wrapped her hand around him, and he made a sound -low and rough- that sent heat pooling down her belly.
"Christ," he muttered, his head falling back slightly. "Your hand’s so warm..."
She knew what he liked. Had learned it over the course of multiple evenings spent exploring each other, his patient instructions guiding her until she understood the pressure he needed, the rhythm that worked.
So she started the way she always did, slow and firm, her hand moving from base to tip and back again in long, steady strokes.
His hips shifted forward slightly, following the movement, and his hands tightened on her thighs.
"That's good," he said, his voice strained. "That's real good, sweetheart."
She kept the rhythm steady, watching his face. Watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his breathing went ragged, the way his eyes drifted closed.
His hands slid higher on her thighs, gripping through her skirts like he needed something to hold onto.
"Tighter," he said after a moment. "Can you- yeah, like that."
She adjusted her grip, and he groaned.
"Faster?"
"Not yet," he said, his voice tight. "Want it to last."
So she kept the pace slow. Deliberate. Let him feel every stroke.
One of his hands left her thigh and came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone in a gesture that was tender despite the explicit nature of what she was doing to him.
"You're so good to me," he said quietly, his eyes opening to meet hers. "So damn good."
She felt her face heat at the words, at the sincerity in them.
His hand slid from her face down to her neck, then lower, curving around her waist. His other hand stayed on her thigh, grounding, possessive in a way that made her stomach flutter.
"Okay," he said after another minute, his breathing harsher now. "Okay, faster now."
She increased the pace, her wrist working in the rhythm she knew he needed, and felt him tense beneath her touch.
"God, yes," he muttered. "Just like that, sweet girl. Don't stop."
His hips started moving in small thrusts, matching her rhythm, and she could feel him getting closer. Could see it in the way his whole body tensed, in the way his fingers dug into her waist, in the way his breathing had turned ragged and uneven.
"Darlin’," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I'm gonna-”
He was trying to warn her. Trying to give her time to move her hand and let him take over, grab the towel, to do whatever she needed to do.
But she didn't pull away.
Just kept moving her hand, moving, steady and sure, the way he needed.
"It's alright," she said quietly.
His eyes locked on hers, and something in his expression shifted. Went dark, intense and full of want.
"Fuck," he breathed, and then his whole body went rigid.
She felt him pulse in her hand, felt the warmth spill over her fingers as he spent, his hips jerking forward with each wave. He made a sound -low and broken- and his hand came up to cover hers, holding her in place while he rode it out.
When it was over, he slumped forward slightly, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, his breathing ragged against her neck.
They stayed like that for a moment, her hand still wrapped around him, his face buried in the curve of her neck, both of them catching their breath.
Then he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes still dark but softer now.
"Sorry," he said, his voice rough. "Should've grabbed the towel, I just-"
"It's fine," she said.
He reached for the towel anyway, gently taking her hand and cleaning it carefully. When he was done, he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. Slow and deep and grateful.
When he pulled back, he was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"You should get into your nightgown," he said finally. "Get comfortable."
She nodded and stood, retrieving her nightgown from beneath her pillow where she'd tucked it that morning. She crossed to the corner near the dresser where a small peg rack hung on the wall, beginning to unbutton her dress.
----
Behind her, she heard him move, the creak of the bed as he stood, his footsteps crossing to the water bucket. The sound of him drinking deeply, then setting the dipper back with a soft clatter.
Then she heard him chewing biscuits.
She rolled her eyes. They'd just eaten. The man had put away two full bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread less than an hour ago.
More drinking. Another swallow. Then silence.
She'd worked her dress off and draped it over the peg, then the petticoat, the corset. Her fingers moved to the ties of her drawers when she heard his footsteps again.
But they weren't heading back to the bed.
They were coming toward her.
She stilled, her hands on the waistband of her drawers, and then she felt him behind her. Close. Not touching yet, but close enough that she could feel his body heat.
His hands settled on her bare skin, one at the small of her back, the other at her shoulder blade, and began to stroke her naked skin in slow strokes. She shivered despite the warmth of the cabin.
"Wanna touch you now," he said quietly, his voice rough and low near her ear. "Is that alright?"
She almost chuckled. So that's why he'd told her to change.
She finished pushing her drawers down her hips and stepped out of them, straightening fully. His hands were still on her back, waiting for her answer.
"More than alright," she said.
She heard the shift in his breathing. Felt one hand slide around to her hip, holding her in place.
"Yeah?" His other hand moved up to her shoulder, his thumb stroking along her collarbone. "You sure?"
She hesitated, feeling heat creep up her neck. Then, because he'd been honest with her earlier about being distracted at work, she made herself say it.
"You're not the only one who spent today thinking about last night, Bucky," she admitted quietly. "I was... distracted too."
His hand on her hip tightened, and she felt him step closer. Close enough that his chest was nearly pressed against her back.
"That right?" he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice.
She nodded.
His hand slid from her hip upward, gliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. His palm was warm and calloused against her soft skin, and when his thumb found her nipple and began circling the areola in slow, deliberate strokes, she couldn't quite suppress the small sound that escaped her lips.
"What were you thinkin' about?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear now. "Specifically."
His thumb continued its maddening circles, not quite touching where she was starting to want him to touch, just tracing around and around until she felt her nipple tighten in response.
She swallowed, trying to find words while his hands were on her like this.
"About..." She paused, her breath catching when his thumb finally brushed directly over the peaked bud. "About how it felt. What you did."
"What I did," he repeated, his voice a low rumble against her back. His thumb rolled over her nipple again, more deliberately this time, and his other hand slid from her shoulder down to join the first, cupping her other breast. "Gonna need you to be more specific than that, sweetheart."
Both hands now, both thumbs working in tandem, and she had to brace one hand against the wall to steady herself.
"When you..." She took a shaky breath. "When you touched me. Before. And during."
"Durin’," he said, and there was something almost predatory in his tone now. Pleased. "You mean when I was inside you?"
"Yes," she managed.
His hands stilled for a moment, and then he turned her around to face him.
She found herself looking up at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the focus written across every line of his face.
"And what exactly were you thinkin' about that?" he asked, one hand coming up to cup her face while the other settled at her waist. "That… you wanted me to do it again?"
The directness of the question should have embarrassed her. Would have embarrassed her, even just yesterday.
But there was something about the way he was looking at her. The way his thumb was stroking along her cheekbone. The way he was asking instead of assuming.
"Eventually," she said honestly. "When... when it doesn't hurt anymore."
