I’m rainyapricotcreatorparty (Tumblr gave me this name and now i’m emotionally attached to it) , 20 , a libra, probably a little too attached to fictional men, and also I am a very lazy writer with a lot of ideas.
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– Mostly smut / angst / fluff
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SUMMARY. One bored afternoon, one wrong contact. Now your best friend’s dad knows exactly what you look like.
WORD COUNT. 5.7K
WARNINGS. age gap (bucky calls reader ‘kid’, but everyone’s of legal age), smut, MDNI, 18+, sending nudes, public-ish sex (bar bathroom), mirror sex, unprotected pnv, dirty talk, dom!bucky, tit play, pussy pronouns, spanking, choking, creampie, no use of y/n. Usage of nicknames — darling, sweetheart, baby.
NOTES. yet another fic from your professional procrastinator. Lowk wrote this shit in like two days. Apologies for the fuckass summary bc wtf is that (reader accidentally sends bucky a tit pic, and they accidentally fuck, that’s it you guys)
READ ON AO3!
Boredom is a dangerous, dangerous thing.
It's a lazy Sunday afternoon, with nothing interesting on your phone. Your roommate’s out, and apparently your good sense stepped out with her.
For three hours, you’d been lounging around in nothing but a cropped t-shirt and underwear, watching Netflix. But Netflix is boring.
That's when the urge struck you the way urges tend to do. Suddenly, and with very little regard for consequence.
The photo isn’t even that scandalous. Just the right lighting, the right angle, your tee pulled up just enough that your nipple peeks out. It's just enough to make someone’s evening considerably better than yours.
You do three takes, and pick the best one. The one where the shadows do you all the favors. And fire it off to James.
James from psychology. Broad shoulders, nice enough smile, dull enough personality that you’d already mentally filed him under good for now, not forever. He’d been texting you all week. He'd like this. He'd provide you with your much needed solution for boredom.
You toss your phone screen-down and go back to your show, feeling pleased with yourself. A little less bored already.
It buzzes thirty seconds later.
James : This meant for me?
Duh.
You frown. Pick the phone up. Stare at it.
That was a weird way to respond to a tit pic, but okay. You’ve seen worse.
You : Who else would it be for 😏
You lowkey hate yourself for that emoji, but apparently you're the kind of person who sends smirk emojis now.
The response comes almost immediately.
James : Just checking. Didn’t want to assume.
Something about the phrasing snags. It's a little… composed.
James from psychology had responded to your selfie with three fire emojis and a voice note. This does not have that energy.
Your stomach does something unpleasant.
You scroll up. Past the photo you’d just sent to you look at the name at the top of the conversation. And your entire soul tries to evacuate your body through the soles of your feet.
James Barnes.
This is not James from psychology. Not James with the broad shoulders and the dull personality.
Fuck no.
This is James Barnes. Bucky. Your best friend’s father. Who you’d saved in your phone three years ago under his actual name like a normal, reasonable person. Who you had just — oh god — who you had just sent a photo of your tits to.
The phone slips. You catch it. You wish you hadn’t.
No fucking way.
You stare at the ceiling. The ceiling stares back, deeply unsympathetic to your peril.
Somewhere in the universe, every decision you’ve ever made has led to this moment. And you have no one to blame but yourself, the wretched alphabetical order of the names in the contacts, and the fact that they're both named James. Fucking James.
Your thumbs hover over the screen. Everything you type sounds insane.
Wrong number — no, he already knows it was you, you’d answered him back.
That was for someone else — yes, obviously, that’s the whole problem.
Please forget you have eyes — tempting, deeply tempting.
You lock the phone and set it face-down on the bed and lie very still.
The worst part — and you need to be honest with yourself about this — is not the humiliation. It’s not even the fact that this could get back to your best friend, who would never let you live long enough to be embarrassed about it.
The worst part is Bucky Barnes.
The worst part is that he’s built like something a sculptor would chisel out of marble, all broad and ridiculous with that jaw and those eyes and the grey threading through his dark hair that should not be doing what it’s doing to you. The worst part is that you’ve sat across from him at dinner tables and family barbecues and birthday gatherings and spent the entire time thinking thoughts that would make your best friend want to commit a crime.
The worst part is that some traitorous part of your brain is thinking : he didn’t say he didn’t like it.
You pick up the phone.
There’s a new message.
James : You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know.
Yep. There it is. The end of your life, delivered casually, the way he probably delivers everything.
You type another message and hit send before your brain catches up with your fingers.
You : I’m not embarrassed.
The three dots appear almost instantly. Disappear. Reappear.
James : Good.
One word. That’s it. Just good.
It feels like Bucky is not even a little bit flustered, while you are over here one deep breath away from combustion.
Traitor. Your body is a fucking traitor because it has gone warm in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the room temperature.
Fuck. He’s off-limits. He’s your bestfriend's father. He’s at least fifteen years older than you and has probably seen and done things and lived enough life to make you feel embarrassed about how young and dumb you are.
None of that was stopping the warmth currently spreading through your lower belly.
You could not tell your best friend about this if you tried. Hey, so funny story, I accidentally sent your dad nudes and he’s being weirdly calm about it and I think I’m going to need a minute. No. Absolutely not. You’d rather defect to another country.
You actually should. Pretend your phone died, pretend you never saw it, never acknowledge it and just never go to your bestfriend’s apartment again, never be in the same room as him, move to a different country maybe, change your name.
The phone buzzes again.
James : You still there?
That’s enough of that. You turn your phone fully off, shove it under your pillow, and pull the duvet up over your head like a woman under siege.
You do not look at it for the rest of the day.
By morning, you have three unread messages from Bucky Barnes that you refuse to open, and a deeply inconvenient awareness that the photo you’d sent had been a good photo, and that Bucky Barnes had seen it, and that somewhere on the other side of the city, he probably still had it.
You make a decision, then. The only rational, mature, adult decision available to you.
You go dark. You become, to one James Buchanan Barnes, completely and entirely unreachable. A name in a contact list that simply does not respond.
Ghosting Bucky is, objectively, the most cowardly thing you’ve ever done. You’re aware of this. You think about it every time your phone lights up and it isn’t him, and then feel insane for being even slightly disappointed about that. You think about it when your best friend calls to make plans and you spend the whole conversation wondering if she knows, if he told her, if there’s any conceivable universe where this ends without catastrophe.
The plan had been simple. Foolproof, even.
Get dressed. Go out. Drink something cold and overpriced, let James from psychology say something adequately charming, and spend an entire evening not thinking about the fact that you’d sent a topless photo to your best friend’s father four days ago and have been hiding from your own phone ever since.
Simple. Foolproof.
You are two drinks in and it is going beautifully.
“—so then the professor just stares at him for like, thirty seconds. Doesn’t say a word. Just picks up the marker and writes wrong on the board in capital letters.”
You laugh. It’s genuine, even. James from psychology is, reliably entertaining. The bar is loud, the drinks are good, and everything is fine. Everything is completely, entirely fine.
Then you look up.
The laugh dies somewhere between your chest and your mouth.
Bucky Barnes is standing twenty feet away.
He’s at a table near the far wall. Just there, the way a piece of furniture you keep walking into is just there. Unavoidable. He’s in a dark shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, one hand wrapped around a glass, jaw doing what his jaw always does, which is absolutely nothing and yet somehow everything.
The bar lighting should have the decency to be unflattering. It is not. It is doing him every conceivable favor. The warm glow catches the grey in his hair, but it makes him a hundred times sexier. It accentuates the way he tilts his head slightly when the woman beside him says something.
It’s insufferable. It’s genuinely, deeply unfair, and you want to file a complaint with someone.
Then your eyes circle back to the woman.
Right. The woman.
She’s seated across from him, and she is objectively, aggressively good-looking. Blonde hair. Good bone structure. The kind of effortless put-together that suggests she did not spend forty minutes changing outfits before leaving the house, unlike some people.
She laughs at something Bucky says, touches his arm briefly. And you watch her do it with the fate of someone watching a car back slowly over their foot.
“—you okay?”
You snap back. James is looking at you with mild, pleasant concern.
“Fine,” you say, with a smile you’ve borrowed from someone more composed than yourself. “Sorry, thought I saw someone I knew.”
This is technically true. You elect not to elaborate.
James picks up the thread of conversation and you follow along, nodding, laughing when appropriate, contributing occasionally. All the while, your eyes conduct their own completely independent investigation of the far side of the bar.
You’re not staring. You’re glancing. There’s a difference. The difference is whether or not you get caught, and so far, the record is clean.
Bucky still hasn’t looked over.
Which is fine. Obviously. Why would he? He’s here with someone. Probably a colleague, or a friend, or some equally well-structured woman he’d met through entirely normal adult channels, a date maybe. And you’re here with James from psychology, and none of this has anything to do with the photo incident, which you have all but successfully repressed.
Except you haven’t, have you… not even a little.
Because every time the woman across from him laughs, your jaw tightens by approximately one millimeter. And every time Bucky shifts his weight or picks up his glass or does literally anything with those arms, your drink suddenly becomes the most interesting object in the room.
This is embarrassing. At least, you are embarrassing yourself in the privacy of your own head and there isn’t anyone here to witness it.
There's a part of your brain that kept you up until two in the morning replaying the word good in a text message. The unhelpful part of your brain — to be more specific — says that he hasn’t even looked at you. Three unread messages and he hasn’t even looked over.
Maybe he hasn’t noticed you’re here.
Maybe he has and he’s choosing not to, which is worse, somehow. Which says something about you that you’d rather not examine while you’re trying to have a functional evening with a perfectly decent human being.
James from psychology is saying something about the end of semester, about a party someone’s throwing, about whether you’d want to come, and you are nodding along.
Meanwhile Bucky Barnes sits twenty feet away looking like that, completely unbothered, while the good-boned woman laughs again. And you experience something very close to the desire to put your fist through a wall.
Not because you’re jealous. You’re not jealous. You don’t get to be jealous. That’s not a card you’re holding, it’s not a hand you’ve been dealt. And even if it were, the man is your bestfriend’s father and the whole situation is already a disaster of your own construction.
You’re just. Observing. Critically.
But still, looking at that woman stings, with no valid reason. You’d been the one to go quiet. You’d been the one to ghost. You don’t get to sit here and feel like this about a woman you’ve never met, who has done absolutely nothing to you except exist in his vicinity while looking like that.
There’s even a reason why it shouldn’t sting. Because this is Bucky Barnes, your bestfriend’s dad.
“Be right back,” James says, sliding out from his seat, “bathroom.”
“Sure."
He disappears into the crowd, and you sit there alone with your drink and your critical observations for approximately ten seconds before you look up again.
Bucky’s table is empty.
You scan the room. Find him almost immediately, because your eyes have apparently decided that locating him is their primary biological function this evening. He’s at the bar, leaning against the counter with his back half-turned, the same easy posture he brings to every situation, like he’s never been in a rush for anything in his life.
The woman is still at the table, scrolling her phone.
You look at your drink.
You look at the bar.
You look at your drink again, which does not offer anything useful.
What happens next is not something you can explain in rational terms. The most honest answer is that your body makes a decision slightly ahead of your brain, which has been the source of every notable problem in your life for as long as you can remember.
By the time you’re standing up, threading between tables and barstools toward the far end of the room, it’s already too late to course correct.
Your heart is doing something ridiculous in your chest.
He still doesn’t look over. Not until you stop beside him and set your glass on the bar with a quiet clink. And even then — even then — it’s measured. Calm. Calculated. Like he’d known exactly where you were the whole time and had simply been waiting to see what you’d do about it.
Those blue eyes find yours, and his mouth curves, just slightly.
“Hey, stranger,” Bucky says.
"Hi." What’s that high pitched noise that came out of your mouth, only God knows.
Bucky doesn't seem to mind though. “You never replied.”
It's way too calm for someone who's been ghosted for four days.
“I’ve been busy,” you say.
Bucky looks at you. Just looks at you, and you can already feel sweat beading at your temples.
“Busy,” he says.
“Mm.”
“Four days busy.”
“It’s been a very full week.”
The corner of his mouth does something. You notice that it's not quite a smile.
He turns back to the bar and flags the bartender down. You stand there beside him and study the bottles lined up on the shelf behind the counter as though they contain answers.
They don’t.
“You could’ve just said wrong number,” Bucky says, when the bartender moves away. “Would’ve been the end of it.”
“Would it?”
“Probably not,” he admits. “But it would’ve been polite.”
You open your mouth and close it again. This is not how you’d mentally rehearsed this going. Though, in fairness, you’d mostly rehearsed avoiding it, so you hadn’t exactly prepared a second act.
That's your excuse when you say, “I don’t even know what you’re even referring to. I send a lot of texts.” Stupid, stupid brain.
Bucky's eyebrows do something that makes you want to take back your last sentence.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Act cute now. Especially after that message.”
The noise that comes out of your mouth is not a word. It’s barely a sound. It’s something that happens in the space between oh my god and total neurological collapse.
You stand like a statue for one humiliating moment before you pick your dignity up from the floor. “Look,” you start, with the energy of someone building toward a very reasonable explanation.
Bucky's torso leans towards you, so close you think he might hear your hammering heart. His mouth is by your ear as he whispers, “that was a very nice picture."
The reasonable explanation evaporates.
Your brain performs a full system freeze. The kind where the screen goes blank and the little wheel just spins and spins and nothing loads.
You stare at him. He leans back and takes a sip of his drink, perfectly composed, watching you out of the corner of his eye like he finds the buffering deeply entertaining.
“Mr. Barnes—” you manage. “I mean — that’s not—”
“Relax, kid.”
Kid. The absolute nerve of this man. You’re a fully grown adult who took a very well-lit photograph and he’s standing there calling you kid like you’d tripped over your shoelaces.
“I am relaxed. And I am not a kid,” you tell him, when the power of speech returns.
“You look like you’re about to file a police report.”
“I’m fine,” you say, with the specific energy of someone who is categorically not fine. “I just — you didn’t have to bring it up, okay? That’s all. We could have both just agreed to pretend it never happened and moved forward as normal, functioning adults.”
Bucky turns to look at you properly. Like you’re the only two people in the world. Like James from psychology does not exist, like the well-structured woman at the table across the room does not exist. Like the entire bar has narrowed down to this small, warm space between you two.
“How was I supposed to just not bring it up?”
“Easily. You open your mouth and you say literally anything else.”
“That simple.”
“That simple.”
“Hm.” He looks down at his glass. “No.”
You let out a breath that is entirely undignified. “You’re genuinely being so unfair right now.”
It doesn't slip your mind that you do look like a kid throwing a temper tantrum. Good that he doesn't comment on it. Instead, "you sent the photo."
“To the wrong person!”
“Sure.” He says it the way someone says sure when they mean something else entirely. It makes you want to tip his drink over and also do several other things you’re not going to think about right now. “Still a good photo, though.”
There is absolutely no blood left in the rest of your body. It has all migrated directly to your face.
“You are,” you say, with as much composure as you can scrape together, “fucking unbelievable.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
“I’m serious —”
“I know you are.” And now he does smile, just slightly. And it is deeply, personally offensive how good he looks doing it. “That’s what makes it funny.”
You stare at him. He stares back, calm as anything, and you think that it is genuinely, unfair that this man exists like this. That he gets to stand there looking like that and say things like that and be completely unbothered while you’re over here running on fumes and humiliation.
“You know what. You should go back to your date.”
Something shifts in his expression. Barely perceptible, but it is there.
“She’s not my date,” Bucky says. “Colleague. We’re working on the same project, she suggested drinks.”
“Oh,” you say.
He watches you process that.
“Oh,” you say again, slightly differently.
“Mm.” His eyes are doing that thing again. That calm, assessing thing that makes you feel like he can see several layers further into you than you’d prefer. “You should probably go back to yours.”
“My what?”
“Your date.”
You blink. Scan the room reflexively. Land on James from psychology’s empty chair across the bar, and feel the specific, dawning horror of someone who has just realized they completely forgot that he existed.
James from psychology. Nice enough. Broad shoulders. Currently in the bathroom, presumably expecting to return to a table where you are sitting and not… whatever the fuck this is.
“Oh,” you say, for the third time, which is honestly embarrassing. “Right. Him.”
Bucky looks at you for a long moment. Then he makes a sound in his chest, probably a laugh for someone fluent in Bucky. You're not. Yet.
“Jesus, kid.”
“Don’t,” you say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Was I?”
“You had a whole tone.”
“I’m a pretty even toned guy,” Bucky says, and the corner of his mouth is doing that thing again. That not-quite-smile that has been making your life difficult since the whole two years you've known him. That's when it dawns on you that you are in a genuinely stupid amount of trouble.
He leans in slightly, just enough to close some increment of the distance between you, and drops his voice beneath the noise of the bar.
“Go back to your date,” he says. Like a suggestion that is not entirely a suggestion. “Before he comes back and wonders where you went.”
You should. You absolutely should. That is the correct, sensible, adult course of action, and you know it.
“And if I don’t want to?” you hear yourself say. Fucking ridiculous.
Bucky goes still. Just for a half a second. And then those blue eyes move over your face with an attention that makes it difficult to breathe normally.
“Then,” he says, setting his glass down on the bar with a quiet clink, “that’s a different conversation.”
It is unfortunate that your brain decides to play a montage right this moment. It starts with Bucky Barnes looking illegally attractive, and continues to show every time you’d sat across from him at dinner, every time he’d laughed at something and you’d had to look away, that one time he was fixing the sink, and you had to run upstairs to calm yourself down. It ends with this version of Bucky looking at you.
Your whole body is paying attention in a way it has absolutely no business doing in a public bar.
“The bathroom’s in the back,” Bucky says.
You don't think it's a question. You don't think it's an instruction either. Something in between. Or a suggestion.
Whatever the fuck it was, it has you holding his gaze for one more second. Your heart does something completely unreasonable, and then you push off the bar and walk toward the back of the room without looking behind you.
Because you know that you won’t have to. You know that with a certainty, that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the way he’d looked at you.
Thirty seconds later, the bathroom door opens and closes behind you both.
The lock clicks.
The bar noise is muffled. There's nowhere to go now. No crowd to blend into, no drink to hide behind, no James from psychology as a conceptual exit.
It's just you, and him, and the long bathroom mirror behind you catching the both of you. That unflattering fluorescent light still manages to do him no harm whatsoever.
It’s offensive. It’s the most offensive thing that’s ever happened to you.
He crosses the distance in two steps, one hand coming up to curl around your jaw, tilting your face up to his, and kisses you. Your hands find the front of his shirt and grip there.
And you think, somewhat deliriously, that this is arguably the most consequential mistake you’ve made in recent memory, and that you are absolutely not stopping.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His thumb traces your jaw.
“Still busy?”
“Shut up."
He just laughs against your mouth and kisses you again, deeper this time. One hand slides from your jaw down the side of your neck, your shoulder, and finds the zip at the back of your dress. There's a certainty in his movements that suggests this is not his first time navigating the logistics of a bar bathroom. You just cannot decide if that’s annoying or enormously helpful.
The zip gives with a soft metallic hiss. The fabric loosens at your back. His hands slide beneath the straps and push them from your shoulders. When the dress drops enough to expose your bra, he makes a sound against your throat that does terrible, immediate things to your ability to think straight. Your nipples tighten instantly under the thin lace.
His fingers find the clasp at your back. One-handed. It gives with ease.
The bra goes. Cool air hits your skin and then his palms are there, cupping your bare tits like he’s been waiting forevr.
Bucky pulls back just enough to look at you. The expression on his face makes your skin feel two sizes too small— hungry, dark, and so fucking calm it should be criminal.
He cups your breasts in both hands again, just holds you there, thumbs tracing slow, devastating circles over your nipples. “The photo,” he says, “didn’t do you justice.”
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“Not even close,” he adds, and dips his head to take one nipple between his lips. The warmth of his mouth pulls a sound from you, embarrassingly loud in the small room.