Something flickered in his expression, that guilt again, brief but unmistakable.
"It's gonna be a lot better next time," he said quietly.
"I know."
"When we do it again," he continued, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer, "it's gonna feel good. Real good. I'm gonna make sure of it."
She believed him. Because he'd already shown her what good felt like, with his hands, with his mouth, with the patient way he'd learned what made her gasp and arch into his touch.
"But right now," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I just wanna make you feel good. Can I do that?"
"Yes," she said.
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Good," he said. "Now come here."
He guided her backward toward the bed, and she went willingly, her heart already racing in anticipation of what came next.
He stood in front of her for a moment, just looking. His eyes traced over her, bare and exposed in the firelight, and she fought the urge to cover herself.
She'd been naked in front of him many times before. But it still made her feel vulnerable in a way she couldn't quite explain.
"Lie back," he said quietly.
She did, scooting further onto the bed and settling against the pillows. He followed, moving onto the bed with her, bracing himself on one arm beside her while his other hand came to rest on her stomach.
"You're tense," he observed, his palm warm against her skin.
"I'm not-"
"You are." His hand moved in a slow circle, soothing. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm just gonna make you feel good. That's all."
She took a breath and tried to let the tension ease out of her shoulders.
His hand moved from her stomach upward, sliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. The touch was gentle at first, exploratory, almost.
"I didn't pay enough attention to these last night," he said, almost to himself. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she felt it tighten in response. "Was too focused on gettin' inside you."
His hand shifted, and he cupped her other breast, giving it the same careful attention, testing its weight.
"But I got time now," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "And I'm gonna take it."
He lowered his head, and she felt his breath ghost across her skin a moment before his mouth closed over her nipple. The sensation made her gasp, wet heat and gentle suction that sent a jolt of feeling straight between her thighs.
His tongue slowly circled the peaked bud, and then he sucked again, harder this time, and her hands flew to his shoulders without conscious thought.
"Bucky-"
He hummed against her skin, and his hand came up to tend to her other breast while his mouth stayed busy.
His fingers found her nipple and pressed firmly under it, making her arch slightly into the touch. Then he pulled gently, tugging just enough that the sensation rode the line between pleasure and something more intense.
She whined -helpless and uncontrolled- and felt him smile against her breast. He switched sides then, his mouth moving to the breast his hand had been tending while his fingers took over where his mouth had been.
The pattern repeated, his tongue circling and flicking, his lips suckling, his teeth grazing so lightly she barely felt it. And his hand, always his hand, pressing and tugging and coaxing her body to respond.
She could feel herself getting restless beneath him. Could feel heat building low in her belly, her thighs shifting against each other, seeking friction that wasn't there.
"Easy," he murmured against her skin. "Not rushin' this."
His mouth stayed on her breast, working her nipple with single-minded focus until it was hard and sensitive and slick from his attention. Then he moved to the other side again, giving it the same thorough treatment until both peaks were tight and aching and she was breathing harder than she meant to.
When he finally pulled back, she looked down to find him watching her with dark, intent eyes. Her breasts felt hot from his attention, her nipples darker and visibly wet, and she felt heat flood her face at the sight.
"Look at you," he said quietly, his hand coming up to cup one breast again, his thumb brushing over the sensitized peak and making her shiver. "So responsive. My wife."
He leaned down and pressed one more kiss to each nipple -soft, almost reverent- and then his hand began to move lower.
Down her stomach. Over her hip. Along her inner thigh.
"Now," he said, his voice rough with want, "let me take care of the rest of you."
His hand moved higher on her thigh, and she felt her legs part without him having to ask.
"That's it," he murmured, his palm warm against her inner thigh. "Just like that, sweetheart."
But then his other hand joined the first, and he pressed gently, urging her to open wider, spread more. She expected him to lower his head. To put his mouth on her the way he'd done before, the way that had made her forget her own name.
But he didn't.
Instead, he just... looked.
His thumbs traced along her soft curls, and then he gently parted her. Spreading her open. Exposing her completely to his gaze.
She felt her whole body tense with something that went beyond nervousness into outright mortification. It was one thing to let him touch her. To let him use his mouth on her. She'd gotten used to that over the past weeks, had learned to relax into the pleasure of it.
But this was different.
This was him looking at the most intimate part of her body with the focus he usually reserved for checking a piece of wood for flaws.
"Bucky," she managed, her voice thin. "What are you-"
She tried to close her legs, instinct taking over, but his hands stayed firm on her thighs.
"Wanna look at my wife proper," he said quietly, his eyes still fixed between her legs. "Wanna see if… if you're hurt. From last night."
The admission made her relax a little. He was just checking on her, making sure he hadn't done more damage than he'd realized.
"What's bothering me is inside," she said quietly. "I don't think you can see it."
He looked up at her then, and she saw something flicker across his face. Maybe the realization that he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for.
"Right," he said after a moment. "Yeah, that makes sense."
He seemed almost sheepish about it, and despite her discomfort, she felt a small flicker of affection.
Then his thumbs moved again, stroking gently along either side of her entrance.
"I'm not gonna use my fingers today," he said, lowering his head. "Just want to make you feel good. That alright?"
"Yes," she managed.
And then his mouth was on her.
The first touch of his tongue made her gasp, a broad, flat stroke that started low and dragged upward with deliberate slowness.
He did it again. And again. Long, slow licks that covered every inch of her, and made her remember with what made her twitch, what made her breathing hitch, what made her hands fly to his hair without meaning to.
His tongue circled her entrance gently, and she tensed slightly at the sensation.
He must have felt it, because he moved away immediately. Shifted his focus higher, to the small bundle of nerves that made her fall apart when he paid it the right kind of attention.
He settled there now, his tongue working in slow, deliberate circles while his hands held her thighs open. Keeping her spread for him. Keeping her exactly where he wanted her.
"Bucky," she breathed, and she felt him hum against her in response.
His hands moved from her thighs to her hips, holding her down. Not rough, but firm, keeping her still while he worked.
His tongue flicked faster now, more focused, and she felt that familiar tension start to build low in her belly. The sensation coiled tighter and tighter with each pass of his tongue.
She was dimly aware that her fingers had tightened in his hair. That she was making sounds she couldn't quite control. And he just kept going. Patiently. Thoroughly.
Like he had all the time in the world and was determined to use every second of it, making her feel good.
She gasped hard when he started to suck gently, his lips closing around that sensitive spot and creating pressure that made her vision blur, her hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth.