His tongue moves in slow, maddening circles, one hand still palming your other breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers with a precision that is doing nothing for your grip on reality. Your head tips back and your fingers find his hair, gripping tight as another whimper slips out.
“Mr Barnes—”
“I think you've earned the right to call me Bucky.”
“Bucky, we're in the bathroom —”
“I know where we are,” he says against your skin, and moves to the other side. You lose your train of thought entirely.
By the time his hands move lower, you’re already past the point of reasonable objection. His hand slides down over your hips, gathering the fabric of your dress up your thighs. When his fingers find the hem of your underwear, he watches your face.
His fingers slip beneath the fabric and find you slick and swollen. The sound he makes is devastating. “Oh, baby … she’s soaked.” He runs two thick fingers through your folds, spreading your wetness like he’s savoring it. “This all for me?”
You don’t answer, because there’s no version of the answer that isn’t humiliating.
He seems to take your silence as confirmation. “That’s what I thought.” Then, almost conversationally, he adds, “you really sent a picture like that to some boy? What the hell were you thinking, kid?” Before you can even form a reply he spins you around, one hand firm on your hip, and brings his palm down once on your ass. The smack echoes and you gasp, the sting blooming hot and making your pussy clench around nothing.
He doesn’t linger on the scolding. Just leans in, mouth at your ear. “Good thing she’s mine now.”
He brings his hand up, the one that was inside your cunt, now shiny with you. As he holds your gaze in the mirror, he puts them in his mouth. Both of them. Tasting you with an attention that makes your knees want to buckle on the spot. He pulls them free with a quiet, satisfied sound that goes straight to your core.
“You’re very wet,” he casually says, like he’s commenting on the weather, and you want to laugh or cry. Possibly both.
“I wonder why,” you manage.
“Mm.” He turns you fully toward the mirror, hand at your hip guiding you until you’re braced against the sink. You catch your own reflection, swollen lips, sweaty face, and behind you, him, tall and composed and entirely too in control. The height difference is ridiculous. His hands settle on your hips for a second, then one slides up to palm your tit again, squeezing gently while he watches your face in the glass.
“Watch,” he says.
His other hand slides back under your dress. Without a beat, his fingers find your clit and press. You watch your own mouth fall open on a moan you can’t bite back. Your head drops back against his shoulder on its own accord.
“Eyes up,” he immediately says.
You force them open. Meet his in the mirror. He holds your gaze and keeps moving. Two fingers slide inside you now while his thumb stays on your clit, curling just right, stroking that spot that makes your thighs shake. He palms your tit again, rolling the nipple between his fingers in time with the thrust of his hand. Somehow it makes you more wet, being made to look at yourself unraveling while he watches you fall apart.
“Oh, she's greedy, suckin' me in like that."
He doesn't stop his fingers until you’re gripping the edge of the sink, trying very hard not to moan loud enough for the entire bar to hear. He feels everything. Every flutter, every clench. When your legs press together involuntarily he presses a kiss to your temple and says, “none of that,” then nudges your knees apart again with his own.
“I hate you,” you breathe.
“No you don’t." He curls his fingers again just to prove it.
He’s right. You absolutely don’t.
His fingers withdraw when you’re right on the edge, a desperate little sound escaping you. Before you can protest he’s got his belt undone, cock heavy and thick when he frees it. You watch in the mirror as he strokes himself, spreading the bead of precum over the head.
His hands settle at your hips, gathering your dress up over your waist, and you feel the blunt, warm pressure of him against your entrance. He rubs the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in how wet you are, then pushes in slowly.
The sound that escapes you is something between a gasp and a moan, swallowed quickly with teeth to your lips. He’s thick, stretching you open by degrees, giving you time you don’t even want. When he’s fully seated he stills for a moment, forehead pressed to the back of your neck, breathing hard.
You know he's about to ask you some version of are you okay, you beat him to it by moaning, followed by, "Bucky — please move."
He pulls back, almost fully out, and pushes back in in one slamming stroke. It's precisely calibrated to make coherent thought impossible. His hips roll into you in long, steady strokes that rock you forward against the sink. All you can do is watch the mirror and try not to fall apart too obviously.
The wet, lewd sound of him sliding in and out of you is the only thing you can hear.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. His eyes find yours in the reflection, and there’s something in them, that makes your chest feel strange in a way that has nothing to do with the physical situation. “Forgot you strung a boy along?”
“Don’t —” you start.
Before anything else could come out of your mouth, he drives his hips forward hard enough to knock the word clean out of your head. You bite down on your lip and grip the sink and stop trying to form sentences.
His hand finds the front of your throat, pulling your back flush against his chest so he can go deeper. The other hand stays on your tit, palming and squeezing while he fucks you. You watch the whole thing in the mirror like it’s happening to someone else.
“You’ve been driving me out of my mind,” Bucky says against your ear, his composure fraying. That does more for you than practically anything else has tonight. “Know that? Fuckin' sending' me tits.”
“Good." You push back to meet his thrusts.
“Yeah.” He sounds almost amused. “Good.”
His hand drops from your throat to your hip, gripping hard enough to bruise probably. The way his hip slams into yours is deep and punishing and exactly what you’ve been thinking about since approximately the first time you’d ever been in the same room as him. The slap of skin, the sound he makes on each thrust, the way he keeps making you meet your own eyes in the mirror, it’s all too much and not nearly enough. Once again, you are embarrassingly, humiliatingly close.
Like he's read your mind, “tell me,” he says. Does this man need to embarrass you any further? Apparently yes.
“I’m close—Bucky, please—”
He rewards it instantly, snaking his hand around to find your clit again, two fingers pressing and circling while he keeps fucking you deep. “That’s it. Let her have it. Cum on my cock, sweetheart.”
You cum with your knuckles gripped on the sink and his name moaned loud enough that you’re sure someone outside heard. Your whole body is shuddering, clenching around him in waves so intense your vision whites out. He fucks you through every single pulse, until you’re past oversensitive and into something wordless and trembling.
Only then does he let himself go. His hips stutter, a rough exhale against the back of your neck, and he buries himself to the hilt as he comes. Hot, thick pulses of cum fill you so full you can feel it already starting to leak out around his cock. He stays there, buried deep, letting you feel every twitch, every spurt, one hand still gently palming your tit like he can’t quite stop touching you.
There's only silence for a moment. Silence and the the muffled bass of the bar beyond the door.
Bucky presses one long kiss to the side of your neck, then slowly pulls out. You feel the warm rush of his cum start to slide down your thigh and bite back another whimper at how filthy it feels.
He straightens, tucking himself away with that same effortless calm, then catches your eye in the mirror. His expression is warm and a little smug.
“Your date is probably wonderin’ where you are.”
You look at your own reflection. Dress rucked up. Hair questionable. Expression, the very portrait of someone who has absolutely no business going back to a date in the next ten minutes.
“Probably."
“For what it’s worth,” Bucky says, reaching over to fix your bra with a casualness that is somehow more intimate than everything that just happened, “next time, you can send it on purpose.” The rucked up dress is pulled down, and your underwear pulled up.
It doesn't, in any way, provide a solution for the cum-down-your-thighs situation. Like he's read your mind again, "I want you to walk back and sit with me drippin' outta you."
You stare at him.
That handsome, insufferable man pulls the bathroom door open and walks back into the bar like nothing happened at all.
MY MASTERLIST!
EXTRAS. Wrote this instead of fucking studying. Someone save me. I think I did an okay job of portraying Bucky as not a loverboy, lmk how it went lol
summary : frank coming home from deployment calls for the most extreme tap-out and sweetest surprise.
warnings : none rlly- just tooth rotting fluff, frank can't keep his hands to himself, frank has a potty mouth, fluffffffffff, mentions of pregnancy.
word count : 6.1 k
a/n : not proofread and based off of this rq ! ( also yes i know "tapping out" a soldier happens usually after a graduation from basic training but for the sake of the fic were gonna pretend it's a regular thing kay ? kay.)
The phone rings on the dinner table just as you turn the stove top off, cursing under your breath as the pasta water flows over the top of the pot. You scramble for a dish rag, burning yourself on the water as it soaks through the flimsy material.
Usually, you'd be screaming for Frank- whining in pain as he runs over to you, holding a gun, thinking someone broke in or something.
But you can't do that.
You haven't been able to do that for seven months. Not since he went to Afghanistan.
"Shit," you hiss, dropping the rag. The phone keeps ringing. Once. Twice. Three times. Your heart immediately starts racing. Because nobody calls anymore. Not really. Most people text. Calls mean something happened. Calls mean news. Good or bad. And when your husband is halfway across the world in a combat zone and you're pregnant to your teeth with a baby he has no idea exists - every unexpected phone call feels like a loaded gun pointed directly at your chest. The phone rings again. You stare at it.
Afraid to answer. Afraid not to. Finally, you force yourself forward and grab it.
"Hello?" Silence. Then—
"Sweetheart?" The entire world stops. Your knees nearly give out. You know that voice. You'd know it anywhere.
Even through static. Even half-asleep. Even after months.
"Frank?" You press your hand to your bump, feeling your daughter kick at your ribs at the mention of the name.
You found out you were pregnant a week after he left. It didn't make sense to tell him. Not that soon. A laugh crackles through the line. Soft. Tired.
God, so tired.
"Yeah." You sink into the nearest chair so fast it almost topples over. "Yeah, it's me baby."
"Oh my God." Your eyes immediately burn. Frank hears it. Of course he does.
Your daughter kicks again.
Hard enough that you suck in a breath.
"You cryin' already?"
"No."
"You are."
"I'm literally not."
"You sound like it." A tear slides down your cheek. Traitor. You wipe it away furiously.
"You haven't called in two weeks." The words come out sharper than you intended. Frank goes quiet.
"Yeah."
"Two weeks, Frank."
"I know."
"You said you'd call."
"I know." You hate how small his voice sounds. How exhausted. How guilty. The anger evaporates almost instantly. Because that's the problem. You miss him too much to stay mad. The silence stretches between you. You can hear his heavy breathing, the way it sounds like he's struggling to stay awake.
Can hear distant voices somewhere behind him.
Can hear the static.
And all you can think about is the secret sitting beneath your palm. The secret that has gotten bigger every single day he's been gone. The secret kicking your ribs like she's trying to join the conversation.
Seven months. Seven months of doctor's appointments. Seven months of ultrasounds. Seven months of talking to an empty side of the bed, or your bump and telling your little girl stories about her daddy. . Seven months of staring at pictures of Frank and wondering how the hell you were supposed to tell him. Not over the phone.
Not while bullets were flying around his head. Not while every call could've been the last one. So you waited.
And waited. And waited.
Until suddenly there wasn't a good way to explain why your husband had missed almost an entire pregnancy.
"Baby ?" He rasps. "Will you- Will you talk ? Just talk- about anything. Everything. I just want to hear your voice. Miss hearin' my pretty wife ramble about pointless things." You roll your eyes, and he chuckles, as if he nknows you're doing so. You bite on your bottom lip and look up at the stove top.
"I tried to make pasta." You mutter. Frank chortles.
"Tried ? What do you mean, tried, pretty girl ?" You glare at the pot like it's personally offended you.
"It boiled over." A pause. Then—
"Jesus Christ."
"Oh, shut up."
"You managed to lose a fight against noodles?"
"I burned my hand!" That wipes the amusement right out of his voice.
"You what?"
"It's fine."
"Sweetheart."
"It's barely a burn."
"Did you run it under cold water?" You blink.
"…Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"I got distracted."
"By what?"
"You called." The silence that follows is soft. Warm. The kind that only exists between two people who've loved each other for so long they can hear everything in the spaces between words. When Frank finally speaks, his voice is quieter.
"Lemme guess. You just stood there cryin' instead."
"I'm not crying."
"Sure." You sniff.
"Don't start." He laughs. God. You've missed that sound. For a while, you talk about everything and nothing. The neighbor's dog that keeps escaping. The grocery store cashier who keeps flirting with old ladies. The plant Frank swore was impossible to kill that's somehow still alive despite your complete neglect. Frank listens to every second of it. Like each stupid little detail is precious. Like he's starving for normal. Every now and then he hums or chuckles or asks a question. Mostly he just listens. Your hand moves across the curve of your stomach. Frank hums as you talk. The sound is warm. Comforting. Dangerous. Because it makes you want to tell him.
Right now. Immediately. Just blurt it out.
Hey, by the way, while you were fighting in Afghanistan, your daughter learned how to kick me in the bladder.
No big deal.
Instead, you swallow hard. And eventually, after nearly an hour, you glance toward the kitchen clock.
"What time is it over there? I don't want to keep you up if it's late. " There's a strange pause. A beat too long. "Frank?" Another pause.
Then a low laugh. You frown.
"What?"
"Nothin'."
"Frank."
"Sweetheart…" Immediately suspicious.
"What." He exhales. And suddenly he sounds nervous. Which is terrifying because Frank Castle isn't nervous about anything.
"Don't get mad."
"Oh my God."
"Just hear me out."
"Frank."
"I'm not in Afghanistan." The world stops. You stare at the wall.
"…What?"
"I'm not there anymore." Fear hits your chest so hard you grab the table for stability, afraid you'll fall over.
"What do you mean you're not there anymore?" You gulp, biting back tears. "Did they move you ? Oh my god, Frank, did they extend your deployment ?" Your heart is hammering and you let out a sob. "I can't do another year of this, Frank." The words break apart on a sob. Immediately, Frank makes a sound you've only heard a handful of times in your life. Panic.
"Whoa. Hey. Hey, sweetheart. No." Your breathing is getting worse. Because your brain has already filled in the blanks. Transferred. Extended deployment. Another combat zone. Another year of sleeping alone. Another year of staring at an empty side of the bed. "Baby, listen to me."
"You said you're not in Afghanistan."
"I'm not."
"Then where are you?"
"Sweetheart—"
"Frank, where are you?" The silence lasts exactly one second. Then—
"I'm in New York." You freeze.
"…What?" Frank laughs. Actually laughs. A little helplessly. A little nervously.
"Ain't in Afghanistan." You stare at the wall. Your brain refusing to process the information.
"What."
"New York."
"What."
"New York."
"What."
"Sweetheart."
"Frank."
"New York." The silence stretches. Then—
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm really not."
"Frank Castle."
"I'm lookin' at our pizza place right now." Your mouth falls open.
"You—"
"Pretty sure Johnny is outside's sellin' fake watches again."
"Frank."
"And somebody just yelled at a taxi."
"Frank." His laugh crackles through the phone. God. God. Your husband.
Your husband is home.
You press a hand over your mouth. And suddenly you're crying harder than before.
"Hey." The amusement disappears instantly. "Hey, baby."
"You're home?"
"Yeah." The answer is quiet. Gentle. Like he knows exactly what those words mean. You squeeze your eyes shut.
"You're really home?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Yesterday." Your eyes snap open.
"Yesterday?"
"Okay, see, now in my defense—"
"Yesterday ?"
"I was gonna surprise you."
"Frank!"
"I know!"
"You let me think you were still overseas!"
"I was trying to be romantic!"
"You're an idiot!"
"That's fair." You laugh through your tears. Half hysterical. Half relieved. All emotional. Frank just listens. Probably smiling. Definitely smiling. The bastard.
"You suck."
"I know."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No, I really don't." A soft sound leaves him. The kind of sound people make when they're smiling so hard it hurts. Then his voice lowers.
"Missed you." And just like that, every bit of anger evaporates. Your throat tightens.
"Missed you too." For a moment neither of you says anything.
Just breathing. Just existing. Together. Finally, Frank clears his throat.
"So."
"So?"
"There's one problem." You immediately narrow your eyes.
"Frank."
"It ain't a big problem."
"Frank."
"It's actually a very small problem."
"Frank." He sighs dramatically.
"I was gonna come home tinight but- They got a ceremony tomorrow morning."
"Oh."
"Yeah." You understand immediately. His unit. His team. The deployment. Everything they survived together. "They wanna recognize everybody before they release us."
"Of course they do."
"Means I gotta stay overnight." You nod despite him not being able to see it.
"Okay."
"But." The way he says it immediately makes you suspicious.
"But?" Another pause. You can practically hear the grin spreading across his face.
"They need somebody to tap me out afterwards." Your heart skips.
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
"Mhm."
"So."
"Frank."
"What?"
"You planned this."
"I absolutely planned this." You laugh. The first real laugh you've had in months. And Frank immediately laughs too. Like he'd been waiting to hear it.
"So," he says softly. "You wanna come get your husband tomorrow?" Your eyes fill with tears all over again. Happy ones this time.
"Try and stop me, Castle." You chuckle, choking on a sob.
---------
The next morning, you wake up before your alarm. Before the sun. Before your brain can even fully catch up.
For one glorious second, you're confused. Then it hits you.
Frank. Frank is home. Almost home.
Your eyes fly open.
And your daughter immediately kicks you in the ribs.
"Ow." Another kick. "Yeah, yeah, I know." You press a hand over your stomach. She answers with another violent little jab.
Apparently she's excited too. The thought makes your chest ache. Because in a few hours, she's going to meet her father.
Well. Not really meet. But he'll know. Finally.
After seven months of secrets and ultrasounds and doctor's appointments and baby clothes hidden in closets. After seven months of staring at sonogram pictures and wondering how the hell you'd explain all of this. You sit up slowly. Immediately regretting it. At eight months pregnant, nothing is graceful anymore. Everything feels like a coordinated military operation.
Ironically. The thought almost makes you laugh.
By eight o'clock, you're dressed. Or as dressed as you're capable of being. The maternity dress is beautiful - but it barely fits anymore. Your shoes are a lost cause. And no matter what you wear, you're carrying what looks like an entire basketball team beneath your ribs. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Then at your stomach. Then back at yourself.
"He's gonna kill me." The baby kicks. "You're not helping." Another kick. Definitely Frank's daughter. The ceremony is being held on base. And by the time you arrive, your palms are sweating so badly you're worried you'll crash the car.
Not because of the crowd. Not because of the military officers. Not because of the ceremony.
Because of him. You haven't seen him in seven months. Seven months. Longer than you've ever gone without seeing Frank Castle.
You park. Sit in the driver's seat. And suddenly can't breathe.
What if he's different? What if you're different? What if—
A sharp kick lands directly on your bladder. You yelp. And immediately start laughing.
"Okay." Another kick. "Okay." One more. "Message received." You climb out of the car. Slowly. Carefully. And waddle. There's no dignified word for it.
You waddle toward the crowd. The ceremony is already underway. Rows of soldiers. Families. Friends.Children sitting on shoulders.
And then— You see him. Your breath leaves your body.
Frank. God. He's bulkier. His hair is shorter. There's a fresh scar on his jaw you don't recognize.
But it's him. It's still him. Standing straight. Hands clasped behind his back. Listening to somebody give a speech he absolutely doesn't care about. Your eyes burn instantly. Like they always do.
Like they probably always will. As if sensing it, Frank turns his head just as you sit down.
His gaze sweeps across the crowd. Past dozens of people. Then finds you. Everything stops. His face changes immediately. The exhausted military professionalism disappears. The soldier disappears. The tough guy disappears. And suddenly he just looks… Happy.
God. So happy.
The corner of his mouth lifts. Tiny. Private. Just for you. You smile back. You bite your lip. Wave awkwardly. Gather your jacket in front of your belly so that it looks inconspicuous. And thank god, he doesn't notice.
His eyes snap back to attention when his name is called, and he walks up to get his medal. Frank accepts the medal without a flicker of expression. At least, that's what everyone else sees. You know him too well. You see the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. The way his shoulders settle a fraction when he spots you in the crowd again. The way his eyes keep trying to drift back toward where you're sitting before snapping forward. The ceremony drags. Speech after speech. Recognition after recognition.
Until finally the commanding officer steps forward.
"At this time, personnel will remain at attention until tapped out by their designated family members." A ripple moves through the crowd.
People start standing. Parents. Spouses.