"Let go, sweetheart. I got you." He murmured against her skin.
His tongue returned to its work -circling, flicking, pressing- and she felt the tension reach a breaking point.
And then it snapped.
The pleasure hit her in waves, rolling through her body in pulses that made her arch off the bed despite his hands holding her hips. Made her cry out -his name, maybe, or just an incoherent sound- while he kept his mouth on her, working her through it with gentle, steady strokes.
When the waves finally subsided, she collapsed back against the pillows, boneless and breathing hard. He pressed one last soft kiss to her entrance, then another to her inner thigh, before pulling back.
She looked down to find him watching her with an expression of deep satisfaction.
"Good?" he asked, his voice rough.
She could only nod, still trying to catch her breath.
He moved up the bed, settling beside her and pulling her against his chest. His hand stroked lazily up and down her back while her breathing slowly returned to normal.
"You did good," he murmured into her hair. "Real good for me."
She made a sound that might have been agreement or just exhaustion, and felt him chuckle quietly. They lay like that for a while, the cabin quiet except for the crackling fire and their breathing.
Eventually, he stirred.
"Should get you into that nightgown," he said. "Before you fall asleep like this and wake up freezing."
She made a noise of protest, but he was already moving, retrieving the nightgown from where it had fallen to the floor and helping her sit up enough to pull it over her head.
Once she was covered, he settled back down beside her, pulling the blankets up over both of them and tucking her against his side. She felt his fingers trace idle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing deep and even. The warmth of his body, the weight of the quilts, the dying fire, it all started to pull her toward sleep.
She was just beginning to drift when his voice rumbled quietly through his chest.
.
"Been thinkin'," he murmured against her hair. "Tomorrow's Sunday. We could head into town if you want."
She stirred slightly, her hand settling on his chest. "Oh. Is the reverend coming?"
He let out a quiet laugh.
"He ain’t. That's exactly why we're goin'."
She lifted her head enough to swat his arm lightly. He didn't even flinch, just kept that amused expression on his face.
"The boys at camp were sayin' that with winter comin' on, a lot of the commercial traffic's gonna die off," he explained. "So the shopkeepers and folks in town decided to open on Sundays for the next few weeks. Give the logging crews and the miners from up the mountain a chance to stock up on what they need before things get real bad."
"That's very convenient," she said.
"It is," he agreed. "They're clearly doin' it to make money, not charity, but it works out for us."
She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Is there something you need?"
"Few things," he said. "Root cellar could be fuller."
She tensed slightly against him, and he felt it immediately.
"Ain’t your fault," he said before she could apologize. "You came from the city. You got no idea what winter's like out here. How much we need to have stored up."
His hand stroked along her back, soothing.
"Plus," he added, "I've been eatin' more since you got here. Means we're goin' through supplies faster."
She relaxed slightly at that, settling back against him.
"So, provisions," he continued. "Anything that'll keep. And..." He paused. "You're gonna need warmer clothes."
"I have-"
"Not warm enough," he interrupted gently. "What you brought from back East ain't gonna cut it when it really starts snowin'. We're gonna be inside most of the time, sure, but there'll be moments we need to go out. Tendin' to the horse, clearin' snow, fetchin' firewood. And even inside..." He pulled her a little closer. "There's gonna be times when the fire alone ain't enough. You're gonna need layers. Real warm ones."
She was quiet for a moment, processing that.
"I feel silly. Didn't realize it would be that cold," she said finally.
"It gets real cold," he confirmed. "We'll keep the fire goin' day and night, but the cabin’s living space ain’t precisely small. Heat doesn't reach everywhere equally."
He felt her shiver slightly at the thought, and he tightened his arm around her.
"We'll manage," he said. "Just need to be prepared. That's all."
"Alright," she said quietly. "Then we'll go to town tomorrow."
"Also," he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice, "wanna show you off a little before we get snowed in."
She snorted against his chest. "Show me off?"
"It's true," he said, unrepentant. His hand slid from her back down to her hip, then lower, giving her rear a gentle squeeze through the nightgown. "We haven't been able to go into town together much. Just that first time, and Thanksgiving. Want folks to see us together proper."
"Oh, Bucky…"
"Want 'em to see you on my arm," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "Want 'em to see that you're mine and I'm yours."
She felt giddy at the quiet possessiveness in his voice. The pride.
"And," he added, "thought I might take you for a drink at the saloon. If you're amenable."
She lifted her head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Are you planning to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?"
His eyes gleamed in the low firelight, and his mouth curved into something wicked.
"Hm, are you concerned?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Or are you askin' me to?"
She felt heat flood through her body, -embarrassment and something else entirely- and she buried her face back in his chest.
"That's not- I didn't mean-"
She could feel him laughing, the vibrations rumbling through his chest beneath her cheek.
"If that's what you want," he said, clearly enjoying himself, "I'll let you drink all you want. That way you can tell me again how handsome I am and how you can't stop lookin' at me."
She made a strangled sound and covered her face with her hands, even though he couldn't see her anyway with her face pressed against his chest.
"Oh my god," she mumbled into her palms.
His laughter softened, and she felt his hand come up to gently pull her hands away from her face.
"Hey," he said, his voice losing that teasing edge. "Look at me."
She lifted her head reluctantly, expecting to see him still grinning at her expense.
But his expression had changed. Still warm, but serious now.
"I was glad to hear that, darling," he said quietly. "Real glad. It’s nice to know it ain’t only me who's smitten with you. That you feel somethin' for me too."
"You made it easy," she maintained his gaze. "To care about you. You are patient with me. Kind. You never made me feel like I was a burden or an obligation, even though that's exactly what I was at first."
His hand cupped her face more fully. "You were never a burden."
"I was," she insisted. "I showed up unannounced, caused a scandal, forced you into a marriage you didn't want-"
He huffed.
“I put a sign, woman. I was pretty much interested in gettin’ married”
“But we didn’t get to court properly, you didn’t know where you were getting into-”
“I think things turned out pretty well.” he interrupted gently, his thumb stroking along her jaw.
She huffed. "You can't possibly have known that when you agreed to marry me. I could have been awful. Lazy, or mean, or-"
"You ain't."
"But you didn't know that."
“No," he said finally. "I didn't know. But I had a feelin'."
She waited, feeling the warmth of his palm on her skin, grounding her.
"When you were standin' there in that room," he continued, his voice low and thoughtful, "lookin' terrified and tryin' so hard not to show it... and then you looked at me with those eyes of yours and said yes anyway." He paused, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek. "I thought, this woman's got courage and sense. And I liked that."
She felt something flutter in her chest, but forced herself to speak.
"That's not much to base a marriage on," she mumbled.
"Maybe not," he agreed. "But then you didn't flinch when I was sick. Didn't complain when you had to live in a place that ain't nowhere near what you deserved.” His hand pressed against her heart. "And every day, you gave me more reasons. The way you hum when you're concentratin'. Mendin' my shirts even though you hate sewin'. How you look at me like..." He trailed off, and she saw something flicker in his expression, raw and unguarded.
"Like what?" she whispered.
His jaw worked for a moment, and she could see him gathering courage for whatever he was about to say.
"Like I'm worth somethin'," he said finally, his voice rough. "Like I'm more than just a logger with a cabin and a horse. Like you see me.”
She pushed herself up slightly, needing him to see her face, to understand that she meant every word.
"You are worth something," she said firmly, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. "You're worth everything, Bucky. You're the most attentive, kindest man I've ever known. You're honest, and hardworking, and you-" Her voice caught slightly. "You made me feel safe when I had nowhere to go. You made me feel wanted when my whole life I'd been treated like a burden."
His expression had gone very still, his eyes locked on hers.
"You took care of me when you were sick yourself," she continued, her thumb stroking over his heart. "You taught me things without making me feel stupid for not knowing them. You listen to me. You make me laugh. You-"
"And good lookin'?" he interjected, and she could see the corner of his mouth twitching even as his eyes remained suspiciously bright.
She huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, and swatted his chest lightly.
"Yes, damn you," she said, "And ridiculously handsome. Unfairly so. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
His grin was crooked and devastating. "Just checkin’."
But then his hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb catching the tear that had slipped down her cheek, and his expression turned serious again.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For seein' all that. For sayin' it."
She leaned into his touch. "It's the truth."
"I gambled followin' my gut," he said quietly, his eyes holding her gaze. "And every single day since, you've proven me right. You're everythin' I didn't know I needed, darlin’. And-" He paused, and she saw his throat work. "And I'm in love with you."
She couldn't speak for a moment, couldn't do anything but stare at him as the words hugged her, warm and solid and real.
And then it hit her, not like something new, but like something she'd known all along and only now had a name for. The way her heart lifted when she heard his footsteps on the porch. The way she'd started thinking of this cabin as home not because of the place, but because he was in it. The way even now, with her body still tender and her heart wide open and vulnerable, she felt safe.
"I love you too," she replied, and her voice came out steadier than she expected, considering her emotion. "I think- I think I have for a while now.”
His eyes searched hers for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face, the kind that made her stomach flip.
"Do you, now?" he murmured, his voice dropping lower.
She nodded, unable to look away from him.
He kissed her then, slow and deep and thorough, his hand still pressed over her heart like he could feel it beating just for him. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing a little harder.
He shifted slightly, just enough to tilt his head, and she felt him smile against her temple before he pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering. Then another at her cheekbone. Her jaw. Like he was mapping her with his mouth, taking his time, savoring.
She closed her eyes and just felt it -felt him- until her breathing evened out and matched his.
"So," he said after a moment, his voice warm with contentment. "Tomorrow. Town, supplies, that drink at the saloon, and whatever else you want."
"Just… being together sounds perfect," she said softly.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his arms coming around her securely.
The fire had burned down to embers, and outside, she could hear the wind moving through the pines and the distant call of an owl. But inside, wrapped in Bucky's warmth with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, everything felt exactly as it should be.
She let her eyes drift closed, a smile on her lips, and let herself fall into sleep knowing that tomorrow -and every day after- she'd wake up exactly where she belonged.
listen to me. this is my final message to you. when you are at your lowest a fictional guy will come to you and when that happens you must start putting them in situations. this is the meaning of life.
synopsis: sukuna likes to think that you’ve changed him for the better— his friends and family agree. he’s calmer, less eager to fight. change comes easy when you have a girlfriend at home that’ll tell you to shut the fuck up if you sneeze too many times in a row.
cw: MDNI, toxic relationships, smut, rom-com(ish), sukuna is constantly fucking around and finding out, he likes where he's at tho, even when reader hits him with a car, oral (m receiving), mating press
notes: 5.6k w/c. commission for the lovely @plsstopsworld i hope u likey <3
Sukuna was convinced that you found joy in terrorizing him.
Do not tell him that he could just simply leave, either— there’s no point. He’ll just go back to you in the end. He always does, that’s the unfortunate part of being in love with you. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’s his karma for all the crazy, borderline illegal shit he’s done. He was allowed love, but it came at a cost— a girlfriend who had the ability to make his heart race with fear. Sometimes it gets him hard, sometimes it doesn’t. He doesn’t have much control over it.
He doesn’t have control over much, really.
But like he said, he loves you. You are very lovely to be around most of the time, so it makes up for all of your less lovely qualities. It’s not like he has to deal with them much anyway, at least not since you’ve forbidden him from speaking in the first hour you’re awake. If you think about it, he has some control there since there’s always the option to poke the bear, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he chooses peace.
Sukuna likes to think that you’ve changed him for the better— his friends and family agree. He’s calmer, less eager to fight. The man who once thrived in chaos now looks forward to the small moments of stillness life has to offer, often he goes out seeking for it. He’s more patient, has more control over himself.
Many people ask him how he did it, and he just shrugs. “Gettin’ old I guess,” he’ll sometimes tell people.
Truth is, he’d rather die than admit that change comes easy when you have a girlfriend at home who tells you to shut the fuck up if you sneeze too many times in a row. He doesn’t need them thinking that’s another thing he’s not allowed to do. He is. You’ll even say bless you the first time he does it, you just get annoyed after the third one. It’s like Regina George and Satan had a baby when you’re annoyed, so he’s learned not to annoy you.
Crazy definitely has a look to it, like the eyes or something, but not always. Sometimes you find out the hard way, like Sukuna did, who, at a very ignorant time in his life, didn’t want to do dishes. He thought reminding you of who pays the most in rent and utilities would get him out of it. Instead, he found out that you had a kill switch for the part of your brain that feels empathy.
He slept on the couch that night, which was pointless because you committed to turning on the fire alarm every time he managed to fall asleep. Then he went out and bought a dishwasher the next morning, since he was going to be the one doing dishes for the next three months. He also had to buy a new set of dishes since there weren’t any to actually load the dishwasher with. You broke them all, save for the one you hurled at his head. You have great aim, by the way. He almost didn’t catch it.