Children.
Everyone moving toward the rows of soldiers waiting to be released. Frank doesn't move. Can't move. Hands behind his back. Eyes forward. Completely still.
You rise from your chair, fiddling with your wedding band. Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. The baby chooses that exact moment to kick.
Hard.
"Please don't start," you whisper. Another kick. You swear she's laughing at you. Slowly, you make your way through the crowd.
One step. Then another. Frank is staring straight ahead. Military bearing locked firmly into place. He hasn't seen you stand. Hasn't seen you walking toward him.
And because you've been hiding behind chairs and people and your jacket all morning— He still has absolutely no idea. Your palms are sweating. Your throat feels tight.
Seven months. Seven months of waiting. Seven months of secrets. Seven months of wondering how you'd tell him. And somehow you've ended up here.
In front of half the military. With nowhere to run.
You stop a few feet away. Frank's eyes stay forward. The rules are the rules. No moving. No talking. No breaking attention. You bite your lip.
And wait. Just because you can.
Because after seven months? You deserve at least a little revenge. A few seconds pass. Frank remains perfectly still. You can practically feel the tension radiating off him.
Then— Very slowly— You take a step closer. His jaw tightens. He knows you're there. Of course he knows. He could probably identify you blindfolded from across a football field. Another step. Still no touch. The muscle in his cheek twitches. You almost laugh. Another step. Now you're directly in front of him.
Close enough to see the new scar on his jaw. Close enough to see the faint shadows beneath his eyes. Close enough to smell his cologne beneath the starch and uniform. His eyes remain fixed straight ahead. But they're starting to narrow. Suspicious. Impatient. You can practically hear him thinking:
Sweetheart, tap me out before I lose my damn mind. Instead— You slowly unzip your jacket. Just a little. Frank doesn't react. Then a little more. Nothing. Then you pull it completely open. The movement draws his gaze downward automatically. Just for a second. Just long enough. His eyes hit your stomach. And stop. Everything about him freezes.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you do. Because you've spent years learning every tiny thing about this man.
The breath leaves his lungs. His eyes widen. Just barely. The color drains from his face.
He stares. At your stomach. Then your stomach. Then your stomach again. Like maybe he's hallucinating. Like maybe Afghanistan finally broke his brain. You feel tears burning behind your eyes. Frank looks up. Straight into your face. And the expression there almost destroys you. Shock. Wonder. Disbelief. Pure, overwhelming emotion. You smile. A tiny, watery smile. Then your daughter picks that exact moment to kick. A visible movement beneath the fabric. Frank sees it.
Oh God. He sees it.
His entire face breaks. Not outwardly. Not enough to abandon attention. But enough. Enough that you see it. Enough that his eyes go glassy. Enough that he looks like someone just handed him the entire world.
You let him stare for another second. Then another. Drawing it out. Because you've waited seven months.
He can wait five more seconds. Frank looks moments away from committing several military violations simultaneously.
Finally— Finally— You lift your hand. Your hand finds home on his chest, and his whole body lurches forward. His arms come flying around you, trapping you against his chest. One hand at the small of your back, the other tangled in your hair, keeping you close. Your arms loop around his neck as you sob, breathing him in, feeling the rabid heartbeat in his chest against yours. He's holding you so tight you're afraid you'll stop breathing, so you push away from him, chuckling through your tears as he cups your cheeks, his mouth parted. You brush your thumb over the scar on his jaw.
"Are you real ?" You manage. Frank licks his lips, his chest rising and falling so hard his dog tags are clinking.
For a second, he just stares at you. Not the crowd. Not the officers. Not the ceremony.
You.
Like he's trying to memorize every inch of your face all over again. Then his gaze drops.
Slowly. Deliberately. To your stomach. Back up to your eyes. Then down again. His hands are shaking. Actually shaking.
You don't think you've ever seen that before. Not Frank. Not your Frank.
His throat works.
Once. Twice.
When he finally speaks, his voice comes out rough enough to scrape bark off a tree.
"Baby, what…" His eyes flick back to your stomach. Then back to you. "What the fuck ?" Fear hits your chest so fast you try to take a tiny step back, but you're stopped by Frank gripping your waist, thumbs digging softly into the side of the curve of your belly - the curve that wasn't then when he left. You stammer helplessly, horrified that he might be angry with you. His thumb strokes against your stomach again.
"Is this- Is this a fucking joke ?" He rasps. You shake your head.
"Frank-"
"Because if this is your way of getting back at me for lying to you about coming home it's sick, baby. Sick and so fucking twisted." You stare at him. For a second, you can't even process what he just said. Then your jaw drops.
"Frank." His hands tighten on your waist.
"Baby, I'm serious."
"It's not a joke."
"You're telling me you're- " His eyes dart back to your stomach again, looking completely wrecked. "You're havin' my baby ?" You let out a wet, disbelieving laugh.
"No, i just got fat while you were gone." You sniffle. "Yes, you idiot. I' having your baby." Frank just stares. The crowd around you keeps moving. Families hugging soldiers. Children crying. People laughing. Cameras flashing.
It all feels a million miles away. Because Frank Castle is looking at you like the entire universe has narrowed down to one thing.
You.
And the baby beneath your heart. His mouth opens. Closes.
Opens again. Nothing comes out.
"Frank?" you whisper. His eyes immediately snap to yours.
"How long?" You swallow.
"I found out a week after you left. I'm seven months along." The words hit him like a freight train. You physically watch it happen. His eyes close. His head drops forward. One huge hand comes up and drags down his face.
"A week…" he repeats hoarsely. You nod. His shoulders shake once. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Something in between.
"A week," he says again, like maybe if he repeats it enough times it'll start making sense. "Jesus Christ."
"Frank—"
"A week."
"I wanted to tell you." His eyes open. And God. The guilt hits you all over again. Because there's hurt there. Not anger. Hurt.
"I missed everything." The words nearly break your heart. You reach for him immediately.
"Frank—"
"I missed everything." His hand tightens on your waist before his other comes up to brush hair away from your face. His voice cracks. Actually cracks.
You don't think you've ever heard that before. Not once. Not in all the years you've known him. His gaze drops to your stomach again. To the life that kept growing while he was thousands of miles away.
"I missed it's first heartbeat." Your throat tightens.
"Frank—"
"I missed the ultrasounds." Your eyes start burning.
"I know."
"I missed…" His voice catches. "I missed all of it." You grab both sides of his face.
"Hey." His eyes find yours. "Hey." He goes silent. "I wanted to tell you every day." And that's the truth. Every single day. Every appointment. Every kick. Every sleepless night. Every tiny outfit. Every sonogram picture. Every moment. "I just couldn't." Frank watches you. You can see him trying to understand. Trying to put himself back into those months. "You were over there," you whisper. "Every phone call could've been the last one." His jaw tightens. "I wasn't gonna tell you something that huge and then hang up and spend the next two weeks wondering if you were alive." You choke on a sob. "God, Frankie. For the first three months i cried whenever anyone knocked on the door. I thought i'd open it to see soldiers and a folded flag, carrying a solemn look on their faces about to tell me my husband was shot to death or-or blown up or-"
"Baby.." Frank rasps. His hands come up so fast you barely see them move. One cups the back of your head. The other settles over the curve of your stomach.
Protective. Instinctive.
Like he's already trying to shield both of you from things that already happened.
"Hey." His forehead presses against yours. "Hey, look at me." You can't. Because now you're crying too hard. The words have been sitting in your chest for seven months. Every fear. Every nightmare. Every terrible possibility. And now that he's here, standing in front of you, alive and breathing and warm, they all come pouring out.
"I was terrified," you choke out. Frank closes his eyes.
"I know."
"No, you don't." His jaw clenches.
"I know enough."
"I'd hear the phone ring and think something happened." His thumb brushes your cheek. "I'd see military officers in public and I'd panic." His breathing shudders. "And every time she kicked—" Your voice breaks. "Every time she kicked I wanted to tell you." Frank's eyes squeeze shut. Hard. Like he's physically hurting. "I wanted to show you the ultrasounds." You laugh wetly. "I bought this stupid little pair of baby shoes and I cried for an hour because you weren't there." Frank lets out a sound. A broken sound. One you've never heard from him before.
"Sweetheart…"
"And I kept thinking if something happened to you…" Your voice cracks completely. "How was I supposed to tell her about you if she never got to meet you?" That does it. Frank's face crumples. Actually crumples. The big scary soldier who survived Afghanistan looks like he's about two seconds from falling apart right here in front of God and everybody.
"Don't." The word comes out rough. Barely audible. "Don't say that."
"But I thought it."
"I know."
"I thought it every day." Frank swallows hard. Then he pulls you closer. Careful now. One hand on your back. One hand still resting on your stomach. Like he can't stop touching it. Like he's afraid it'll disappear if he does. For a long moment he just stands there breathing.
Trying to collect himself. Trying and failing. Then he looks down.
At your stomach. Again. And again. Like he still can't believe it.
"You really kept a whole baby secret from me." Despite everything, a laugh escapes you.
"Technically." His eyes narrow.
"Technically?" A sharp kick answers him. Your eyes widen. Frank freezes. Completely freezes.
"Oh my God." Another kick. Right beneath his hand. Frank makes the strangest noise you've ever heard. Half laugh. Half sob. His knees almost buckle.
"Oh my God."
"Yeah."
"Oh my God." You start laughing through your tears. His hand spreads wider over your stomach. Careful. Reverent. Like he's touching something sacred. Another kick lands. And Frank's entire face lights up. Not a smile. Something bigger. Something brighter. Pure wonder. The kind you only get once. Maybe twice. In an entire lifetime.
"That's my kid." You choke on another laugh.
"Pretty sure."
"That's my kid." Frank sounds stunned. Like he just discovered fire. Like nobody has ever had a baby before and this is a completely new concept. Another kick. Frank immediately looks offended.
"She's kickin' you that hard?"
"Constantly." Then he looks down at your stomach one more time. And his expression softens. Completely.
"She's a girl?" Your heart squeezes. You nod. Frank just stands there. Silent. Processing. Then his eyes fill again. Frank's hand trembles against your stomach. And when he finally smiles, it looks almost disbelieving. Like he's still waiting for someone to wake him up.
"Our little girl." Then he looks at you. At the woman he thought he was coming home to. And the family he didn't know he'd already started. And his voice breaks all over again.
"You went through all this shit alone."He rasps, shaking his head. And the the thought sours in his head. Frank's face goes completely blank.
Which, somehow, is worse. You know that look. It's the look he gets when he's furious and trying very hard not to show it. Not at you.
At himself. His eyes travel down again. Your swollen ankles. The way you're unconsciously rubbing your lower back. The way one hand keeps supporting the underside of your stomach. The exhaustion hiding beneath the excitement.
And suddenly you can practically see the last seven months playing through his head.
You trying to carry groceries. You assembling nursery furniture. You standing on chairs to reach shelves. You driving yourself to doctor's appointments. You getting sick. Scared.
Alone.
Without him.
"You carried a whole human bein' by yourself for seven months?"
"I mean, technically she's still in there—"
"Sweetheart."
"Frank."
"No." You stare at him. He stares right back.
"That's not an answer."
"It is an answer."
"It's literally not."
"It means you're done."
"Done with what?"
"Everything." You bark out a laugh.
"Oh, absolutely not."
"Oh, absolutely yes."
"Frank." He points at your stomach.
"You are eight months pregnant."
"Seven."
"Eight."
"Seven."
"Close enough." You roll your eyes. Frank immediately notices. "I saw that."
"You don't get to come home after seven months and start bossing me around."
"I absolutely do."
"You absolutely don't."
"I fought a war."
"And?"
"And you built a baby." The words hit you so unexpectedly you actually stop talking. Frank seems surprised he said it too. But then his expression softens. "You built our little girl." Your eyes sting instantly.
"Frank…" His hand slides over your stomach again. Gentle. Careful. Almost disbelieving.
"We're going home. Now." By the time he gets you into the passenger seat, he's still muttering apologies. The second you reach for the seatbelt, his hand appears.
"I got it."
"Frank." Click. Buckled. You stare at him. He closes the door. Walks around the driver's side. Gets in. Starts the engine. Then reaches over and adjusts the air conditioning vent so it isn't blowing directly on you. Then adjusts your seat. Then hands you a bottle of water. Then asks if you're hungry. Then asks if you're tired. Then asks if your back hurts. Then asks if your feet hurt. Then asks if the baby kicks a lot. Then asks if you've been sleeping okay.
Then asks approximately fourteen thousand more questions.
Finally you hold up a hand.
"Frank."
"What?"
"Take a breath." He looks at you. Looks at your stomach. Looks back at you. And says, completely serious: "I leave for seven months and come back to find out there's a whole person in there." You start laughing. He doesn't.
"Frank."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
"There's a tiny person."
"Yes."
"Our tiny person." You smile.
"Yeah." Frank's eyes immediately get shiny again. Frank shakes his head. Then reaches over. Grabs your hand. And doesn't let go for the entire drive home.As if seven months apart used up every second he's willing to spend without touching you.
The second the front door opens, Frank stops. Just stops. You nearly walk into his back.
"Frank?" He doesn't answer. He's staring into the apartment. At the laundry basket overflowing beside the couch. At the stack of unopened mail on the counter. At the half-finished nursery visible down the hallway. At all the little signs of a life that kept moving while he was gone. A life you carried alone.
His jaw clenches.
Then he reaches back without looking and grabs your hand.
"Come here."
"Frank, I'm literally right here."
"Closer." You roll your eyes. But step closer. Immediately his arm wraps around your shoulders. Like he's making up for lost time. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. The moment you're inside, he starts fussing. Relentlessly.
"Take your shoes off."
"I just sat in a car for forty minutes."
"Shoes."
"Frank."
"Shoes." Five minutes later he's helping you onto the couch. Ten minutes later there's a blanket over your legs. Fifteen minutes later he's somehow produced a glass of water, a pillow, a snack, and approximately seventeen questions about whether you're comfortable. You stare at him. He stares right back.
"What?"
"You're hovering."
"I'm supervisin'."
"That's the same thing."
"It ain't."
"It literally is."
"Nope." You open your mouth. A yawn immediately escapes instead. Frank's entire face softens.
"You're exhausted. You been on y'a feet too long."
"I'm not." Another yawn. Frank looks smug.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." You try to argue. You really do. But the couch is soft. The apartment smells like home. Frank is finally here. And the second he sits beside you, one hand resting automatically on your stomach, you feel yourself melting. The last thing you remember is his thumb brushing slow circles over the fabric of your dress.And his voice.Low.
Warm.
Safe.
"Go to sleep, sweetheart." When you wake up, sunlight is pouring through the windows. For one disorienting second, you panic. Then you feel the blanket tucked around you. And hear the faint sound of tools clinking somewhere down the hall.
Your eyes blink open. The apartment feels… different. Cleaner. You sit up slowly.
Immediately noticing the laundry basket. Or rather— The lack of one.
Your brow furrows. You look around. The living room is spotless. The dishes that were sitting in the sink are gone. The counters are clean. Something smells amazing.
Food. Actual food. Not whatever sad collection of snacks you've been surviving on for the last few months.
"Frank?" No answer. You push yourself to your feet.
Follow the sounds. And stop dead in the hallway. The nursery door is open.
Inside, Frank is sitting on the floor. Building the crib. Your crib.
The one that's been sitting half-finished in a box for weeks because you couldn't figure out the instructions and eventually got frustrated enough to threaten it with violence.
Frank has one knee up.
Instruction manual spread beside him.
Sleeves rolled to his elbows.
And a tiny pink onesie hanging from one of the crib rails because apparently he found those too.
For a moment you just stand there. Watching. Something in your chest aches. Because he looks so unbelievably at home. Like he belongs here. Like he was always supposed to be here.
Like he never left.
Not overseas.
Not fighting wars. Here.
Building a crib for his daughter.
Frank glances up. Immediately catches you staring. His entire face lights up.
"Hey, goregous." You don't answer. Your eyes are already burning. Frank notices instantly. "Oh no."
"You did laundry."
"Yeah."
"You cleaned."
"Yeah."
"You made food."
"Yeah."
"You built half the crib."
"Workin' on it."
"Frank." His expression shifts. Softens. You shake your head. "You're supposed to be resting." Frank actually laughs. A full laugh. Like that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.
"Sweetheart."
"I'm serious. You need to sleep. You got back from Afghanistan yesterday."
"And?"
"And you're exhausted." Frank snorts. Then points the screwdriver at you.
"Counterpoint." You narrow your eyes.
"What counterpoint?" He gestures around the nursery.
"You built a whole human." Your mouth falls open.
"Frank. You were in a war zone. You need a shower and a- a meal ! A good night's sleep ! Not to be fussing over me and building a crib-"
"Baby." Frank just stares at you. Then he slowly sets the screwdriver down. Which is never a good sign. Because it means he's about to make a point. A very annoying point.
"No."
"I ain't even said nothin' yet."
"I know where this is going."
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"You don't." You point accusingly at him.
"You're gonna say something noble and stupid." Frank looks offended.
"I don't say noble things."
"You absolutely do."
"I really don't."You groan. Frank looks entirely too pleased with himself. Then his expression softens. A little.
"C'mere." You walk over to him, arms crossed. His hand finds yours.
Big. Warm. Familiar. He squeezes gently.
"You think I spent seven months over there dreamin' about sleep?" You open your mouth. Then close it.
Because honestly? No.
You know exactly what he dreamed about. Home. You. The life waiting for him.
Frank's thumb brushes across your knuckles.
"I slept in dirt."
"Frank."
"I ate food that tasted like cardboard."
"Frank."
"I showered when I got lucky." His eyes crinkle slightly. "But every night?" You swallow. Every trace of amusement disappears. "I thought about comin' home." Your throat tightens. Frank glances around the nursery. At the half-built crib. At the tiny clothes folded neatly on the shelves. At the stuffed rabbit sitting in the corner. Things he never got to see happen. Things he missed. Then he looks back at you. "And now I'm here." His voice is quiet. Steady. Like he's reminding himself. "I'm home. And i'm never leaving you again." You blink rapidly.
"Frank…"
"So no." He shakes his head. "I don't wanna sleep."
"You need sleep."
"I wanna do this." He gestures around the room. The nursery. The crib. The tiny pink blanket folded nearby. "I wanna know where you keep the diapers." You laugh through the tears gathering in your eyes. Frank keeps going. "I wanna know which drawer her clothes are in." Your lips wobble. "I wanna know what doctor you've been seein' or where your to-go bag is. I wanna know your cravings, what side y'like to sleep on."
"Frank…"
"I wanna know which stuffed animals she likes."
"She isn't born yet."
"Don't matter." A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I still wanna know." A tear escapes. Frank immediately reaches up and wipes it away.
"Hey." You shake your head.
"I just…" Your voice breaks. "You should be taking care of yourself." His expression softens completely. The teasing disappears. The grumbling disappears. Everything disappears. Until it's just Frank. Just your husband. Looking at you like you're something precious. Something he almost lost.
"Sweetheart." Your eyes meet his. "I spent seven months takin' care of myself." The words land softly. "But I ain't spent any time takin' care of my girls." You laugh.
"I still think you need rest." You say. Frank kisses your forehead.
"Trust me, baby. Being here with you, at home, and not in a place where I'm getting shot at every six seconds qualifies as rest." He pulls away from you and ducks down to grab the screwdriver. You groan.
"God, Frank- At least take a nap. Please ?" Frank looks up at you like you just asked him to sell you drugs.
Y/N, finding a scrap of paper in Daryl’s vest pocket when grabbing it for Carol to wash: Hey, that’s my name!
Daryl, snatching the paper, ears turning violently red: So?
Y/N, teasing: Oh come on, let me see! Is it a poem?
Daryl, muttering angrily: S’just a list.
Y/N: A list? Of what?
Daryl: Nothin’.