That wasn’t the end of his day, though. The flower shop was supposed to be his last stop, but then he remembered you said something about feeling sorry for his mother, and thank god for Jin because she would’ve gone through labor for nothing, and thank god for Jin again because every parent needs at least one kid to be proud of, so he went ahead and bought his mother some flowers, too.
Then he finally went home. Getting the cold shoulder was expected and well deserved. So you could only imagine how unsettling it was when you smiled and welcomed him back home as if nothing ever happened. To this day, he doubts he needed to bring home any flowers.
It’d be nice to say that was the one and only time he’s ever fucked around and found out with you, but he’s not perfect. He still isn’t. The slip ups are rare, but they still happen, and he still never knows how you’ll react— sometimes it’s instant, you’ll blow up right then and there, then get over it an hour later. Other times it’s delayed, and you’ll shell out weeks' worth of time and effort purely for your entertainment.
Like when he got off work on a random Tuesday and spent half an hour walking around the parking garage, all pissed off because he couldn’t find his car. He thought some asshole stole it, filed a police report, and everything. Only to find out that you hid it in some random parking garage in some town a couple of hours away, and spent two entire months acting shocked about it despite shelling out $300 each month for the parking permit.
There was also the time he showed up to work on a Monday and learned that he had sent his boss a particularly nasty resignation email over the weekend. He got his job back, but it took a good amount of convincing since his boss didn’t believe that you’d do something like that. Sometimes he thinks about what would’ve happened if he couldn’t get his job back— you probably would’ve pushed him out of the house the very next day to look for a new one, since you refused to take on any more bills after that first fight.
He was convinced that was it. That your spite had reached its fullest potential when you fucked with his job, a.k.a both of your livelihoods, and it’ll surely make everything else after look like child’s play. He couldn't come up with anything worse than that, and it was a direct result of his limited creativity. There’s always room for improvement. You can alwaysbe worse.
You proved that when you hit him with his car.
All he was trying to do was stop you from leaving after an argument, and chose not to believe that you’d hit him if he didn’t move. Why would he? It’s not like he cheated on you. He never lied to you. He thought you were only saying that because you wanted to make him feel bad for yelling at you— that wasn’t a good enough reason to hit someone with a car. Especially when he didn’t even curse!
He had a little more faith in you than that.
Let’s say you did try, it'd probably just be a small tap. Your love may be questionable at times, but it was there, and you don’t want to send the person you love flying across the street. You care about him. The most you’d do is take your foot off the brake so your car could give him a little warning bump.
Then the smell of burning rubber hits his nose.
You stepped on the gas so god damn hard that the tires needed a second to gain traction.
Sukuna is 6 '4, a whopping 250 lbs of pure muscle. The sound of his tires screeching into the air before taking off made his life flash before his eyes. Despite being worried for a moment there, he was physically fine.
Spiritually, however? Not very good. You made it a personal goal to knock the fucking Mario coins out of him and then watched him get up on his own right after, absolutely distraught and barking about how he couldn’t believe you just did that to him.
He’s so pissed he doesn’t even realize you turned back around instead of leaving like you said you would.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHO DOES SOMETHING LIKE THAT?!”
It’s hard to take him seriously when he’s like this— so far past the point of shock that he’s outraged, yelling as if he wanted God to truly grasp how bad of a day he’s having.
You’re still in the car, hand on the steering wheel, casually scanning over his burly frame for any bruising. “I told you to move three separate times.”
“SO YOU TRIED TO MURDER ME? I COULD’VE FUCKING DIED.”
“I wasn’t trying to murder you, Sukuna.” The accusation sounds ridiculous when you repeat it. Sure, you would’ve understood and agreed if it had come from someone else, but not Sukuna. He’s practically bulletproof with how quick he can bounce back. You wouldn’t have hit him if he wasn’t. “You’re fine, aren't you?”
“THAT DOESN’T CHANGE THE FACT THAT YOU JUST HIT ME WITH MY OWN CAR, YOU FUCKING SLUT.”
“This wouldn’t be an issue if you had just moved.” It’s simple, but the way you laughed while saying it just made you sound cruel. You weren’t trying to make fun of him— you just don’t know what he expected after you told him exactlywhat would happen if he didn’t step aside.
Sukuna should’ve taken his time getting back on his feet because you did not deserve reassurance in knowing what you did was technically okay. In fact, he shouldn’t have gotten up at all— you wouldn’t be laughing then if you had to watch him getting hauled off in an ambulance.
But no, he got nothing. No broken bones or fractures. No concussions, not even dizziness. Not even a scratch. He was alive and well, and that in itself only enabled your behavior. It pissed him off knowing there was nothing for you to see and feel guilt from as a result.
Instead, he received the complete opposite from you: Lust.
You took one good look at him later that night in the living room and went from thinking “who cares, he’s fine,” to something fucking crazy and along the lines of, “holy shit, getting hit by a car is nothing for him.” You didn’t even apologize— you just went straight to talking to him like he was some random chick at the bar.
Sukuna naturally thought that getting hit by a car would be a one-time thing. But your sudden shift in perspective made him realize that there’s nothing stopping you from doing it again if you wanted— he was done for, yet it wouldn’t be much of a surprise coming from you.
“What about your ribs?”
“Dunno. M’sure they’re fine.”
Your hands were already bunching up the bottom of his t-shirt, and like an idiot, he was allowing it, raising his arms so you could strip him down and pretend to “look” for bruises. You could’ve tried a little harder. Instead, you’re shamelessly running your fingers down the lines of his abs with some unhinged and sexually explicit thought running through your head.
“Evil whore.”
“What?”
Well fuck. He didn’t mean to say that outloud. No use in backtracking now, though.
“You heard me,” he grumbles, looking away. “Hope you’re happy with yourself.”
“Oh no— never.” It’s not very convincing when you’re running your hand down his skin. “You sure you’re not in any pain?”
“Nope,” he boredly says.
“Good.” You try not to smile at how butthurt he sounds. “....Was there something you wanted to say?”
“Nope.” He repeats himself.
“You sure? You seem kinda pent up.”
“Positive.”
“Mad maybe?” You hummed as your fingers reached his waistband, tracing along the elastic.
He laughed in disbelief. “Now what could I possibly be mad about?”
The sarcasm easily slipped out. He was still pissed, rightfully so, throwing a miniature fit in the way he does best. By being condescending.
His laugh was met with a lighthearted shrug. “Well… at first I thought it was because I hit you. But I did tell you exactly what I’d do if you didn’t move, so I guess there is no reason to be mad.”
“Sure.” He continued to smile despite his tone flattening. “Even though you don’t actually need a reason to not hit someone.”
As if he wasn’t already annoyed, you decided to send him over the edge with a contemplative hum, as if it’d ever be up for debate. “I guess. A snake doesn’t need a reason to bite you either, but you still wouldn’t count on not getting bit because of some principle.”
He takes a deep breath in an attempt to push down his frustration. You are really testing him right now with that smart ass mouth of yours. “Yeah, but are you a wild animal?”
“Nope,” you smile, snapping the waistband of his boxer against his skin. “Wild animals don’t give you verbal warnings.”
“How kind of you,” he mutters, tone laced with sarcasm. “I’ll make sure to remember that next time you threaten to hit me.”
“Smart. It probably won’t happen again, though.”
He deadpans and stares off into space for a moment over how bleak and underpromising you made the statement sound. “...You say probably as if you don’t have control over the vehicle?”
“I mean, I do… but—”
“There is no ‘but’, that’s a fact,” he stutters out of frustration as he begins to argue. “You put it in drive and smashed your foot on the gas pedal.”
“So you are mad?” Your lips purse together, innocently drawing circles over his stomach.
His brows pinch together, once again looking at you with a mixture of betrayal and disbelief. No shit he’s fucking mad, can still smell the rubber burning off his tires. You laughed at him once, and it is still haunting him. “Wouldn’t you be mad?”
“I don’t stand in front of the cars, so I wouldn’t know,” you shrug, pretending to be blind to his bubbling frustration.
He steps back and runs his hand down his face, fighting off the urge to gouge his eyes out. He knows exactly what you’re doing right now, and the answer’s no. You’re raigebaiting your way into getting dick. You don’t deserve it— plain and simple. There was no way in hell he was going to reward today’s behavior.
“That’s not the point. You don’t hit people with cars just because you can.” You’re lucky he’s even letting you touch him right now— you should be in jail. He leans in and taps his temple, eyes zeroing in on you. “How is that not getting through your head— it’s fucking wrong.”
“I know it’s wrong, I never said it wasn’t.” You tap at your temple the same exact way he did, and spell the next words out nice and slow. “That’s why you should move so it doesn’t happen.”
“I’m your BOYFRIEND,” he finally snaps, forgetting that’s what got him in this predicament to begin with. “I TAKE CARE OF YOU AND YOU SENT ME FLYING ACROSS THE STREET GOD DAMN IT.”
He wasn’t sent flying across the street, the reason for that being directly tied to how heavy he is. Not that you tell him that, the idea of you being the reason behind that is already tearing him apart enough. He’s also most likely embarrassed at those 2 seconds his feet were off the ground. Those must’ve been the longest 2 seconds of his life, given how he doesn’t get his world rocked too often.
“Alright, fine. I’m sorry–”
“FOR?”
Definitely embarrassed. You find yourself having to keep yourself from looking annoyed at the thought of him dragging out as big of an apology as he can from you for the sake of his bruised ego.
You close your eyes and sigh in preparation. “For thinking it was okay to hit you with a car when it shouldn’t even be a consideration in the first place.” His arms are crossed as he soaks up each and every word. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had a mental list of points that needed to be brought up to make the apology valid. “It should’ve been off limits. You deserve to have peace in knowing our arguments won’t end with you getting struck down like a bowling pin.”
His face drops as he watches you needing to look away to keep yourself from laughing. “Seriously?”
“Sorry,” you clear your throat.
“Tch– I don’t believe you anymore,” he grumbles.
“No! I’m being serious,” you swear, grabbing his arm with both hands as you try to get him to look at you. “I really am sorry.”
He takes one look at you and feels nothing but reluctance. “And you’re never gonna pull that shit again, right?”
“Mhm.” You nod your head, knowing you don’t actually know the answer to that. It doesn't do much in terms of setting him straight— all it did was make him more dramatic, but it was satisfying. You can’t see it happening again in the foreseeable future, but you can see yourself randomly remembering how durable he is after you two have forgotten this incident, and doing it again. You place your hands on his chest as you part your lips to make a promise you don’t mind breaking. “That is not something you have to worry about from here on out.”
“Alright.”
There’s a certain satisfaction missing from his tone when he mutters the word, and you realize it’s not just your imagination when he pulls his arm away from your hold to cross both of them against his chest. You’re not sure what more he could want, but the contemplative look on his face tells you he’s thinking about it right now.
He got the apology he wanted and your word that you’ll never do it again, yet he can’t help but feel like it came too easily, and that you should’ve worked a little harder. He’s pushing his luck again, he knows, buuut maybe today’s one of the days where he can get away with that. Sukuna just doesn’t exactly know what he wants.
Did he want to grill you some more, get some revenge over the new (and traumatic) memory you gave him? Or did he want to rid himself of some of his pent up tension that you pointed out? Fuck, then that’d mean his punishment for you would end before you even knew about it. He wanted to see your face after being told no.
Decisions, decisions.
Well he could also have you—
“Kay’,” you break him out of his thoughts, the satisfaction missing in his tone is crystal clear in yours. “I’m gonna go wash my face now.”
Whoa, hold on a minute?! It’s only been a few seconds, you see him thinking.
“No. Stay,” he murmurs.
There was a part of him that was hesitant about that working— there was a chance you’d slap the shit out of him for ordering you around like a dog. Seeing you murmur a little ‘ok’ and actually staying was a pleasant surprise, and confirmation that he could push it a little today. The only thing missing was some sort of regret or guilt on your face. It’s more like you’re just listening to him because you figured he deserved it for once with how bored you look.
Whatever. He’ll take what he can get.
He sighs. “The apology was nice and all, but I think you’re gonna have to prove how sorry you are with this one.”
You look at him like he’s a clown and huff out a laugh. “You want me to prove how sorry I am?”
“Mhm. You don’t have to, though,” he shrugs, voice dropping to a more serious tone. “Just figured you’d like the option since it’s either that, or wait until I actually forgive you to get fucked.”
He nearly laughs at the way that instantly wipes the smile off your face. It’s not often he tells you no— it shows in the way you struggle to come up with an answer. Not because you're speechless, you’re just trying to figure out what can be said to change his mind.