Y/N, snatching the paper back and dodging to put the table between them while reading: "Y/N: Needs her own damn pillow. Lost my flashlight in the woods. Ate the last can of peaches and hid the tin under the couch."
Y/N, looking exasperated: Really?
Daryl: Really. Now give it—
Y/N, continuing: “Needs to learn how to cook ANYTHING without burning it. Promised me a kiss the other day when I brought back them berries.”
Summary: You secretly went on a supply run alone to get medicine, and Shane finds out and loses his temper.
My AO3
Warnings: Wrong grammar English is not my first language, swearing, fighting/wrestling, slight mention of zombies (walkers), hurt/comfort, 18+ MINORS DNI, smut with minor plot, p in v, angry sex, rough sex, hair pulling, orgasm denial, fingering, possessive!Shane, dirty talk, slight biting, NOT PROOF READ
Word Count: 4k+
A/n: Huge thank you for these creators💖:
Got the inspo for this one-shot from @prompt-heaven
"angry sex in the middle of a fight" and who better for that prompt but Shane.
Also I had to use those prompts "Fuck you're soaking wet for me baby" and "eyes open, keep looking" from @urfriendlywriter
@cherryonigiri taught me how to do my own line dividers something I desperately needed cause my posts were looking boring af.
It was supposed to be an easy in-and-out situation. Get into the pharmacy, grab what was in there, and get out. Easy.
Nope. It fucking wasn't. You almost had your hand mauled off by a walker and almost didn't make it out alive.
What had possessed you to think that you could do this alone? With not enough ammo? By some absolute miracle, you made it out with minimal injuries, just a few bruises and scratches
But you hated feeling helpless. The group desperately needed the medicine, the bandages, and the alcohol. So many people were injured. Shane was injured. He needed clean bandages for his wounds and painkillers, and you couldn't just sit there and watch him suffer. You had smuggled the supplies into the perimeter, thinking you'd got away clean.
The deep woods swallowed the camp getting further with each step, but Shane didn't care about cover. His fingers were dug into your arm like iron clamps, dragging you so fast through the thick undergrowth that your boots stumbled over hidden roots.
The moment he deemed you far enough away from the others, he spun you around and shoved you hard against a massive oak tree. The impact knocked the wind right out of your lungs, the rough bark biting into your jacket.
"What the hell were you thinking?!" Shane’s voice was a ragged, suffocating whisper, his face inches from yours. His eyes were completely wild, blown out with a terrifying mix of pure adrenaline and fury. "Alone? You went out there alone?!"
"Let go of me, Shane!" you snapped back, your own anger surging to match his. You drove your palms into his broad chest, pushing him away with everything you had, but he felt like a brick wall. "I did what needed to be done! Nobody else was going to get that medicine! The camp is bleeding out!"
"You could have died!" he yelled, the force of his breath hitting your face as he lunged right back into your space, his massive hands locking onto your upper arms. He shook you slightly, his fingers digging in so deep it was going to leave bruises. "You don't face those things by yourself! You don't risk your neck without telling me! You think you're some kind of goddamn hero?!"
"I'm trying to keep us alive!" you screamed right back, twisting violently to wrench your arms free. "Look at you! You're walking around with open wounds, sweating through your shirt, and you're going to lecture me about survival? I did it for the camp! I did it because-"
"Because what?!" Shane interrupted, his voice dropping into a dark, dangerous growl. He stepped even closer, pinning your lower body against the tree with his own weight, completely cutting off your escape. "Because you thought you could just slip out into the dark and play Russian roulette with the dead? You think I can just sit here and let you do that?"
"I don't owe you anything, Shane! You're not my keeper!" You managed to tear one arm loose, bringing your hand up to shove hard against his chest. "You're reckless every single day, but the second I try to help, you lose your mind? Go to hell!"
He doesn't budge, it only seems to make him angrier than before. he grabs both your wrists and hold them together trapping you between him and the tree trunk.
"Let me ask you something" His voice had dropped. No yelling. No screaming. Just that low, dangerous calm that always seemed worse.
"Did you think I wouldn't notice you were gone?" he asked roughly as he hold tighten on your wrists.
You glared up at him. "I came back, didn't I?" The second the words left your mouth, Shane's jaw clenched.
"Oh, that's your defense?" A sharp, disbelieving laugh escaped him.
"That's what you're going with?" You jerked against his grip. "Let me go."
"No."
"Shane-"
"No."
The word cracked through the air like a gunshot.Every muscle in his body looked wound too tight. Even standing still, he seemed seconds away from exploding.
"You sneak out before sunrise, don't tell anybody where you're going, disappear for hours, and then come strollin' back into camp actin' like everything's fine?"
"I got the damn medicine, didn't I?" you shot back.
"That's not the point!"
"It is the point!"
"No, it ain't!"
The trees seemed to shake with the force of his voice. You refused to look away.
your vision blurring slightly with the pure adrenaline coursing through your veins. Your heart was hammering against your ribs so hard it felt bruised.
"It is the point!" you shrieked right back into his face, your voice cracking under the weight of your own hidden terror.
"I did it for you, you idiot!" you yelled. The tears of anger finally stinging the corners of your eyes.
Shane’s grip on your wrists didn't loosen, but his whole body went entirely rigid. His chest stopped heaving for a fraction of a second, his wild eyes scanning your face as if trying to process what you just said.
You wrenched your hands against his hold, desperate to shake him, to make him understand. "Look at you! You’re walking around camp sweating through your shirt, your wounds need to be cleaned, and we have nothing left! What if you got an infection?! What if you died because we didn't have a clean piece of goddamn cloth to wrap you in?! I was worried about you, Shane!"
The confession hit him like a physical blow.
The roaring fury in Shane's face instantly shifted into something much more dangerous, much more desperate. The screaming match died on his lips, leaving him completely out of breath. He didn't let go of your wrists, but the iron clamp of his fingers trembled against your skin.
He leaned forward, dropping his forehead directly against yours with a heavy, ragged thud. His breathing was so frantic, so completely unraveled, that his hot breath fanned right across your lips.
"Don't you ever do that," he barked out, his voice no longer a shout, but a fierce, breathless snarl right against your skin. "Don't you dare put that on me. You think I care about a goddamn scratch on my skin? I thought you were dead. You hear me? I woke up, you were gone, and I thought you were dead."
He lifted his head just enough to force you to lock eyes with him in the dim, woods. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked.
For a second, neither of you spoke. The woods felt impossibly quiet, the distant sounds of the camp completely fading away. The only thing left was the silence stretching between you. Something in your chest twisted painfully.
You hated this. You hated how close he was, crowding your space. You hated how terrified he had looked when he confessed it. But most of all, you hated that a part of you understood exactly why he was this angry.
"Shane..."His grip tightened instinctively at the sound of his name. It wasn't enough to hurt, but it was enough to stop you from leaving, enough to remind you that he was still right there. Still furious.Still scared. Still looking at you like he'd completely lost his damn mind the second he couldn't find you.
Your frustration came roaring back, sharp and hot. With a sudden, violent jerk, you tore your wrists from his grasp and shoved him hard in the chest.
"Stop it!"
Shane stumbled back a couple of steps. It wasn’t because you were stronger than him, but because he completely wasn't expecting the retaliation.
"Stop acting like you're the only one who's allowed to be scared!" you snapped, your voice trembling. His expression darkened instantly, the shadows cutting across his sharp jawline. You shook your head, unable to take the heat of his stare for another second, and turned away.
"I can't do this right now."
You took two steps. Three. The dry leaves crunched beneath your boots as you tried to escape back to the camp.
Then, a heavy hand wrapped firmly around your wrist. You froze. For a terrifying moment, neither of you moved.
Slowly, you lowered your gaze to where his large fingers completely circled your arm, his skin burning hot against yours. Then, you looked back up. Shane was staring at you. He wasn't angry this time. Not anymore. He was just looking at you, as if he were trying to memorize the exact fact that you were standing right here.
The air between you suddenly felt too thick to breathe too hot. A knot tightened in your stomach
"Let go," you whispered. The words lacked any real conviction, dying out in the space between you.
His dark eyes flickered briefly down to your mouth before snapping right back to your eyes. Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away. The argument was still hanging heavily between you. The lingering anger, the frustration, the sheer terror of the apocalypse. All of it was right there. But underneath the wreckage was something else. Something that had been simmering under the surface for a very long time, and neither of you seemed willing to name it.
Shane swallowed hard, the movement of his throat sharp in the light. You felt your own breath catch in your throat. your eyes fell to his lips which were slightly apart due to his heavy breathing. He notices your lingering eyes.
He slides his hand up from your wrist, his thick fingers tangling into your hair to anchor you, tilting you face up as he steps forward and buries his mouth against your in a deep, bruising kiss.
You didn't hesitate. The moment his lips smashed against yours, your anger didn't dissolve but it exploded. You met his aggression beat for beat, your mouth opening hungrily against his as you fought him for dominance in the kiss. Your free hand flew up, your fingers clawing desperately into the fabric of his shirt, bunching the rough material in your fist to pull him closer, to grind your chest against his.
Shane let out a muffled, ragged growl against your mouth, the sound vibrating deep in his throat. His fingers tightened in your hair, tugging just hard enough to keep your face angled exactly where he wanted it while his other hand came down, locking around your waist like a vise to anchor your hips flush against his.
His hands tore across your body, groping blindly through your clothes as if he were trying to memorize every single line of you, proving to himself that you were still warm, still alive, and still his.
With a harsh tug, he yanked your shirt up. His calloused palms filled themselves with your breasts through the fabric of your bra before he hooked a thumb under the lace, pulling the cup down to expose you to the cool night air. His mouth latched onto your hard nipple instantly, sucking with a fierce, bruising hunger that made your head snap back against the rough tree trunk. A breathless gasp tore from your lungs. Your fingers tangled deep into his short hair, anchoring him against you, pulling him closer even as the bark bit into your spine.
He didn't stop, his hands already fighting their way down to the waistband of your pants. He shoved his palm flat against your denim, his fingers finding your center through the fabric before working his way underneath.
"Fuck you're soaking wet for me baby" Shane groaned against your ear, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin.
He didn't waste time teasing. He thrust two fingers deep inside you, filling you up in one slick, heavy motion. Your eyes clamped shut as a sharp gasp left your lips. He knew your body too well his fingers immediately found that sweet, spongy spot inside you, stroking with a relentless, demanding rhythm that made your knees buckle and your legs tremble against him.
The rhythm of his fingers turned punishing, driven by the lingering heat of the argument. He wasn't just touching you he was taking it out on you, his knuckles grinding against your sensitive skin with a relentless, heavy friction.
"You think you can just run off?" he growled, his voice thick and low against the column of your neck. He used his thumb to pin you at the same time his fingers drove deeper, intentionally abusing your sweet, swollen clit until your entire body went rigid. "Think you can just do whatever the fuck you want?"
Your hands locked onto his shoulders, fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt as the pleasure turned sharp, bordering on overwhelming. The adrenaline from the run and the fury of the screaming match were swirling together, pushing you toward the edge far too fast. Your head thrashed against the bark, a high, broken whine catching in your throat as your hips involuntarily stuttered against his hand. You were so close your muscles tightening, clenching around his fingers, your breath hitching into short, desperate gasps.
He knew that you were close and then, he pulled his fingers completely out.
The sudden, cold emptiness made your eyes snap open. Your breath hitched, your body left trembling on the absolute precipice of a release that was completely denied.
"Shane," you gasped, your voice a mix of frustration and disbelief as you looked at him through the dark. "What- why did you stop?"
Shane leaned in, his face inches from yours, his expression hard and unreadable. He wiped his wet fingers flat against your thigh, his jaw clenched tight. "Because you don't deserve to come," he muttered, the words cold and deliberate. "Not today. Not after what you pulled."
The sheer arrogance of it made your blood boil all over again. The lingering pleasure snapped instantly back into pure rage. "Fuck you," you spat, shoving your hands against his chest.
Before you could even draw another breath, his hand locked onto your shoulder, spinning you around with a rough, heavy wrench. He slammed you forward against the tree trunk so your back was facing his chest. The rough bark scraped against your cheek and your palms as you were forced to lean against the wood, your hips shoved back out toward him.
He moved in right behind you, his heavy, solid weight pressing your front entirely flat against the tree, pinning you securely between his chest and the bark.
The solid, unyielding pressure of the tree bark bit into your palms and the scratchy wood scraped against your cheek as Shane crowded you from behind. He was a wall of radiating heat at your back, heavy and suffocating. You could feel the rigid, pulsing length of his cock pressing aggressively right through his clothes, anchoring itself firmly against the dip of your lower back, a stark reminder of just how furious and how hard he was.
Before you could draw a full breath, his hands were at your hips. He didn't waste time unbuttoning; he just grabbed the waistbands of your jeans and panties together, tearing them down past your thighs with a rough, impatient yank that left your skin tingling in the cool air. The sudden contrast of the cold wind and his scorching body heat made a shiver rack your spine.
He didn't slide inside you right away. Instead, he aligned himself, pressing his bare, throbbing length tightly between your thighs He began to thrust forward, the friction of his shaft sliding between your legs creating a tight, burning heat against your slit. coating his cock in your moisture until there was a wet, heavy rhythm echoing between your bodies. At the same time, his fingers reached around to the front, finding your swollen, aching clit. He rubbed you with a heavy, demanding pressure, his hand slicking itself with your own heat.
The sensation was overwhelming with the rough bark beneath your hands, the frantic friction between your thighs, and the deep, possessive growls vibrating out of his chest against your shoulder.
Then, his hand moved up. His fingers spread wide, locking securely around the front of your throat. He didn't choke you, but the weight of his palm was a solid, dominant command that forced your head back against his shoulder.
"Look what you do to me," he rasped into your ear, his voice rough.
With a sudden, powerful surge of his hips, he drove himself inside you in one deep, unyielding thrust. The sudden fullness stretched you open, a sharp gasp catching instantly in your restricted throat. Your eyes rolled back as your fingers clawed blindly at the bark, your legs trembling under the sheer, bruising impact of him taking exactly what he wanted.
The searing, heavy stretch of him filling you completely was almost too much to bear, a sharp ache that burned so damn good it made your vision blur. Shane didn't rush. He kept his pace agonizingly slow and brutal, driving his hips forward until he bottomed out against you, holding you pinned there for a fraction of a second before dragging himself nearly all the way out, only to slam back in.
"Yeah, you like that? You like how I fuck you?" he hissed against your ear, his breath a scorching, ragged contrast to the cool air. "Look how good you take me, you feel so good wrapped around me"
Pulling your face around to force your mouth against his. The kiss was deep, punishing, and tasted like the metallic tang of adrenaline. You moaned directly into his mouth, a sound of pure pleasure and frustration mixed together that he swallowed whole. He could feel your heart hammering frantically against his palm, matching the tight, involuntary clenches of your walls rippling around his cock.
Shane let out a low, dark chuckle, knowing exactly how close you were. He stopped his hips entirely, leaving himself buried deep inside you, a tease that made you whine in protest against his lips.
"You want it?" he whispered, his voice dropping into a gritty, uncensored purr as his fingers wrapped around one of your breasts, twisting your sensitive nipple just hard enough to make your hips jerk. "You want to come for me after what you pulled tonight? No. You’re gonna beg me for it first."
He leaned his heavy chest fully against your back, his mouth moving down to bite at the soft skin where your neck met your shoulder.
"I want to hear it," he growled, his grip on your nipple tightening as his thumb brushed over your slick clit, intentionally sending a shockwave of pleasure through you without giving you the release. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me you belong to me, and maybe I’ll let you have it."
Your fingers locked onto the rough bark of the tree, your nails scraping against the wood as a shudder racked your entire body. The combination of his thumb rubbing your clit and his fingers twisting your nipple was pure torture, pushing you so close to the edge that you could barely breathe. But the sheer arrogance in his voice sparked a final, stubborn ember of your original anger.
You weren't going to make it easy for him.
"Screw... you," you gasped out, your voice trembling but laced with as much venom as you could muster. You forced your head back against his shoulder, glaring at him. "You don't... own me, Shane."
Shane’s jaw clenched so hard you almost heard the bone click right next to your ear. The small, dark smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, volatile heat. He didn't say another word. Instead, he punished your defiance by dragging himself nearly all the way out before slamming back into you with a brutal, unyielding force that knocked the remaining air straight out of your lungs.
He kept you right on that agonizing verge, hitting that sweet spot with a relentless, heavy pace that made your knees completely buckle. Your legs gave out under the sheer, overwhelming weight of the friction, your body sliding down the rough trunk of the tree.
Shane didn't let you fall. His hand hooked securely under your armpit, catching your weight and guiding you down with him as he sank to his knees, never breaking the connection between your bodies.
With a low, frustrated grunt, he hooked a hand behind your knee and roughly rolled you onto your back. The cold, damp earth bit through your shirt, but you barely felt it before Shane’s massive weight crashed down on top of you, pinning you flat into the crushed leaves. He braced his forearms on either side of your head, his chest heaving, his gaze locked firmly onto yours.
He lifted his hips and drove back into you, the shift in angle striking that hyper-sensitive, swollen spot with a direct, bruising friction that made your back arch off the ground. A high, broken sob left your throat. You tried to turn your head away, tried to hide the sudden, helpless undoing of your face, but his hand snapped up, his calloused fingers gripping your jaw tightly to lock you in place. Your hold on his shoulders tighten desperately. You can feel the tension in his muscles under your hands.
The pressure inside you was building like a tight wire ready to snap. Your hips stuttered against his blindly, your breath hitching into tiny, desperate gasps as the release caught up to you, violent and demanding. Your eyelids started to flutter shut.
"No," Shane growled, his thumb digging into your chin, forcing your face up. He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his sweat dripping onto your cheek.
"Eyes open. Keep looking." The command cut through the haze of pleasure. "I wanna see you come undone around my cock"
You forced your eyes open, your vision turning white at the edges from his rough thrusts. You looked right into the dark, unhinged depth of his stare just as the boundary broke. Your body shattered beneath him, your walls clenching around his cock in tight, violent waves of release.
Shane watched every single second of it the way your pupils dilated, the way your lips parted in a silent scream, the absolute vulnerability of your surrender. The sight of you breaking completely under him tore away his last shred of control. With a loud, animalistic groan, he buried his face in the crook of your neck and drove himself inside you one last time, his own body locking up as he came hard, filling you with a heavy, pulsing heat.
The violent, frantic rhythm of his chest against yours slowly began to even out, the heavy, suffocating weight of him shifting from aggressive dominance into a desperate need for contact. The silence of the woods pressed back in around you, heavy and damp, punctuated only by your overlapping, ragged breaths and the quiet rustle of the leaves beneath you.
Shane didn't pull away. He stayed buried deep inside you, his face hidden in the crook of your neck. His skin was slick with sweat his breathing finally beginning to slow. Slowly, the rigid, tense muscles in his broad shoulders began to unlock.
With a low, exhausted sigh that felt warm against your damp skin, he finally shifted his weight, easing himself off you. But he didn't distance himself. Instead, he hooked a heavy arm around your waist and pulled you flush against his side, dragging you with him onto the dry canvas tarp he’d kicked over earlier.
You lay there in the dark, your thighs sticky and your body trembling from the massive adrenaline crash. The cold night air immediately bit at your exposed skin, making you shiver.
Shane noticed instantly. He let out a rough, quiet grunt his anger entirely burnt out, replaced by that gruff, protective instinct that was uniquely his. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he tugged your underwear and jeans back up, smoothing the fabric over your hips with none of the roughness from before. He pulled your shirt down, then reached over to grab his discarded flannel shirt from the dirt, shaking it out before draping it over your shoulders like a heavy blanket.
"Come here," he muttered, his voice incredibly hoarse.
He slid his arm under your neck, pulling your head onto his chest. Your fingers automatically curled into the fabric of his shirt, your face burying into his warmth, breathing in the comforting, familiar scent of woodsmoke, and him.
Shane’s hand came up to your head. His calloused fingers, which had been wrapped around your throat just minutes ago, gently tangled into your hair. He began to stroke it, slow and repetitive, his thumb brushing against your temple to soothe the lingering tension there.
The revelation of why you had gone out there hung heavily between you on the canvas tarp, completely reshaping the quiet space of the aftermath.
Shane lay perfectly still, his eyes wide open, staring up at the dark canopy of leaves above. Your words from earlier the sheer, frantic terror of your confession were clearly still echoing in his head. The realization that you had risked your life, scrambled over fences, and almost lost a hand to a walker just to keep him from rotting from an infection had completely disarmed his remaining defenses.
Slowly, he shifted his weight, turning onto his side to look down at you. In the faint light the sun was starting to set, his face looked softer than you had seen it in months, the hard lines of his jaw finally relaxed.
"For me," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that was barely a whisper. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering over your face for a second before his fingers gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "You went out into that hell for me."
"I told you I did," you whispered back, your voice still a little raw from the screaming match. You looked up at him, your fingers trailing up his chest to rest over the bandage you had spent the last twenty minutes carefully applying to his side with the fresh antiseptic. "You were burning up, Shane. You wouldn't stop sweating, and you wouldn't slow down. You were going to kill yourself trying to protect everyone else, and I wasn't just going to sit there and watch it happen."
"Don't do it again." A plea disguised as a demand. "I mean it," he said, his voice turning dead serious, though the harsh edge from earlier was completely gone.
"Shane-""No, shut up and listen to me," he interrupted gently, pressing his thumb against your lips to silence you. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, before finally resting his lips against yours. The kiss was slow, deep, and completely devoid of the bruising anger from before. It was sweet, heavy with an unsaid gratitude and a possessiveness that had finally found its footing.
"Next time something needs gettin', we go together." His stare held yours. "You hear me?" You nodded.
"Yeah."
"Okay," you whispered, a small smile finally breaking through your exhaustion. "Together."
Shane let out a contented grunt, pulling the heavy flannel shirt tighter around your shoulders before settling back down into the dirt, holding you securely against his side. As his breathing slowed and he finally drifted off to sleep, his grip on you didn't loosen an inch a silent promise that he was never letting you out of his sight again.
"You are a pain in my ass." You smiled into his shoulder.
"And you're bossy."
"Damn right." For the first time all day, his voice sounded normal.
“Now get your ass up we need to change your bandages” You ordered softly.
Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!
[MyMasterlist]
If you want to be tagged in my posts please comment here or on this post
summary : frank is really really bad at sitting still
warnings : now this is a filthy one- SMUT, MDNI, sub!frank who fails at being a sub basically, pathetic!frank, needy!frank, praise, size kink, teasing, explicit language, mentions of bondage (kind of ?), there is NO plot
word count : 5.7 k
a/n: i felt things. too many things.
NOT PROOFREAD.
Frank Castle is many things.
Patient is not one of those things.
You've discovered something important a few months into dating Frank Castle:
He can handle gunfights. Interrogations. Broken bones. Entire criminal organizations.
What he can not handle was being denied access to his own girlfriend.
Especially when she is doing it on purpose.
Which, to Frank's great dismay, is exactly whats happening here.
You're walking around in nothing but his shirt- completely naked underneath, and he's following you around like a lost puppy, groaning everytime you smack his hand away when he tries to grab onto you.
"Sweetheart."
"No."
"I said i was sorry."
"You watched our show without me." Frank looks deeply offended.
"I didn't mean to."
"Liar." His mouth twitches.
You continue your mission around the apartment, which currently consists of doing absolutely nothing while pretending to be busy.
Frank trails after you. Not subtly. Not with dignity. Just follows. You stop in front of the fridge. Frank stops behind you. You open the fridge. Frank leans against the counter. You stare into the refrigerator for a solid ten seconds. Frank waits. Eventually:
"You don't even know what you're looking for." You grab a bottle of water.
"I found it."
"Uh huh." You shut the fridge. Frank immediately reaches for your waist. Smack. His hand gets batted away. The betrayed look on his face is immediate.
"Again?"
"Again."
"You're killin' me."
"You're dramatic."
"I'm sufferin'."
"Guess you should've thought twice before breaking a promise." You roll your eyes. Frank follows you back into the living room, muttering under his breath. Something about cruel and unusual punishment. Something about Geneva Conventions. Something about how he definitely deserves compensation. You collapse onto the couch. Frank's face brightens instantly. Like maybe, finally, his luck has changed. Then you pull your legs up and point to the armchair across from you. The smile disappears.
"Absolutely not."
"Absolutely yes."
"Sweetheart."
"Chair." He stares at the armchair like it's personally offended him. Then he looks at you. Then back at the armchair.
"This is ridiculous."
"You watched three episodes without me."
"It was two." Your eyes narrow. Frank visibly realizes his mistake. "…Maybe it was three."
"Chair." A deep sigh escapes him. The kind of sigh usually reserved for paperwork and government offices. Then, muttering under his breath, he drops into the armchair.
"There."
"Thank you."
"M'bein' punished in my own house."
"Our house." Frank points at you.
"See? That's exactly the kinda technicality lawyers use." You grin. He does not. Well. He tries not to. The problem is that Frank Castle has never been particularly good at hiding when he finds you adorable. Especially when you're being a menace. You curl up deeper into the couch, taking a dramatic sip from your water bottle. Frank watches. Five seconds pass.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Then— "You done?"
"No."
"Been over an hour."
"Actions have consequences."
"You sound like me."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"It was." Frank groans. Then leans forward. Resting his elbows on his knees. Watching you. Just watching. The way a wolf watches a rabbit. A very patient wolf. A very annoyed wolf. But a wolf nonetheless. You ignore him. Or at least pretend to. You flip through channels. Check your phone. Adjust a blanket. Every time you glance up, Frank is still looking.
"You're staring."
"Yeah."
"A little creepy."
"Yeah."
"No shame?"
"Nope." You snort. Frank's mouth twitches. Then he notices something. Specifically, the way you've tucked your legs up beneath yourself. Which causes the oversized shirt to ride up slightly. Not enough to be scandalous. More than enough to distract him. His eyes immediately drop. You catch it.
"Frank." His gaze snaps upward.
"Yeah?"
"Eyes."
"They're attached t'my head." You throw a pillow at him. Frank catches it one-handed. Laughing. Actually laughing now. Which should probably concern you. Because usually when Frank starts laughing during your punishment plans, it means he's stopped suffering and started plotting.
"You think this is funny?" you ask.
"I think you're enjoyin' yourself way too much."
"Maybe."
"Mhm." The look he gives you makes your stomach flip. Not because it's particularly intense. But because it's so fond. Like he can't believe you're real. Like he's completely helpless about it. Which, honestly, he probably is.
After a moment, Frank stands. You immediately point.
"Chair." He freezes.
"…I was gettin' water."
"Uh huh."
"I was."
"You have legs."
"So do you." Frank blinks. You blink. Then his mouth slowly spreads into a grin.
"Oh, we're bein' smart now."
"We're always smart."
"Sweetheart." His voice drops slightly. Warm. Dangerous.The way it always does when he's losing patience and finding you adorable at the same time. A terrible combination.
"You keep pushin' your luck." You smile sweetly.
"You keep watchin' shows without me." For a second, neither of you moves. Then Frank shakes his head. Laughing again. Soft this time.
"You know what the worst part is?"
"What?" His eyes meet yours.
"I'd rather sit over there lookin' at you than watch the damn show anyway." You roll your eyes.
"Then, sit down." Frank drops back into the chair with all the enthusiasm of a man reporting for jury duty.
"There," he grumbles.
"Good."
"M'being extorted."
"You watched our show."
"I made a mistake."
"You made three mistakes. Consecutively." Frank drags a hand down his face.
"This relationship's become a dictatorship."
"Funny. I don't remember hearing any complaints before." His eyes narrow.
"You were nicer before."
"No, I wasn't."
"Fair point." You smile smugly and settle deeper into the couch. For approximately thirty seconds. Then an idea occurs to you.
A terrible idea. Frank notices immediately.
"No."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that gets me in trouble." You grin. Frank groans.
"Oh, come on." Without warning, you climb off the couch. His eyebrows rise. "Where're you goin'?"
"Nowhere."
"That's a lie."
"It is." You wander over casually. Frank watches you approach with the cautious expression of a man who has survived multiple combat zones and somehow knows this is more dangerous.
"Sweetheart."
"Hm?"
"What're you doin'?"
"Nothing."
"You're smilin'."
"Am I?"
"That's how I know somethin' terrible's about t'happen." You stop directly in front of him. Frank tilts his head back to look up at you. Then—before he can ask another question—you casually settle on his lap. Frank freezes. Completely. Absolutely. Motionless. For three entire seconds. Then:
"…Sweetheart."
"Yes?"
"You are not playin' fair anymore." You smile.
"Maybe." His hands instinctively start moving toward your waist. Smack. You bat them away. Frank stares.
"You sat in my lap."
"Mhm."
"And I'm not allowed t'touch you."
"Correct."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"It makes perfect sense." This time, Frank's hands hover midair for a full second, torn between self-preservation and the natural law of the universe that states: if your girlfriend is in your lap, you have to touch her. He flexes his fingers, jaw ticking. Your own hands cup his face. The sandpaper roughness of his jaw, the heat radiating from his skin. You lean in, so close your noses nearly brush, and drop your voice to a near-whisper.
"You want to touch me?" He's barely breathing.
"Yeah."
"Too bad." The words are a ghost against his lips. Frank's jaw flexes, the muscle ticking at his temple. You move, just a little. Just enough to shift the weight of yourself in his lap, and his pupils nearly swallow his eyes whole.
You're not immune to him. Not remotely. But you're stubborn.
"Are you going to behave?" Frank snorts.
"I ain't the problem here." You test him, rolling your hips just once, and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.
"Havin' a rough time?" you ask, syrupy sweet.
"You're a fuckin' menace," he growls, but stays put, hands clenched into fists against the armrests, white-knuckled.
"Just sit still, Frankie." You lean forward, thumb brushing the line of his jaw, and press a gentle kiss to his mouth. He goes perfectly still, breath locked behind his teeth, and you can feel the heat radiate off of him like a furnace. You part his lips with yours, tongue gentle, teasing, then break away. His gaze is molten—half threat, half plea. You slide off his lap, kneeling between his legs. Frank's brow furrows.
"What're you—"
"Shh," you say, palming him through the jeans. He twitches under your touch, straining, and when you glance up, he's watching you like a man dying of thirst. You work him out of the waistband, marvel at the weight of him, the way his cock fills your palm and then some. You give the head a gentle squeeze; his whole body shudders.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, voice strangled.
"Wouldn't dream of it," you say, and take him into your mouth. Frank makes a sound, low and helpless, shuddering as your tongue circles the head, lavishing attention, then slides down the length, slow and deliberate. You keep your hands behind your back, just to prove a point, and he watches you, jaw slack, chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttered breaths. You take your time. You drag it out, every inch, every flick of your tongue calculated to torment. Every time you sense him getting close—when his thighs tense, when his hips buckle up—you pull back, giving him a chance to collect himself. He tries to chase your mouth but you raise your eyebrows, warning.
"Fuckin' hell," he groans, head falling back against the chair. "You're so mean." You grin, mouth wrapped tight around him, and this time you let him get close. Real close. You feel him start to shake, every muscle straining, and at the last possible moment you pull off, wiping the corner of your lip with your thumb, looking up at him. Frank's staring down at you, eyes wild, lips parted.
"You're killin' me, sweetheart," he says. He's actually trembling. You stand slowly, and straddle him again, your knees on either side of his thighs. His cock, flushed and angry, is trapped between you, still leaking, and you press your bare, slick heat against him, grinding just enough to make him groan in frustration.
"You want to touch me?" you ask, voice all innocence. He nods eagerly, hands flying up to try to grab hold of your breasts through the shirt. You catch his wrists before he makes contact. "Ah ah," you say, and pull the belt from the waistband of his jeans, a move so fast he doesn't register it until you're looping it around his wrists, behind the chair, snug but not cruel. Frank's eyes go wide, more with delight than alarm.
"You're gonna tie me up now?"
"You're on parole," you say. "Zero privileges."
"You're fuckin' killin' me," he says, but his voice is ragged and soft. You lean in, kiss him again, slower now, and with your hands free, you reach between your bodies and line him up. He sucks in a heavy breath as you run him along your folds, your wetness spreading over his tip. His head tips back and he groans, the leather squeaking as he pulls on it.
“Baby- Fuck.” You don't let him in right away. You grind—slow, mean, wet—against the head of his cock, dragging swollen heat back and forth until you're both panting. Frank's tied hands flex behind the chair, useless, and he glares at you like maybe he could vaporize the clothes off you if he tried hard enough. You brace your hands on his broad shoulders, nails digging in for leverage, and sink down onto him in one long, torturous slide. Frank's jaw drops, head thumping back against the upholstery with a muffled curse. You feel it too: the stretch, the thick pressure, the ache of him splitting you in half and then slotting home so deep you shiver. He’s so big it hurts at first, but you love the way he grits his teeth and tries not to buck up into you. He wants to touch you so badly you can practically feel his fingers flexing against the belt, desperate for skin. You plant your hands on his chest—warm, rock-hard, trembling—and sink down until he bottoms out.You hold there, full and trembling, and watch him fall apart. He tries to move. Tries to buck up into you, to get anything, but you hold him captive in your lap the way he's always wanted to be: helpless, at your mercy, his body yours to torment. You rock forward, then back, tiny shallow movements that do nothing to satisfy but everything to drive him wild. His arms flex behind the chair, biceps straining, and he looks at you with absolute desperation.
“Fuck. Fuck.” Frank’s voice breaks. His knuckles have gone white against the arms of the chair. You start to move, slow enough that it’s almost cruel. The tip of him drags against all the most sensitive parts of you, but you keep your rhythm lazy, circling your hips, rolling forward just enough that the head of his cock presses where you want it. With every movement, his breath gets rougher, harsher. He’s already sweating, a bead running from his hairline down the thick column of his neck. He looks so out of control, so needy, that it makes you shiver. Frank can’t stop watching you. His eyes dart from your face to where your bodies meet, then back up again. Every time you clench around him, he lets out a choked little noise, almost a whimper.
“Please,” he says. He never begs. Not for anything. But he’s begging now. You grind down harder, putting your weight into it, letting the friction build until you’re panting. Your thighs start to tremble by the third or fourth slow thrust. Frank’s hips twitch up, unable to help himself, but you pin him with a warning glare and he actually tries to behave. “Want to touch you so bad,” he rasps. His arms strain against the belt, the tendons along his forearms standing out. “Let me, baby. Let me.” Your answer is to lean forward, dragging your nails down his chest, finding his pulse with your lips and biting. He tips his head back, baring his throat, and you mark him there, just above the collarbone. You know he likes the sting. He always does.
"Sweetheart, please," he rasps. "Please, baby, I can't—" You shut him up with your mouth, kissing him open-mouthed and sloppy, like you can drink the misery right off his tongue. You stay on top, all control, working yourself on him at your own pace, ignoring his frantic jerks and the feverish way his eyes track every inch of skin you show. Each time you slow down, he begs you—quietly, then louder, until he's dunked his pride in the Hudson and all that's left is want. You pull off him, slow, and he yelps, then whines deep in his throat—a goddamn whimper, from the Punisher himself. You stroke him, wet and tight, watching his face twist with need, and then you slide down again, taking him to the hilt. His hands clench so hard the knuckles go white.
"You're fuckin'—god—you're so perfect, you know that?"
"I'm aware," you say, breathless. The chair thumps under you every time you drop down, and Frank's making little noises, almost pained, mouth open as he watches you. After a minute, he can't stop himself:
"Wanna taste you, baby, fuck, let me—"
"Nope," you pant, grinding faster. "You stay just like that." He groans, a pornographic sound, and you feel him swelling even more inside you, hips twitching uselessly under your weight. You pick up the pace, slamming down with a wet slap, over and over, until you feel him start to unravel.
"Not yet," you say, and squeeze tight around him, slowing your rhythm, enjoying the way he whines and shudders. He’s panting, brow slick with sweat, hairline damp. You ride him with a measured pace, savoring each needy, desperate twitch of his cock while you rake your nails down his chest and dig your heel into the cushion for better leverage. The shirt you’re wearing has ridden up to your waist, and you know exactly how obscene you must look—thighs spread, skin flushed, all of you on display and just for him. Frank’s gaze never leaves your body, even when you clench so hard his back arches off the chair. You start to laugh, breathless and mean.
“You ready to say sorry for real?” It’s a struggle just to get the words out; you’re clenching so tight you can barely move, wringing him out with every stroke. Frank’s jaw is locked, neck cords straining, but he grits out,
“Sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry. Jesus.” You reward him by grinding down, the head of his cock punching into your cervix, and it’s so much you see stars. Your hands tremble as you use him, and your thighs are already shaking, but the power is heady. You’re soaked, slick running down to his balls, pooling under where you’re both slicked together. Each time you bear down, you take him deeper, and each time he tries to buck you off, the belt keeps him bound and helpless. Frank’s a mess. He’s shaking, muscles twitching, every inch of him taut as cable. He keeps trying to jerk his arms loose and failing, the sound of the chair creaking under his strength only fueling you. He leans up to latch one of your waiting breasts in his mouth, his teeth grazing your nipple, and you whine, pussy clamping around him as you force yourself to push him off of you. He’s desperate enough now to bite, not gentle, and his tongue flicks over your nipple as you arch up, airless. The belt creaks louder—then, with a guttural snarl and a single, full-body surge, he explodes out of restraint, the knot on the robe belt popping apart with a sharp snap.
“Wha- No ! Frank-” You don’t even have time to gloat. His hands are on you instantly, one ironclad on your ass, the other at the small of your back, holding you down like he’s fighting gravity and the laws of physics for the right to keep you pinned to his cock. With his grip, you can’t control the pace any longer. Frank starts thrusting up into you, brutal, relentless, the slap of skin almost obscene. For a second, you’re shocked still—then you’re hanging onto his shoulders, nails carving red lines into his traps, riding out every shuddering, perfect snap of his hips. He buries his face in your neck, teeth scraping over the pulse point, and you feel him mutter against your skin:
"You fuckin’ drive me crazy, you know that? Insane. Should lock you up for criminal mischief, sweetheart." It’s not an insult. It’s worship, plain and simple. You can barely remember how to breathe, but god does he make you try. Each thrust fills you to the hilt, smacking your clit on every downstroke.
"Fuck, that's it," he gasps, voice thick with awe and need. Every part of you is stretched, used, overcome by the force of him rutting up into you, but it’s perfect, it’s everything, it’s too much and not enough in the same breath. You can't even control your sounds, not with the way Frank keeps you flush against him, his cock punching so deep you swear you could feel him in your stomach. Your vision goes blurry at the edges. There's nothing but the pulse of him inside you, the sound of his praises—ragged, unfiltered.
“You’re-mmph- a fucking asshole.” You rasp, eyes rolling back, your tone snappy. He snorts, lips hot in the crook of your neck.
"Comin' from the reigning champion." There's a hint of laughter tangled in the words, but his hands are everywhere now—palms splayed wide and greedy, kneading your ass, dragging you up and down the thick length of his cock. He's relentless, hips pistoning up with bruising force, each thrust so deep you go dizzy behind the eyes. This is the Frank you like best: untethered, out of patience, desperate to make you shatter before he does. He pulls back, just enough to watch your face as you drop down hard on him, and there's something reverent in the way he looks at you, like he's staring at a goddamn miracle.
"Look at you," he pants, voice all gravel and ache. "So pretty. So fuckin' perfect. Never—shit—never get tired of watchin' you ride me." The praise lands warm in your chest, makes you clench around him, and Frank loses composure for a second, cursing out loud. He brings a hand up to the back of your head, cradling it, thumb stroking your cheek, and it's almost sweet—except for the way his other hand is guiding your hips, forcing you to take every inch. Even now, he wants to take care of you. Even now, he’s obsessed with making you feel good.