“So it’s either I beg for forgiveness or get punished because you can’t accept my apology?” You force out a small laugh, the regret that Sukuna’s been looking for finally peeking through in your voice. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You and me both, princess,” he says in amusement. “It’s a good thing you don’t need to beg when you’re trying to prove something. I wouldn’t call it a punishment either. It’s more like a boundary— had to set one with you since I don’t really like you right now.”
You scoff as you watch him start to walk away. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Your failed attempt at guilting Sukuna pulls an airy, satisfied laugh out of him as he walks back to the bedroom. “The choice is yours, sweetheart. You know what to do if you decide to go with the first option.”
—
At first, you’re disgusted and refuse to prove how sorry you are. If he didn’t want to accept your original apology, then that was his problem. He can have fun fucking his fist for all you care. You looked at the bright side of things— you got to have a quiet evening since he decided to stay in the room the entire time, save for when he came out to eat dinner.
He had the audacity to ask if he could have some of the food you cooked, but that’s how he found out you had decided to retaliate by giving him the silent treatment. It didn’t come as a surprise, nor did it make him question his decisions. If anything, he was quite pleased with how bothered you were. That just meant you’d reach a point where you’d fold and come to him.
He just had to wait, guessing it’d take around 5-6 days until you grow tired of throwing a silent tantrum and start to miss him.
It took 2.
Now you see why he doesn’t bother leaving? Dealing with you can be a nightmare sometimes, but that was only 10% of it. The rest of it was smothering him with affection, which you clearly love to do and miss if you’re sitting at the edge of the bed 2 days later.
His back’s against the headboard, arms folded over his chest, looking a little too pleased to see you break your silence.
“Missed me?”
“Please don’t tease me right now,” you murmur, clearly struggling with the defeat.
“I’m not,” he hums, though the laugh he had to suppress said otherwise. “Anyways, what's up?”
You question your decision each time he opens his mouth. He’s making this so much harder than it should be right now and enjoying it way too much while he’s at it.
You pick at your cuticles at the other end of the bed— the lack of eye contact you’ve made with him leads him to believe you’re more nervous than you let on. He’s wrong. It’s a little hard trying to mask your annoyance at the moment, and cowering in place does a decent job of hiding it.
“I thought about what you said.”
“Yeah?” The smug grin across his cheeks grows.
“Yeah. I’m tired of fighting,” you look up and say, crossing a leg over the other. “I miss how we normally are.”
“Me too,” he hums, already undressing you with his eyes because he’s a fucking pervert. “Glad it didn’t take too long either, missed hearing your voice.”
You nod, holding back a smile. “Not really sure what you’re looking for, though.”
“Nothing crazy,” he hums, the shrug he followed it with wasn’t too convincing. “All you gotta do is be nice to me— extra nice.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all,” he confirms, sinking back some more against the headboard. “You know how to be a good girl, I’ve seen it. That shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
“No,” you softly say.
“Let me see it then— come here,” he hums, curling his finger in to beckon you closer. You start to stand, but he stops you. “Crawl.”
And crawling, at least right now, doesn’t feel very degrading. It’s the way he looks at you when you do, you’ve never wanted to smack him more. Once you’re kneeling beside him, he reaches over and slowly runs the back of his finger across your jaw.
“So you miss how we normally are, huh?” The broad question gets a nod from you, already knowing where he was going with this. “You’re normally pretty touchy— you miss that, too? Getting to touch me whenever you want?”
“Mhm.”
His finger traces down the side of your neck and across your shoulder, making your breath catch.
“Bet you miss having your mouth on me too, huh?”
You give a soft smile when his hand traces back up, cupping your cheek. “Yeah.”
“Think I might just miss that more,” he slips his thumb into your mouth, lightly pressing down on your tongue. “You know how much I love stuffing my cock in here.”
You still out of surprise. That’s what he wanted? Head? What an idiot, he could’ve just said that instead of making it seem like getting his forgiveness was some sinister task.
“Is that what you want?” you ask when his thumb pulls back.
“Mhm,” he smiles. “Look at you. I didn’t even have to ask.”
He continued to be stubborn, making you be the one to pull his sweatpants down by his waistband. You didn’t mind all that much. He may be a little shit, but it’s easy to wave it off when you're freeing his cock from his boxers. Just looking at it, how long and thick it is, sends heat in between your legs. Littered with thick veins, big red tip already smeared with precum, throbbing, begging for attention.
“Spit on it, get it all wet,” he murmurs, lids lowering at the sight of the thick string of saliva falling from your lips and landing on the thick head of his cock. “Yeahh— you know what I like.”
The sight’s filthy from the start when it’s just him telling you to spit on it some more, and more, and more. The entire time, there’s a slight pinch in his brow as he spreads it all from base to tip in a way that was slow and controlled, and hard to ignore. By the time the wet sounds of him stroking his cock could be heard, you were desperately squeezing your thighs together.
Watching his hand slow to a stop was a shame at first, but what followed took over your mind completely.
“Stick that tongue out for me— yeah that’s it, let me see it,” he murmurs, cock throbbing in his grip as he starts to tap the heavy tip of it against your tongue, hearing the weight of it behind each one. “Ready to put this pretty little mouth to work?”
“Yeah,” you murmur all sweetly, already in a daze.
“Good,” he chuckles. “Swirl your tongue around it.”
He watches you lean forward and do just that. Biting the bottom of his lip as you slowly drag your tongue all around his swollen head, salty remnants of precum hitting your taste buds with each flick and drag. Sukuna groans, abs tensing at your fingers digging into his thighs.
“Fuuck yeah.” He moves some of your hair out of the way to get a better look. “Suck on it for me, the tip— shit, just like that.”
As much as he loved the idea of making you beg, you really won’t ever have to. Watching you hollow your cheeks and pull away with a wet pop was enough. He rubs on the back of your neck as you do it again. “Feels fuckin good when you do that— so sweet with it, too.”
A soft hum passes through your lips, pulling back with another pop. He had plans to drag this out, but grows impatient at the sight of your glossy lips and the string of saliva connecting them to his head. His hand slightly tightens on the back of your neck and pushes you in closer, rubbing his tip over your lips.
“Open up,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he watches your lips part. “Go deeper. Show me how sorry you are.”
You feel both his hands go to the back of your head as you wrap your lips around his tip, gently bobbing your head as you inch further and further down his length, beginning to breathe through your nose the deeper you go.