You can’t believe the mere thought of not letting him touch you crossed your mind.
You bite down on your lip to keep from moaning as Frank shifts underneath you, hands braced on the small of your back and the curve of your ass, pinning you to him like he can make you dissolve into his skin if he just holds tight enough. The muscles in your legs feel molten, a slow burn radiating outward from where he's filling you, and the sound of his stilted praises—You’re so fucking good for me, god, look at you—beats in your ear harder than your own pulse.
You’re supposed to be in charge.
That’s the whole point: keep him wrapped up and desperate, all his power funneled into staying still and obeying. But Frank’s never been much for submission, and the grip he has on you feels like a threat and a promise: keep going and see what happens. Your thighs burn from the effort of riding him, the wet slap of your hips on his thighs getting faster, sloppier, until you can’t keep your rhythm anymore. You’re shaking, and Frank’s voice is getting raw—each time you drop down, he jerks up into you, barely restrained, his chest heaving. You know he’s close; you see it in the way he’s sweating, jaw set, eyes wild and black.
“Fuck, c’mon, sweetheart,” he grits, “don’t stop, please, you— you’re so tight, Jesus—” The words short-circuit your brain. You dig your fingers into his shoulders for leverage and bounce hard, using every ounce of strength you have left. Frank’s cock twitches inside you, the stretch and pressure right at the edge of too much, and you’re close, so close, you can already taste it. He lets go of your ass to cup one of your tits, palming it rough, thumb circling the nipple until you nearly scream. You’re so sensitive you could die. You want to claw at him, mark him, bite him just to prove you can. You lean in and nip at his ear, your breath hot and needy.
“Don’t you dare finish before me,” you whisper, and he growls, a low, vibrating sound that makes you clench so hard his entire body stutters.
“I got you, baby, I fuckin’ got you,” Frank gasps, and starts thrusting up in time with you, guiding you with both hands, holding you just tight enough to bruise. You move faster, chasing the high, barely aware of the way you’re swearing and crying out and leaving half-moon marks in his skin. Frank keeps talking—dirty and sweet all at once. “So good, so pretty, you make me crazy, gonna— fuck, can’t hold it—” He’s everywhere—filling you, all around you, inside your head. Frank’s strength, the size of him, the raw need in every muscle and sound. You can’t outlast him, not really, but you try to hold on, try to keep the upper hand even as he fucks any sense out of you. It’s a losing proposition. Your legs are shaking, thighs burning, but Frank isn’t slowing down. If anything, he’s fucking you harder, hands greedy, rough, worshipful.
“Pretty girl,” he grunts between thrusts, voice gone hoarse. “So good for me. So goddamn tight. Never—shit—never wanna be anywhere else.” You want to laugh, but you can barely remember your own name. He’s pounding up into you, blunt and relentless, and every time the head of his cock punches deep, you see white at the edges of your vision. You must be making some kind of noise—maybe begging, maybe cursing, maybe both—but you can’t get words to happen. Frank’s got you pressed down flush to his chest, big hands spanning your hips, guiding you, forcing you to take every inch. It’s the best kind of torture, and you don’t want it to stop, not ever. You fall forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, saliva slicking your lips as you gasp for air. His skin is damp with sweat, salt and heat, and you can smell the sharp, earthy bite of him, the cologne he never remembers to wear, the soap from the tiny shower. You bite him on instinct, a sharp warning, and he groans loud enough for the neighbors to complain. But he doesn’t stop. Frank’s grip is bruising, sure, but it’s the way he holds you that undoes you: like he’s terrified you’ll vanish, like you’re the only goddamn thing he cares about.
“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters into your hair, voice gone soft and tender and desperate.
“Can’t—fuck—can’t get enough of you. Want you to come for me. Please, baby, c’mon.” He’s not even trying to be quiet. He’s rutting into you with everything he’s got, and you’re arching, grinding, chasing that high with every broken, ragged breath.You don’t need to be told twice. You let go, all at once, riding him hard until your thighs tremble and your vision goes static. You break—shatter, really—legs locking up tight around his hips as you clamp down on him, the orgasm gutting you from the inside out. You swear, loud, and Frank groans like it’s his own name you’re chanting. He holds you through it, cock still twitching inside, and when you finally blink your eyes open, you see him watching you, hungry and desperate and so in love you could die. You can feel it, the way he needs you, the way he needs this, and for a moment it’s too much to handle. You don’t give him a chance to recover. You lean forward, hand flat against his chest, and fuck yourself on him with the last scraps of strength you have, chasing the aftershocks. The friction, the heat, the way his cock stretches you all over again—he’s losing it, and you can tell. Frank’s head tips back. He’s breathing so hard you think he might black out. He’s babbling, too, just under his breath, a string of curses and pleads and “please, baby, please, so good, so goddamn good, never want it to stop.” You keep going until you feel him throb, thick and pulsing, and then he breaks, clutching you to him as he comes hard, filling you so deep you swear you can feel him everywhere. The sound he makes goes straight through your whole body—it’s a howl, almost, helpless and raw. He holds you, so tight it hurts, and you can’t breathe, but you don’t want him to ever let go. You collapse against his chest, both of you ruined and shaking, sweat slicking your skin together. Frank’s hands are gentle now, all the fight gone out of them, just smoothing up and down your back, petting your hair, keeping you tethered to earth. He nuzzles his nose into your temple, breathless, still mumbling.
“Jesus Christ, sweetheart. Gonna kill me one of these days.” His voice has gone soft, a little hoarse. You smile, lips dragging over his collarbone, and nudge at him with your nose.
“That’s the plan.” Frank huffs. He can’t even manage indignation, not with your pussy still milking him for everything he’s got. You nuzzle in closer, letting yourself go boneless, content to soak up the heat and the afterglow. For a long time, neither of you moves. You count the thud of his heart against your cheek, the sweat cooling on his skin, the aftershocks twitching through your own muscles. Frank’s hands drift, slow and aimless, up and down your back, never still for more than a second. You think he might be trying to memorize the shape of you, just in case. Eventually, you shift, and he loosens his hold enough to look at you. His lips are swollen, beard rough against your cheek, eyes almost soft for a change. He thumbs sweat from your hairline, and the tenderness in the gesture makes your whole body shiver.
"You're never allowed to do that every again, y'hear ?" He rasps, tapping you on your spine. You lift your head from his chest and squint at him.
"Never allowed to do what?" Frank gives you a look.
"You know exactly what."
"I really don't."
"Sweetheart." The warning in his voice would be a lot more intimidating if he didn't currently look completely exhausted. You grin.
"Oh, you mean the part where I taught you a valuable lesson about loyalty and commitment?" Frank stares at the ceiling.
"This is what I get for lovin' you."
"Correct."
"You weaponize it."
"Also correct." A long-suffering sigh leaves him. Then, despite all the complaining, his arm tightens around your shoulders. Because that's Frank. All grumbling. All complaints. And somehow always holding you a little closer while he does it. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic outside. The adrenaline has burned off, leaving behind something softer. Frank brushes a strand of hair away from your face. You poke his ribs.
"You're cute." Frank immediately scowls.
"No, I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
"No."
"Frank."
"No."
"The fact you're arguing about it proves my point." His eyes narrow. You laugh. He shakes his head, and he brings his hands up to run them down his face- and you spot the redness circling his wrists. Redness from when you tied him up with that belt.
"Oh shit." You sit up straight, trying to ignore the way his softening dick pokes at your sore insides. "Frank, i'm so sorry." Frank blinks down at you.
"For what?" You carefully take one of his wrists, turning it over in your hands. The skin is pink where the belt had rubbed.
"For this." Frank follows your gaze. Then he snorts. Actually snorts.
"Sweetheart."
"No, seriously."
"It's fine."
"It is not fine."
"It is."
"Frank."
"Baby." You narrow your eyes. He narrows his right back. For a moment neither of you says anything. Then Frank loses. A grin breaks across his face. You smack his shoulder.
"Frank."
"What?" he laughs.
"You literally broke out of it."
"Yeah."
"Like a psychopath."
"That's kinda my brand." You try not to laugh. You fail. Frank immediately looks smug.
"There she is."
"Don't."
"There's my girl."
"Frank."
"Couldn't even stay mad."
"I am mad."
"Mhm." You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. Frank just keeps smiling. Then, before you can argue anymore, he catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. He sighs. "Besides. You tying me up was kind of hot." You arch an eyebrow.
"Oh really ? So i can do it again ?" Frank's body goes still.
"Fuck no." He rasps. You frown.
"Oh, so you're the only one allowed to tie people up." Frank presses his thumb into your thigh to make you look at him. His eyes are dark and heavy.
"I'm not ever gon' tie you up." He grabs your hand and places it on the hard planes of his chest. "Like feelin' you touch me too much." You blink. The teasing response sitting on the tip of your tongue dies immediately. Frank's expression has gone completely serious. Not intense. Not possessive.
Just honest. His thumb brushes across your knuckles where your hand rests against his chest.
"I'm not ever gonna tie you up," he repeats quietly. "Like knowin' you can leave whenever you want." For a second, all you can do is stare at him. Because that's the thing about Frank. People see the scars. The fights. The reputation.
They don't see this.
The man who treats your trust like it's the most valuable thing he's ever been given. Your chest tightens.
"Frank."
"What?"
"You're doing that thing again." His eyebrows pull together.
"What thing?"
"The thing where you accidentally say something sweet and make me emotional."
"I didn't say anything sweet."
"You absolutely did."
"No, I didn't." You point at him.
"See? There it is." Frank groans and drops his head back against the chair.
"Here we go."
"You've got a soft side."
"I don't."
"You do."
"I really don't."
"You practically just gave me a speech."
"It was one sentence."
"It was a meaningful sentence." Frank mutters something under his breath. You grin. Then, before he can argue anymore, you lean forward and kiss his cheek. The fight leaves him instantly. Every single time. It's almost funny.
The scary, terrifying Frank Castle. Defeated by affection. His arm slides around your waist automatically.
The apartment falls quiet again. Comfortable quiet. The kind that only happens when you've spent enough time with someone that silence doesn't feel awkward anymore.
A few minutes pass. Then— Your stomach growls. Loudly. Frank immediately starts laughing.
"Oh, that's cold."
"You've been actin' like a menace for three hours."
"I've had a busy day."
"You sat on a couch."
"I sat aggressively." Frank laughs harder. The sound is warm and rare and completely worth the embarrassment. You shove his shoulder.
"Don't judge me."
"Sweetheart, your stomach just threatened me."
"It did not."
"It absolutely did." You try to look offended. It doesn't work. Mostly because you're laughing too. Frank presses a kiss against your temple and finally starts untangling the two of you.
"C'mon."
"Where are we going?"
"Kitchen."
"What if I don't want food?"
"You want food."
"What if I'm difficult?"
"You are difficult."
"Fair." Frank stands and offers you a hand. You take it. He pulls you up carefully, steady as always. For a moment, neither of you lets go. His fingers stay wrapped around yours. Yours stay wrapped around his. Then Frank squeezes your hand once. Soft. Certain. Home.
"By the way," he says.
"Hm?"
"If you ever punish me for watchin' our show again…" You smile.
"What?" His eyes narrow.
"I'm watchin' the next season in secret." You gasp.
SUMMARY ➩ Jack Abbot is the perfect neighbor who is always willing to offer you a helping hand. Until you ask him to take your virginity.
WARNINGS ➩ age gap (reader is early 20s and jack is 50), they have sex and all the things that sex brings along, jack might be ooc
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ Well for once I tried to deliver real smut for you guys so buckle up and leave me some feedback on this one if you like it! NOT PROOFREAD AT ALL and it’s probably obvious so be kind about mistakes lol I wanted to get this to you guys asap!
“I need a favor.”
Jack was used to you asking him for help, had been for the two years since you moved into the apartment directly across from his.
He didn’t mind offering you a lending hand when he saw you struggling to carry your boxes from your small run down car, it wasn’t an inconvenience to collect your mail if you ever had to leave town for a few days, and he really couldn’t complain about having to remind you to get your laundry from the unit down below because it held him accountable too.
It was such a common occurrence, you asking him for a favor, that he wasn’t too surprised to find you at his door. He only gave a soft sigh as you pushed past him to enter his apartment, offering you a lot more patience than he did the newbies at the hospital.
You were always sweet, maybe a little bossy at times, but it gave him some amusement in his otherwise strict routine.
Plus it was admittedly nice to feel needed.
You came to him when your apartment had a leak or your air conditioning went out, knocked on his door whenever it was raining and you’d forgotten an umbrella after locking yourself out, and you even sometimes popped over just to get his opinion on what you should wear out on a random night.
Everybody was always telling Jack he needed a hobby that didn’t involve putting his life on the line, so he rarely told you no and tried his best to brush off Robby whenever he asked what was keeping him so busy lately.
It would be hard enough to explain the dynamic he had with his much younger neighbor but even more so considering you were now standing in the middle of his apartment with a frustrated look on your face, hands on your hips as you tapped your bunny slipper covered foot.
“What is it now?” His voice was gruff and disinterested but you knew well enough that he would do whatever you asked and he was well aware of that too. Still, it helped him just a little to pretend to contemplate it for a second or two first.
“I need you to have sex with me.”
You said it like it was as simple as asking him to come over and check your water pressure, falling out of your mouth casually and landing heavily in the quiet room.
There was no need to pretend this time as he fell into a bewildered silence, raising an eyebrow in your direction and letting his eyes track you as you dramatically sighed and went to flop down on his couch. You’d demanded about a year ago that he got some pillows for it, along with a few other interior design suggestions.
He’d picked up four after his shift that night.
“Please say something.” You were turned around on the couch so you could face him over the back of it, arms crossed as you rested your chin ontop of them.
“I have nothing to say to that.” He shook his head immediately, that stern expression he used on an unruly patient or Robby when he got a little too pushy.
This just made you sigh again, loud and exaggerated as you turned back around to fully lay flat on his couch.
“Why are you even asking me that?” He didn’t want to pry because he knew you well enough by now to know you’d just be encouraged by that but his curiosity got the best of him, circling around to sit across from you on one of the living room chairs.
You didn’t sit up but you turned your head to the side to look at him, a slight frown on your face that he didn’t think was particularly genuine. Your personality was always something Jack admired, not getting a lot of time in his own life to be so bold with his emotions and carefree in the way he spoke and behaved.
He was serious and guarded where you were a walking billboard for spontaneity, coming to him crying about random problems after only half a week of living in the building.
It was mostly endearing but there was the more critical part of him that wondered how lonely you must be to be making friends and finding comfort with some random guy across the hallway, a much older one at that.
Jack knew he had a bit of a hero complex but it typically manifested in a more extreme way, quite literally jumping into battle to save lives or operating on them in their lowest moments. This dynamic with you was a new form of care taking and there’d been a handful of times he’d doubted his own motives.
“Because I have a date next week and I am a complete lost cause when it comes to all things intimacy.” You still had a theatrical flare to your voice, not facing him anymore and instead rambling straight up to his ceiling with your hands gesturing wildly.
He tensed up for two reasons now, one being the mention of a date and the other was your implication you didn’t have any experience.
“But you’ve had sex before.” It came out slowly and half like a question, half like an assumption.
There wasn’t any real reason for him to think that other than his own social expectations. You were gorgeous, one of the prettiest women he’d seen in a very long time, and had a naturally magnetic energy to you that even he couldn’t resist most of the time, platonically but also selfishly deep down, a little more than that.
He’d seen you go on a handful of dates in the last year or two, all guys your age that didn’t seem to know how to pick up a check let alone please you properly.
That’s where Jack’s problem stemmed from.
There had been almost no ulterior motive the first year he had known you, genuinely trying to be helpful and to be a good neighbor. He would get upset when his coworkers would call him anti social or make digs at how unfriendly he was because he hadn’t always been like that and he figured helping out the girl next door was a good first step to getting that part of himself back.
You’d told him after a few months that you had no family on this side of the country, completely starting fresh at a new company you’d applied to on a whim.
It was completely innocent.
Yes, you were undoubtedly beautiful in a way that made his head spin for a second when he first saw you. You had been standing near your car and fighting with a box, both by tugging at it and saying less than kind words in its direction like it could understand you.
Jack had hesitated for a handful of seconds before making his way over and offering to help, feeling this weird pull in his chest when you blinked up at him in surprise and eagerly thanked him.
Once you were in his life, you never left. And he made space for you effortlessly because, quite frankly, he had plenty of it to offer up.
About seven months ago was the first time he had ever seen you with a guy.
He’d been coming home from a long and rare day shift (covering for Robby so he could attend Jake’s graduation), dragging his leg behind him and praying nobody stopped him on the way to his apartment so he could crawl into bed for a few short hours before he had to do it all over again for his own shift.
The only distraction he would have allowed was you but you were clearly busy, standing in the hallway as he got off the elevator and touching the rather small bicep of a guy your age.
Jack hesitated, considered getting right back on the elevator before it could close on him, and then slowly walked to his door.
He had hoped you wouldn’t acknowledge him because his throat was already weirdly tight as he eyed you and the way you stared up at the man (boy, if Jack had to really label it) with that soft and curious expression you always had.
“Jack.” Your voice was full of excitement and he faltered, his key left in his doors lock as he turned to give you an attempt at a polite smile. “Covering somebody again?”
If this had been any other day then Jack would have invited you into his apartment to talk instead of lingering in the hallway. He would have ignored his exhaustion to pair his black coffee with the hot chocolate flavor you liked that he kept in his bottom drawer, complained to you about being tired and listened to you scold him for working too much when he didn’t need to.
But you were in a pretty dress that was clearly on its way to dinner and your date was giving Jack that possessive stare that guys fresh out of college thought was intimidating.
So instead he simply nodded his head and continued to unlock his door.
“This is Asher.” You continued abruptly as he turned his door handled, leaving it cracked as he stopped to look at you again.
He gave you a once over to make sure everything was okay, wondering why you were still insisting on talking to him when you were so clearly meant to be going somewhere else. You didn’t look too uncomfortable but you were watching him back just as intensely so he mentally stored the name and face of the guy anyways, just in case something happened.
“Ashton.” Your date finally spoke and his voice was annoyed and laced with immature bitterness, although slightly valid considering you had forgotten his name.
Your eyes widened, still boring into Jacks, and he smiled a little before giving you a small wave and heading inside.
Jack realized quickly after that encounter that his intentions were a lot less innocent than he had initially thought they were. He’d closed his door before immediately pressing his back against it, listening to the sound of your small heels leaving the hallway as you apologized to your date with a clenched jaw and a pain in his stomach.
The next few dates after that just confirmed what he had already realized from the first one.
He was attracted to you.
Maybe even liked you.
You talked to Jack about almost everything going on in your life, even things he definitely would not have cared about if it came from anybody else, but you never once brought up the dates. At first he had worried you had somehow noticed his weird demeanor that day in the hallway but Jack wasn’t very expressive in general so he figured you must keep that part of your life private for other reasons.
The attraction part was easy to accept mostly, he was only a man and you were clearly gorgeous. Although the age gap was something Jack couldn’t get himself to look past.
You were barely in your early twenties, over half his age younger and overly obviously so. You radiated youth, from your appearance and the way you spoke down to your hobbies and interests.
You were clearly a very young girl and he had felt like a pervert from the moment he saw you outside of that car for the way his body warmed. Jack hadn’t felt much attraction to anybody at all since his wife died, at first out of a lingering loyalty to her that barely faded and then just due to his busyness and his own mental blocks.
That was not a problem when it came to you and he had to give a genuine effort when he was around you to act normal.
You’d come over in tiny sleep shorts or a tight tank top that showed your hardened nipples through the thin fabric, join him for morning yoga in downright sinful leggings and he even was attracted to the stupid bunny slippers you wore.