His grip tightens as he starts hitting the back of your throat, throwing his head back with a gravelly, drawn out groan. For a minute, it felt like there was something missing, only for his ears to perk up just moments later when your nose hits his base with a small gag.
“There you go,” he huffs out a condescending laugh. At first he thinks to tell you to keep gagging on it, but then he has a better idea. “Open wide, princess. Gonna stretch this throat out.”
You pull up for air, revealing your teary eyes and wet lashes as you take a moment to breathe, and Sukuna thinks to himself how he’s never seen anyone so beautiful. Kinda like a Ursula in her human form type of beauty, given how much of a monster you are. Just cruel and evil.
He grins and pushes your head back down.
“Mmm, that’s it— relax it for me,” he says with a low rasp. “Gonna fuck this tight little throat of yours.”
Holding your head in place, he starts snapping his hips up, stuffing his fat cock down your throat with each thrust. Obscene slurping sounds mixed in with some of your moans fill the air as drool poured out of your mouth, making a mess around the base of his cock, earning his nasty praise. “Look at the mess you're making, you love this, huh? Such a good girl with my cock stuffed in your mouth. Keep it up and I might just stuff your pussy next.”
You make a sound, and it’s almost hopeful, as if you were asking, “Really?”
“Doesn’t that sound nice?” He thrusts up harder, enjoying the fact that you physically can’t talk right now. “Shit— m’gonna cum,” he murmurs through ragged breaths. “Look at you, did so good and now you get to have your throat filled.”
A low groan vibrates through his chest, swallowing thickly as he picks up the pace. Your nails dig into his thighs, hardly able to keep up and nearly drawing blood once you feel warm, thick spurts of cum begin to coat the back of your throat.
You’d think he’d be more spent with how hard he fucked your throat, but nope. The cocky, blissful sigh that slipped through his lips as you tried to get yourself together was all you needed to know.
He’s not the best when it comes to staying mad, at least with you. It’s pretty clear by now that this entire thing was just a ploy to make him feel more wanted, because he’s annoying. And pathetic.
Not that you get much time to simmer on the thought. It’s like you blink and suddenly you’re on your back, folded in half underneath him. Knees pinned to your chest, ankles up to your ears. Mentally, he’s gone. Too focused on rubbing the fat head of his cock against your hole, spreading your slick up and down your folds. Slow and intentional, enjoying the way you squirm in his hold.
That’s about the last of his patience, because seconds later, he’s bottoming out and you’re gasping from the sudden fullness.
“Fuckin’ tight,” he groans through a clenched jaw. His hips draw back, only pulling out halfway through before shoving himself back in with a resounding squelch. “Soaked, too. Is this what you wanted?”
“Y-yeah,” is all you could get out with all the weight he’s putting on you, keeping you locked down in the world’s meanest mating press.
“Two days is all this slutty pussy could take, huh?” He barely suppresses a laugh as he snaps his hips forward again, pulling another gasped moan out of you. “Better not start crying about how it’s too much then.”
It’s always too much, but this time he fucks you in a way where you can’t even get the words out. He just has you in straight up tears while he spends the next hour drilling into your sweet spot as if it were your punishment for making his life a living hell every few months.
While you spent your two days annoyed with him, he spent his saving enough energy to be able to pull back to back orgasms out of you like it was nothing. Going as far as taunting you when he felt you starting to tighten around his cock again, and then laughing after making you squirt once more after god knows how many times, talking about how, “that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
Fuck him.
You clearly didn’t hate him that much, though. Yeah, you did go radio silent a couple of times, and there may have been a moment where you truly thought you were going to pass out, but that didn’t stop you from begging him to cum inside of you in the end.
He may have also teased you at first, asking if you deserved it, forgetting his place for a moment there.
But you always get what you want.
Even in the end, when you’re cuddling, and he’s murmuring sweet words into your ear, not knowing what the hell he’s even talking about when he says how much of a sweet girl you are and how you were his sweet girl.
Sukuna gets nothing but a curt “shh” in response.
“What?” he snorts, still in a lovesick mood.
There's a smile when you sigh. “The sound of your voice is ruining it right now for me, baby. I need you to be quiet or get lost.”
Loser!König bumping his head in your shower. patiently waiting for him in bed, your phone in hand as you mindlessly scroll. you can hear the shower running, König’s muffled humming slightly drowned out. your attention is swiftly caught when you hear him curse, followed by a thud. the water is off before you get up, calling out to him as you pad to the bathroom. when you open the door you’re met with König, one hand clasping his forehead as he looks at you. sopping wet from head to toe, body still sudsy, a towel haphazardly tucked around his waist. his pale blue eyes are watering, eyebrows knit and face flushed from embarrassment. he was helplessly caught up using your soap, eyes closed as he took in the scent, and slipped forehead first against the wall. his heart still aches with embarrassment, but he feels somewhat better when you pepper gentle kisses to the blooming bruise
Why are you not re-blogging? You think the fandom is dead, that no one’s interacting anymore, no one’s doing anything, no one’s writing, no one’s posting. ‘Everyone was so hyperfixed on that character, Where is the writing?’
People are writing. People aren’t reblogging. People aren’t giving some good feedback to motivate the writers that are putting their hard work, time, effort into making this piece that you were reading.
‘oh, it’s just too much work. You don’t wanna click that button and then click a few tags.’ Then you’re gonna have to suffer and not see a lot of writing from a lot of people because the only way this fucking app works is if you reblog.
I see so many pieces of work with 59 likes and 1 blog, I just saw one that had 690 likes and it had 9 reblogs. Even 1,000 likes and only 59 reblogs too. It’s devastating to see for the community of Tumblr. And I’ve been here for like five years, the way this app works is if you re-blog.
There’s so many people that are writing. There’s so many amazing things that I see and I try my best to reblog every single one that I read. That’s what I love doing because sharing someone’s piece of work is just beautiful because it allows me to show it to more people.
I reblog. And the beauty of it is;
I get notifications that this person liked it and this person liked it, and then that post continues to get more views, more likes and reblogs. All just because one person, reblogged it.
so please, if you are a part of Tumblr and you love reading your favorite writers fics, or love reading about your favorite character, please do your job and reblog it.
And if you don’t like re-blogging because you don’t want to do that on your account, then you can make another account and put all of the things that you read on that account. You can do separate things, like fic recs.
You can figure it the fuck out if you want people to actually be writing for a character you love. The writers are writing, you ain’t helping them share their work.
What if boobs had a one-time explosion use where you could literally blow your tits off either as a defense mechanism or just because you no longer want them