But you were a young girl and he was a disciplined old man so he barely looked twice in your direction when you were bending over to get mail and he never once touched you, setting boundaries for himself and keeping them.
Which was why it was so hard for him when you slowly shook your head to his question about having sex before.
“What about those guys?” His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you and you sighed like you were embarrassed, a rare emotion to see from you.
“We barely kissed.” You shrugged and finally sat up from your dramatic position on the couch. “Please Jack, I don’t have anyone else to ask.”
“I’m not sleeping with you.” He said immediately, slightly offended you were seemingly only asking him because you had no other options.
You looked completely dejected now but Jack knew there was no way he could possibly accept this request, for too many reasons but especially because of his own moral code. He also didn’t want to ruin what you’d had going on, enjoying your company on his hard nights and finding himself finally letting somebody in after so many years alone.
“Okay so no sex.” You say softly and you stand up when he does, following him as he walks into the kitchen and leaning against the counter to watch him set the coffee machine settings. “But can’t you show me little things.”
He sends you a sharp look that you return with a gentle pleading smile, bouncing in place a little like you think your cuteness is the answer to everything.
And it just might be because Jack sighs softly and turns his full attention back to you.
“Like what?” He knows him asking for specifics will give you hope and he can see it immediately on your face, brightening and taking a step closer to him that makes him tense.
“Maybe just telling me what guys like?” You suggest softly and the words coming from your mouth make him almost groan, keeping his face flat and emotionless as you speak. “And some kissing lessons.”
“You know how to kiss.” He shook his head at you and went to turn back to his coffee but your hand wrapped around his wrist to stop him, successfully keeping his attention on you. He realized that it might be the first time you’d ever actually touched him, skin against skin. “I’ve seen it.”
His posture tightens as he reminds himself of that fact, easily recalling the vivid memory of leaving his apartment to head to work and finding you coming home from a date and making out with a guy against your door.
You hadn’t noticed him at first but he had slammed his door harder than normal, shamefully intentional.
There’d been a pang of guilt when you jumped in surprise and separated from the guy who looked the douchiest out of all of them but it was hard to feel it when you have him a slightly grateful look on his way to the elevator.
You were blinking at him now, almost like you were realizing something, and he looked away in favor of glancing at the clock on the wall.
“Not a kiss that feels good.” Your voice was more serious now, sounding genuinely disheartened by the conversation and the slow unveiling of your inexperience.
He sighed again, just trying to get rid of the tightness in his chest, before shaking his head firmly and fully turning away from you to fill up his coffee mug.
“I’m not doing it.”
—
Jack thought about your offer for the next two weeks. Obsessively.
He waited to hear you bringing somebody else over, someone who had jumped on the golden opportunity to touch you for the first time when he hesitated. You didn’t seem to go on any dates but he supposed you wouldn’t have told him anyways.
The thought of you experiencing sex with some asshole you met off a dating app, nervous and unsure on what to do without guidance, was eating away at him.
Jack was a fixer, he liked to help you, and he had already accepted the fact that he was extremely attracted to you. It wasn’t like he didn’t recognize the jealously in his stomach everytime he saw you with somebody else, a type of anger he hadn’t felt since he was preparing to go into a real life war.
Subdued by age and a calmer reality now but it was still fresh hot anger that he couldn’t shake no matter how much he tried.
You came to him with this problem, not just for pointers and tips but you had actually asked him to be the one to take your virginity.
Virginity.
Jack couldn’t get the concept out of his head and while he hadn’t necessarily considered himself somebody who would care about that type of thing, especially not as he entered his fifties, it did bring a wave of heat over him whenever he thought about it.
You’d never been touched before outside of a few unsatisfactory make out sessions. You, the pretty girl with downright sinful choices of pajamas that consumed his day to day life so easily after he spent such a long time alone.
He thought about it endlessly until it led to him knocking on your door, a rare switch of the usual dynamic that left him feeling a little awkward before you answered.
The sensation went away when you looked up at him, eyes a little wide with confusion as you silently stepped back to let him inside. It was rare for you to be so quiet but maybe you could tell what he was thinking by the look on his face, maybe you were thinking about the same exact thing.
“I’ll help you.” His voice was gruff and flat, waiting until your door closed behind him before he spoke. Your face immediately lit up but he silenced anything you were going to say with a raised hand, your parted lips closing as you waited for him to finish. “But I’m not sleeping with you.”
You pouted a little at the condition but stepped forward after a few seconds, far too close to him for his sanity but he figured you’d be getting a lot closer soon so he forced his breathing to stay level.
Jack used to consider himself quite smooth, still a natural flirt when he joked around with older patients or teased Robby.
But he was completely thrown off of any existing game when it came to you. He didn’t even know he could still feel this way about somebody, the yearning and lustful feeling having been dormant for a long time before you moved in.
“I’ll take whatever you give me.” Your voice was soft now and he’d never heard you like that, maybe a bit of a whine when you impatiently asked him to help you with something, but never so pleading.
You’d shifted even closer as you spoke and he couldn’t help himself now that he practically had permission, his large and rough hand sliding over your waist to rest on the small of your back.
You sucked in a sharp breath at the feeling and he was suddenly aware of how much fun this was going to be if you were that sensitive.
“Not tonight okay?” He replied and his low tone made your eyes soften, nodding eagerly and hesitantly letting your hands land on his chest in balled up fist. “We can talk about it more later and work out some conditions.”
“You’re giving me rules?” You’d collected yourself enough to finally give him some of that familiar attitude, smiling slightly as you stared up at him. He rolled his eyes but let his hand tighten against your back, moving you forward and just trying to test your reaction to the touch.
You lost your smile immediately, shuffling closer until you were pressed against him as your eyes darted all around his face with surprise. It was clear you didn’t expect him to accept at all let alone this easily, despite his two weeks of contemplation, he wasn’t at all hesitate now.
“You need them.” He retorted and his free hand brushed some of your hair behind your ear, the first time you were ever really touching each other being this intimate was sending another wave of affection through him.
A few years ago, Jack couldn’t even get himself to look at another woman, let alone hold one so gently. Even with the slightly out of the ordinary circumstances, he cared for you and you trusted him and that was all that really mattered in his eyes.
“You’re mean.” You’re whispering it and his head tilts at the sound it, overly fond and curious how you can affect him so much just by changing the tone of your voice. “Kiss me atleast.”
It comes out a demand and his eyebrows naturally furrow at the sound of it, knowing immediately that will have to be one of the rules he gives you when you talk them over.
Manners.
He doesn’t respond for a second but you seem to understand before he even needs to scold you, lips parting in realization before they form a small pout and you unclench your fist so your palm is flat on his chest now instead.
“Please give me a kiss Jack.” You sound sweeter now and he would think it was an act, making fun of him for his sudden silent sternness, if it wasn’t for the genuinely pleading look on your face.
The knowledge that you listen so easily, even when he doesn’t actually say it, overrides his senses so much that he actually does bend down to kiss you.
It’s soft at first which you don’t seem to understand, immediately trying to eagerly make out with him like that’s all you really know. He moves one of his hands from your side to hold under your jaw, applying a little bit of pressure near your throat to indicate he wants you to slow down.
You melt against him at the touch but do as he silently communicates and relax a little bit, still moving your mouth a bit sloppily against his but learning to adapt to his slow and easy pace.
Eventually you get the rhythm down perfectly, lips moving together without anything extra added. You asked Jack to teach you so he was going to do exactly that, starting from the basics.
Your face was completely dazed when he pulled back, instinctively shifting forward to try and kiss him again and making a small disappointment noise when his hold near your throat tightened in warning.
“You asked for a kiss.” He said in a low voice, still close to your face so he could perfectly see the way your widened eyes shifted around his features.
He was a bit mesmerized by the way you looked now, so unlike yourself on any other day. It both made his guilt over being perverse grow and also solidified that he didn’t care how wrong it was as long as you kept looking at him like that.
“Get some sleep.” He waited a few seconds before taking the necessary steps away from you, taking a sharp breath as he turned and left your apartment.
His own door had barely closed behind him before there was insistent knocks on it, his head immediately hanging since he knew exactly who it was.
Your eyebrows were furrowed when he pulled the handle to reveal you in the hallway, standing stiffly and glaring up at him but not making any move to come inside. You shifted in place and let out a huff of annoyance as you seemed to search for the right words to convey what you wanted.
“Can you kiss me one more time?” You eventually settled on the blunt question, shifting closer so you were both halfway in his doorway.
While he had a foot inside his apartment still, you had one in the hallway. It left you standing too close for his sanity, feeling it slip almost entirely again when your small hand landed on his forearm and rubbed softly.
“What’s wrong?” He asked softly, sensing your frustration but not knowing where it was stemming from.
He cupped your face with one of his hands, letting the other rest back on your side. You stared up at him as he took a few slow steps forward, backing you up with each one until your back hit the doorframe and took a soft near gasp from your lips.
“Nothing I just…” You trail off as you pout, scanning over his face and then down his chest until you can’t bend your head anymore to look. “I want one more. Please.”
You added it as an afterthought but it was enough for him, pressing his mouth back against yours.
This time, apparently a very quick learner, you were able to meet his pace right away and your mouths moved softly together. Your arms went around his neck so you could fully cling to him as you kissed deeply, heads tilting and quiet pleased noises rumbling in your throat.
You only got louder when his tongue pressed lightly into your mouth, mostly just to test your reaction but unable to stop himself when you were eagerly matching the actions.
It was sloppy and a little too wet, sounds of your tongues tangling together filling the silent hallway and sending a sharp heat down to his gut. He liked how clumsy you were, growing addicted to the way you seemed to have no idea what you were doing but too desperate to stop yourself and ask him for his help.
Jack knew he liked feeling needed but this was a whole different beast, one that came paired with some light shame.
You weren’t innocent and you knew exactly what you needed to about sex but your body was inexperienced and it was getting clearer by the second, your little gasp when he kissed you deeper and the way you tightened your hold on him everytime he went to pull back and attempt to slow down.
You’re red in the face by the time he manages to get you to stop eagerly kissing him, still instinctively shifting closer when he moves back. He gives you a lighthearted sigh, occupied by the softest smile he can manage so he doesn’t actually hurt your feelings when he presses you back against the doorway with the hand that’s still on your hip.
“Time for bed.” He tries to keep his tone light but it comes out more authoritative than he had meant for it to, most likely driven by the way you automatically started to frown as soon as he held you away from him. “We can talk tomorrow.”
You clearly weren’t happy about that but you surprisingly gave him a soft nod, shifting your body until you were out of his entrance and closer to your own.
He watched you and your dazed face, slightly wobbly on your feet, as you disappeared behind your apartment door with a small wave.
-
Jack had started off his day rough the following morning, barely able to sleep after what had happened.
It was a completely split mixture of wanting you so bad it was driving him to literal insanity and feeling disgustingly guilty for even looking in your direction.
He almost considered calling Robby about it but he really didn’t need to hear the lecture that would undoubtedly come his way about the situation. Plus he figured that whatever Robby knew, Dana knew, and if Dana knew then it was only a matter of time before the entire emergency department was gossiping about Jack Abbot and his young neighbor.
The dilemma was so strong that he had almost completely forgotten about the fact he had told you that you’d talk today, although almost intentional.
He was halfway avoiding having to actually sit down and make this arrangement a reality, still having a hard time believing what had happened last night was even real.
He had just started to get changed for work when the knocking on his door started and he knew it was you immediately, standing still and hanging his head for a few seconds like he figured he could just wait you out.
It didn’t take long for his senses to kick back in and he was pulling on a plain black shirt before making his way over to the door, raising his eyebrows at you when he saw how irritated you looked.
You brushed past him immediately and he lingered with his hand on the door knob for a moment before closing it and preparing himself to face whatever wrath you were about to send his direction.
“You didn’t come over.” You immediately accused, finger pointing in his direction as you stood in the middle of his living room with an angry expression. “You didn’t even text me.”
He was already walking closer to you as you spoke and your defenses naturally crumbled at the proximity, especially when his hands were sliding over your ribs to both hold you steady and let him feel your breathing as subtly as possible.
“You can’t just kiss me like that and then ignore me.” You continue on but your tone is a lot softer now that he’s touching you, already getting that dazed edge to it he had heard last night.
“I didn’t mean to ignore you.” He shakes his head and frees a hand to tuck some hair behind your ear, your features have completely softened now at the movement.
Jack wonders for the first time if you might have feelings for him beyond trust and attraction.
For some reason, he hadn’t really considered the possibility before. You were practically his polar opposite and he had nothing in common with any of the boys you went on dates with.
But now, with you blinking up at him like you were hanging on to his every word, he let himself think it might just be likely.
“I figured you changed your mind.” Your words are a little slurred from the insistent pout you have on your face and he sighs again, gently leading you over to sit on his couch.
Your knees brush together as you scoot closer to him the second he’s settled on top of the cushion, your hand wrapping around three of his fingers and squeezing lightly as you wait for him to respond to your fear of being rejected.
“I didn’t but I want to make sure you understand what you’re asking.” His voice is low and nearing stern, the same tone he uses on the new med students who seem a little more cocky than they are willing to learn. He knows that’s not the case with you, knows you’re desperate for any expertise he can offer you, but he still wants you to pay attention and properly understand him. “There’s other ways for you to do this.”
“What, like other guys?” Your eyebrows furrow like the thought confuses you.
His stomach tightens immediately, sick at the thought of it, but he stiffly nods his head.
You’re shifting even closer immediately and he lets out a breath when you’re leaning over his knee nearly, closer to his face than before and scanning over it again.
“I don’t want another guy Jack. I just want it to be you.” You’re whispering now and he can’t stop himself from pressing a light kiss to your mouth, brief but necessary when his brain processes the lack of distance between you. That makes you smile finally and he suddenly feels very stupid for ever questioning you when you’re making a request like this.
“Tell me why.” He mumbles, easily sliding his hands around your middle so he can tug you over more and into his lap. You kiss him again once you’re settled in his lap, still quick like you’re both using it as punctuation during your conversation. “Why me?”
He wants to hear you give a legitimate reason, to undo the hesitance you gave him when you said it was only because you didn’t have anybody else to ask. That’d been weighing on him more than anything else, the thought that you had just settled for your older lonely neighbor who was clearly willing to help you with anything in spite of himself.
Your next kiss was much longer, deeper as you fully sink down in his lap and move your mouth against his desperately. He’d accept that alone as an answer, big palms rubbing over your back and sides so he can keep pulling you impossibly closer.
Your nose is rubbing against his when you pull back, the sounds of your breathing being heavier now making his head spin with the necessary impulsivity to keep making terrible decisions with you.
“You’d make me feel good.” The answer you’d landed on was much more devastating than he was prepared for, his eyes darkening at how confident you sounded in that fact. “I know you would.”
His hands tightened around your soft skin for a second, needing to take a deep breath to ground himself.
It takes a second for him to reply, tucking his face into your neck and inhaling sharply. You smell as sweet as you always do but it’s intoxicating to have it this close after so long, skin soft under his lips as he kisses you softly.
Your breathing gets shaky, arms looping around his neck so you’re practically hugging him. You’re warm on top of him and making the sweetest noises when he moves along your jaw, shifting in his lap to try and get his attention back on your conversation.
“You’ll do it right?” You ask softly, running your hand through his hair and tugging just enough to make him finally look back at your face. His eyes are dark and unfocused as he stares at your pretty features. “Jack?”
“Yeah honey.” He says back after another long silence, voice deeper than he’d ever heard it as he leans in to kiss you again.
You kiss for a long time, wiggling around in his lap when your tongues tangle together and you get to taste him properly again. It’s addicting for both of you, both of your hands running all over the other’s body like you’re trying to learn every part of it you can reach.
Eventually you’re fully rocking against him from your neediness and it takes a second for him to process it, snapped back to focus when he hears the way your whines are getting higher pitched. A near growl leaves his throat as he grabs your hips firmly, thumbs pressing into the bone so he can stop you from moving on top of him like that.
“Jackie.” You whine desperately, kissing him again and successfully distracting him long enough that you can start humping again.
“Stop baby I have work soon.” He scolds in between the sloppy kisses, lips and chin slightly wet from how uncoordinated you still are.
You make another soft noise and he’s confused for half a second before he realizes it’s because of the pet name, smiling softly from his fondness for you as you hide down in his neck for a second.
“You’re hard now, I can feel it.” You’re whispering right against his skin and a shiver runs over him at the lewd words falling from such a pretty mouth, high pitched and almost innocent voice making the sentence sound so much dirtier than it needed to be.
At first Jack doesn’t think you’re right, knowing himself and his body enough to expect he’s not stirring down there even if he wants you so bad it makes him feel insane.
He’s had issues with it for years now, a deadly combination of his age, his traumas, and the carousel of medications he has to be on for a variety of things he wouldn’t disclose to you out of his own pride. That was the reason Jack had stopped trying to hook up with people years ago, giving up on porn entirely when he’d have to spend an hour trying to get hard before he could even attempt to actually get himself off.
It was in the back of his mind when you’d asked him to help you with this but he figured this was about your pleasure, he wouldn’t need to be hard to get you off especially if he stuck to his guns about not actually having sex with you.
He was sucking in a deep breath to explain this to you in less detail, make sure you understood that he wasn’t hard but it had nothing to do with you or his attraction to you, when you gave a particularly deep and slow roll of your hips.
And the effect was completely undeniable.
A shudder ran over him, eyes dropping to his lap that you were still rocking on top of. Your tiny little shorts were so clearly pressing against the tent in his scrub pants, catching on it whenever you lost the energy to move properly as you let out another needy whine and hid back in his neck.
You were completely unaware of his current mental situation, baffled at how easily you’d gotten him to this state from just some sloppy kissing.
You must’ve thought he was ignoring you because you picked up your head to glare at him, a pout on your swollen lips.
“Sorry sweetheart.” He sighed and kissed you gently, rubbing your sides up to your ribs and coming back down right when he felt the swell of your breast against his fingertips. “I really have to go.”
“Let me suck you off.” You requested easily and his breath caught, nearly choking at how simple you made it sound. “I wanna learn and you’re so hard right now Jackie. Please let me do it.”
“That’s not the point of this.” He shook his head immediately and moved you by your hips so you were sat next to him and no longer settled in his lap, clearly upsetting you as you scrambled up on your knees and gripped his bicep so he couldn’t get off the couch yet.
“The point is to teach me things about sex and I’ll need to know this.” You counter, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at why he’s rejecting you.
He finds it a little amusing that you’re so used to him accepting your requests for things that you’re genuinely lost when he doesn’t immediately fold for you. It’s a bratty habit he should have corrected months ago but he can’t find himself caring too much, liking how dependent you’d become on him.
Jack has to contemplate this because he knows you’re right, stomach turning a little at the reminder that you’re going to use whatever he shows you on somebody else down the line.
That selfishly makes him want to cancel this whole thing and leave you completely clueless, hopefully to the point you decide to swear off sex with other men entirely. But he knows how stubborn you are and how stuck you get on something once it catches your attention, figuring you’d get on a dating app and find some idiot in finance to take your virginity as soon as he put an end to this arrangement.
So he lets you slip to your knees off the couch, taking his hesitance to decline again as a positive sign.
“Wait.” He interjects and you freeze, sighing in annoyance as you prepare for him to give another reason you can’t do it. Instead he pulls one of the pillows off the couch and slides in near his feet, your eyes softening as you shift so you’re kneeling on the plush cushion instead of the floor.
“How do I start?” You ask softly, eyeing the bunched up fabric in front of you with interest. He has to stare at the ceiling for a second, slightly losing it at the sight of you kneeling on his floor between his legs. “Do I have to get you ready?”
“No.” He says it gruffly and you tense again, his tone way sharper than he’d meant for it to be. “It’s… I’m ready baby trust me. Just give me a second.”
That calms you down immediately, enough that you rest your head on his knee as you try your best to be patient. His eyes go back to you at the touch and he watches the way you squirm against the pillow, clearly still riled up from the kissing and maybe even the thought of taking him in your mouth.
“Has it been awhile Jack?” Your voice is ridiculous now, clearly teasing him and developing this soft purr that almost irritates him.
His hand goes into your hair at the sound of it, tightening enough that you lift your cheek off his knee and stare up at him with wide eyes.
“Watch it.” He says lowly, using his free hand to untie his scrub pants as you eye the movement with fascination. Your lips part as you stare at his hand and the way his fingers twist the strings, he has half the thought to make you choke on the digits before you try and take anything bigger but your attitude has left him feeling just as impatient. “We’ve got to work on your manners if you want me to teach you.”
That makes you snap back into focus, frowning at his words and shaking your head as you straighten up on your knees.
“I have manners Jack.” You’re clearly trying to convince him, small hands smoothing over his thighs.
He starts to deny it but he’s cut off when you lean forward to nuzzle against him, face pressing right where he’s currently aching under two layers of fabric. His breath catches in his throat and he instinctively tightens the hand that’s in your hair, mumbling out an apology when you make a pained noise but barely loosening it after.
He feels like he needs to keep it there to have any sort of control in this situation, especially given the way you’re almost desperately rubbing your face on his lap.
“Should’ve told me you were this needy.” He half scolds as he shifts his waistband down lower, waiting for you to notice and pick yourself up just long enough to get his pants down.
You don’t give him long at all before you’re back to obsessing over the sight in front of you, eyes fully dazed now that it’s just his boxers separating you from putting your mouth on his hard length.
You’re clearly trying to be patient in an attempt to prove you have any sort of manners, a little pride rippling through him similar to the feeling he got when you had corrected yourself the other night to politely ask him for a kiss.
“You wouldn’t have done anything about it.” You say softly, not accusatory but confident in it like you know it’s true. You lean forward and kiss against the covered bulge, a groan leaving him. “You’re too good of a guy.”
“Clearly not.” He rasped just as you start to lose that faux patience you’re trying so hard to pretend you have, tugging at the waistband of his underwear and smiling softly when he lifts his hips off the couch without arguing. “And you know I never tell you no sweetheart.”
“Yeah?” You’re still trying to talk to him but now you’re completely lost in the sight of him half naked and sitting there with his legs spread in front of you, too desperate to even be intimidated by the size of him. “You would’ve let me do this months ago Jackie?”
He sighs and tightens his hold in your hair again, bringing you forward until he can feel your breath where he’s most sensitive.
Your eyes flicker up to him and the sight is devastating for how deprived he’s been, a pretty young girl like you sitting so nicely on your knees for the first time ever. He can barely even feel that guilt and slightly sick sensation, knowing how perverted it is that he could probably get off just looking at your face and thinking about the way he’s about to corrupt you.
“Stop talking.” He instructs gruffly and you nod eagerly, eyes back on his length and only now looking a little nervous as you swallow before your lips part in anticipation. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Want it so bad.” You don’t hesitate to answer and your voice is a little whinier, swaying forward like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.
Jack lets you move until you’re right there, eyes locked on your face as you give him a nervous look and try to take him in your mouth.
It’s awkward and you’re tense, expression full of hesitation like you’re waiting for him to tell you how to do it properly but he lets himself bask in this for a few seconds.
He knows it’s sick but he finds you the most beautiful like this, confused and desperate to please him without knowing how to. You go between sucking and licking at the tip of his length and while it feels good, no doubt about that especially after how long it’s been, it’s nothing compared to how clearly inexperienced you are.
Finally, he snaps out of his sick fantasies of watching you embarrass yourself trying to please him, and he decides to actually do what you’d asked and teach you something.
“Relax your jaw baby. Just take what you can okay?” His voice is low and gentle, hand loose in your hair but clenching into a tight fist whenever you brush against his sensitive skin with your teeth on accident or try to overachieve and take him deeper.
You do seem to calm down a little now that he’s finally speaking, shoulders slumping and your eyes fluttering shut as you get used to the feeling of him on your tongue.
You’ve barely taken him at all but he’s transfixed by the sight, perfectly content to sit here and cock warm your mouth until you were ready to move him down your throat.
He watches you closely as you pull back to take a few deep breaths, pouting a little at his length and hesitating before you’re touching him with your hand. It’s all experimental, tugging and feeling the skin against your palm while he grunts above you and tries to control himself.
It’s barely sexual on your end considering how fascinated you are by the new experience but he’s halfway losing his mind knowing this is the first time you’re touching somebody like this.
“I gotta go soon sweetheart.” He says and your eyes finally snap back up to him, turning a little red considering you’d been caught just staring at his length as you touched him. “You can play with me all you want after my shift.”
Now you’re full on blushing but you nod your head obediently and lean back in to take him in your mouth again, a little more confident now as you lick around the head and repeat movements whenever it draws a sound out from him.
Jack can barely stand it and he has to put both hands in your hair to keep himself from fucking up into your warm mouth, groaning from the effort it’s taking and considering telling you to get back on the couch before he goes too far with you too early.
You’re clearly just as impatient because you try to take more of him finally and immediately gag at the sensation, pulling back and frowning up at him.
“Help Jackie.” Your voice is whiny and has a little rasp to it now and he kisses his teeth at the sound, petting your hair back out of your face.
“I can’t help with that baby, you’ve just got to practice.” He tries his best to soothe you but you’re clearly frustrated.
“Can’t you just force my head down?” You’re rubbing his thighs as you speak in that ridiculously bratty voice, wiggling around on the pillow like the thought alone is exciting you.
He wants to say no, wants to tell you why it’s such a terrible idea for him to forcefully fuck your throat right before he has to go to work. There’s a million reasons he should be rejecting you right now but that sick voice in the back of his head is struggling to get the words out, especially when you go back to softly kitten licking at his length to keep him hard.
“Fuck you’re nasty.” He gruffs out and your eyes light up at the words, nodding your head and taking him back in your mouth as you keep trying your best to fit him deeper. “You want me in your throat that bad?”
You can’t talk now but your desires are obvious.
He eyes the way you’re shifting on the cushion below you, adjusting his foot the best he can so it’s between your thighs as you kneel. That seems to make you even more desperate, rubbing against him almost feverishly now as you try to focus on having him in your mouth.
There’s no option to do so when he brings his hands back to your hair, silently showing you he accepts your request when he moves his hips off the couch and keeps your face firmly in place so he can push deeper down your throat.
He feels you gag slightly around him but your eyes roll to the back of your head at the same time and you hump against his foot even faster so he can’t find it in himself to stop, thrusting slowly to make sure you don’t end up getting sick or feeling too sore by the time he’s finished.
Jack knows this is far beyond teaching, he’s not even speaking anymore and instead just using your throat to get himself off but you’re even more eager for it than him and he’d never deny you anything you asked for.
“This tiny little throat.” His voice is nearing a growl as he helps move your head up and down his length, reveling in the way you gag and drool around him. “You’re doing so good baby.”
The praise seems to do it for you more than anything else, rubbing your core against his foot so eagerly that you can barely focus on sucking him off. You’re getting too messy to control yourself, mouth slipping off every few thrust before you whine at the loss and immediately take him back in your throat.
Jack takes pity on both of you, both for his own sanity and because he can’t stop thinking about the fact he’ll need to leave as soon as this is done.
You’re clearly upset when he pulls you off, making a loud noise of disagreement that barely sounds like an actual word and frowning at him when he sends you a stern look and wraps his hand around himself instead.
You seem to forget your anger pretty quickly as you watch him touch himself, hips slowed down to a slow rock against his foot as you stare at his length and the way he’s making himself feel good above you.
Jack has to look away when he comes because he feels pretty close to forcing your head back down and making you swallow it, although half positive you’d actually enjoy that more than him judging by how eager you are to try things.
You’re laying your head back on his thigh while he grunts and curses, tightening his fist and going back to staring at your face just for a brief moment so he has a clearer picture to think about.
It’s quiet in the living room afterwards and he feels an odd sense of embarrassment, a rare vulnerability considering you’re still fully clothed and kneeling on the floor. He fixes one of those problems by effortlessly pulling you up by your arms, settling you back against the cushions.
He stands and pulls his pants up while he does so, knowing he’ll have to shower off before he can go to work and get a new pair of scrubs anyways.
There’s a second of hesitation before he goes to get you some water, leaning over your dazed frame and kissing you softly.
“Was it good?” You ask quietly against his mouth, hand tangling in his hair like you don’t want him to go anywhere without answering you first. “You stopped me.”
“You were perfect.” He answers simply and he means it, would probably feel the same if you had accidentally bit him though.
“I wanted to taste you.” You’re pouting again and every time he thinks he gets used to you, you prove him beyond wrong. He sighs and leans further against you on the couch so you’re fully sinking into the cushion below you.
“Next time.”
It comes out before he can stop it and he fully plans to backtrack but your eyes light up at the idea of him letting you do that again so he doesn’t, letting it linger for a few seconds.
“Not when I have to leave you right after. You won’t like it and I don’t want to hurt you.” He’s talking in the stern and no nonsense way he does at work, trying to make sure you understand even though you’re slowly starting to smile as he speaks and he realizes you’re probably not paying any attention.
“You won’t hurt me Jack.” You whisper and it’s so sweet he almost considers calling in so he can stay with you a little longer. “Not in a way I won’t like.”
That makes him scoff out a laugh, a rare sound from him and you look even more pleased at the noise.
“You don’t even know what you like sweetheart.” He says softly and brushes your hair out of your face, letting both his fingertips and eyes trail down your neck until he reaches your collarbones. “But I’ll show you.”
“You’ll show me?” You’re teasing him now, biting your bottom lip to try and hide your smile to no avail.
“Yeah I will.” He smiles too and kisses you again, a little too soft considering what you actually are to each other.
He eventually manages to get off of you long enough to get you some water, watching carefully as you take a few sips and rubbing your knee when you wince at first. He wants to feel guilty for making your throat sore but he can’t, sick enough to admit he just feels the urge to make you take him deeper next time to see if you’ll really let him.
You’re still laying on his couch when he gets out of his brief shower, having changed his pants and taken a few deep breaths while staring in the mirror to try and get ahold of himself. He needs to switch back to reality for atleast a few hours, become the weathered doctor who doesn’t lose his mind over a pretty girl asking for favors.
You set your phone down on your chest, giving him your full attention as he moves towards the door to tug his shoes on.
There’s no indication you plan to leave before he does but he can’t find it in himself to mind the intrusion, going back over to the couch to give you a kiss on the forehead.
“Staying here?” He says in a low voice and you nod eagerly, eyes locked on his.
He lets himself think about his entire way to work, the image of you being there when he gets home from a hard shift. It had been a long time since he had someone to come home to and having you across the hall was already a gift within itself.
Now you’d crossed a line and if he let himself forget the terms and conditions, the fact you were loosely using him just to end up with somebody else as the actual end goal, then he could pretend for a moment that you were the person he got to crawl into bed with when work was tough.
Despite how much he thought about you during his shift, every moment he wasn’t being bombarded with questions or saving somebody’s life on autopilot, you weren’t actually there when he came back.
He knew it before he even opened the door, confirmed by how neatly the pillows on the couch were placed again and the fact your glass of water was rinsed and put away in the dishwasher.
You’d made it look like you were never even there and he knew you still enjoyed his company, maybe enjoyed the newly added sexual dynamic even more, but that didn’t mean you wanted to comfort him after he lost a patient or help soothe him when his leg was bothering him from standing all day.
Jack had to remind himself of the part he was playing in your life currently and try his best to not be disappointed.
It’s two days until he sees you again and he thinks it’s one of the longest spans you’ve gone without talking in almost a year.
He’s just about to start really acting out of character by banging at your front door and asking if you’re avoiding him when he runs into you downstairs, freezing as soon as he enters the lowly lit laundry room to find you leaning against one of the washers and looking extremely bored.
You’re as beautiful as always, casually dressed in nothing but an old band shirt that hangs off your shoulder and a pair of shorts so small he’s pretty sure it’s just boxy underwear.
You don’t look up when he comes in until his leg slightly catches on the step, accustomed enough to the sound of the light dragging he sometimes can’t stop from happening when he’s extra tired.
It’s a relief to find that you don’t have any awkwardness on your face, no sign of being uncomfortable or upset with him.
Then he figures that might just be worse.
He would just about die if he had done anything that made you want to avoid him but the alternative seems to be that you just didn’t want to speak to him and that makes his chest sting.
There’s nothing but silence and the rattling of the old washer as it rocks back and forth on the cement floor, both of you seemingly having decided to not speak to each other first.
(sorry for the brief awkward spacing tumblr says this is too long)
It’s another five minutes of the now awkward stretch of quiet before you clear your throat, turning to face him where he’s fidgeting with his laundry baskets broken handle just to have something to focus on.
“So I went on a date last night.” You say softly, eyebrows raised like you’re genuinely interested in his reaction.
His stomach turns but it’s a relief to have you looking at him again so he takes it, swallowing hard and racking his brain for a response that’s appropriate.
“How’d it go?” He’s asking out of politeness but he’s silently praying you suddenly decide you don’t want to tell him about it. It wouldn’t even make him feel better to hear it had ended terribly, not wanting you to feel any type of negative emotions even if it technically was in his benefit.
He definitely can’t take any sort of mention of you being with another guy physically. He knows it’s coming eventually, it’s the sole purpose behind why he even gets to touch you, but he’s not ready just yet.
You’re quiet again and he really looks at you now, takes in the silent contemplation on your face and the way you tap your fingers on the metal of the washer for a second before pushing off of it entirely.
Then you’re in his space again and it’s like an instinctive move to cup your face, hand on your waist so he can lightly push you back against the machine he’d been in front of. You touch his chest, lightly rubbing in soft circles, and he wants to sigh in relief if that wouldn’t be so painfully obvious.
“Wasn’t a great time.” You whisper and your eyes are on his lips as you speak.
His eyebrows raise and his hand on your body tightens slightly at the same time he uses his thumb to press under your chin and make you tilt your jaw back.
“Why not?” He hates the thought of getting details but he needs to know some idiot from a dating app hadn’t done anything to hurt you.
You don’t answer right away, just standing there and letting your eyes scan over his features on rotation. You finally let out a small breath like you’re about to speak but it never comes, small hands moving to grip his biceps.
“Did he touch you?” He can’t stop himself from asking even though the question makes his voice come out low enough that your eyes flash with surprise for a second, snapping away from his mouth to meet his stare again like you’re looking for something in it.
You shake your head immediately, squeezing his arms and shifting against the vibrating machine.
He’s kissing you then and he tells himself it’s out of relief, the knowledge that you’re still untouched by anybody except for him instantly making this conversation easier.
You’re returning it right away and he’s pleasantly surprised by how quickly you caught on to the type of kissing he likes, his personal preference. He figures he should eventually tell you that not ever guy was going to like your constant licking into his mouth but for now he lets it be, wants you to be trying to please him specifically and not whoever you’d use these lessons with.
It’s ridiculously cute how desperate you get, only needing a few seconds of your tongue inside his mouth before you’re arching off the machine and making soft noises against his lips.
His hands are all over you as soon as he notices the state of you, sliding down to cup your ass with both palms and tug you tighter to his frame.
That makes you out rightly whimper, clumsily trying to hitch a leg around his waist and sighing in relief when he holds your thigh to keep it there. The wet sounds of your mouths fill the small room, body slightly shaking both from need and from the way the washer is vibrating against your back.
“Missed you.” You whimper it out when he pulls back to let you breathe, kissing down your jaw and tightening his grip on the soft curve hidden under your underwear. “Didn’t call me.”
“Were you waiting for me to call baby?” He asks softly, despite how much it had been bothering him, he would never want to make you feel guilty for not reaching out to him after what you’d done.
You don’t answer so he pulls his head out of your neck to look at your face, seeing the soft frown and the hesitation in your eyes.
“Hey.” He breaths out and pushes your hair back to get your attention fully on him, your body softening and completely leaning against his to the point you’d definitely fall if he took a step backwards. “I wanted to give you space. Let you decide when you wanted to continue this, if you did.”
“I don’t want space.” You counter and it’s a little past bratty but he’s so beyond fond of you that he can’t help but let the corners of his mouth turn up at the sound of it. “You’re supposed to take care of me.”
He’s not sure when your dynamic became this way but he feels it as much as you apparently do, knows it’s his duty to make sure you’re always fine and not needing anything he can’t fix. Now there’s the added element of making you feel good, touching you in ways you’re not used to and showing you what pleasure can be like, and he’s not taking it lightly.
“Then I’ll call.” He say softly and your eyes lock on his as you nod in agreement, his hand cupping your cheek so he can keep you still enough to kiss you briefly. “You want me to chase you and I’ll chase you.”
“Right now I just want you to kiss me.” You whisper and he doesn’t need to hear anything else.
You’re back to kissing and it’s feverish now, more tongue than anything and your hands groping each other anywhere you can touch.
He’s lifting you up off the ground just so he can press himself between your legs and swallow the soft needy noises you let out at the feeling, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist so he can’t pull away at all. You’re pressed back against the metal with his hands under your shirt and wrapped around your frame to make sure you don’t fall, thick fingers splayed out against your ribs.
It’s getting hotter in the room and it’s mostly due to the way you’re whining and trying to roll your hips into him, unsuccessful considering how hard he’s got you pinned back to the washer.
“Jack please.” You pant and pull away from his mouth, tucking into his neck and rubbing your soft cheek against his stubble like a needy cat. “Please touch me. Do anything.”
He’s grunting at the request and gently setting you back down on your feet so he can free up a hand, using it to push your shirt up to your neck. He’s not too surprised to find that you’re not wearing anything underneath and your surprised gasp swallows the sound of his low groan.
You’re whining lewdly when he leans down to press kisses against your skin, middle of your breast first to avoid putting his mouth where you really want it. You’re panting, chest rising and falling under his mouth, and tangling a hand in his ash colored curls to try and steer him where you need him.
He wants to smack your hand away and warn you to be patient but he wants you too bad to try and discipline you right now, letting his mouth latch onto to one of your hard nipples so he can hear whatever noise that brings out of you.
It’s loud and intoxicating, his head spinning a little as he keeps sucking and licking your skin, letting your shirt rest on the top of his head so he can use his other hand to roughly grope your other breast and make sure you’re getting equal attention.
“Oh fuck Jack.” You’re whimpering and trying to hump against nothing, back arching as you whine and hold him to your body like he has any plans of getting away from you. “T-that feels so good.”
“Come upstairs.” His voice is so rough it surprises himself, picking his head off your chest and letting your shirt drop so he can kiss you swiftly.
You frown at the loss of contact, rubbing your nose against his and still lightly petting his hair.
“Why not here?” You ask softly and he gives you a disapproving look that makes you sigh and rest your forehead down against his shoulder for a few seconds while you catch your breath. “It’s too far.”
He thinks for a moment before he’s adjusting his stance to pick you up off the ground, abandoning your laundry and his that both likely need to be switched out soon. He’d gladly let it sit and wash it again later if it means getting you up to his apartment as fast as possible.
You make a small surprised noise and cling to him, arms behind his neck and legs wrapped around his middle and he makes his way up the few stairs towards the elevators.
“Jack your leg.” The sight of the steps seems to remind you of his disability and he’d be more irritated by your worry if it didn’t sound so genuine.
You clearly don’t ever think too much about his leg restricting him, never shying away from asking him to lift heavy things or walk with you down to the store. You don’t treat him like he’s fragile or any less of a man for having limitations and he’s always liked that about you, same way he somehow likes your gentle concern even though it would have bothered him if it was anybody else.
“Think I can’t throw you around because of my leg?” He mumbles and you tense in his hold as he walks like you think he might be serious before you’re breathing out a laugh and hiding in his neck.
Jack finally gets back to his apartment, going crazy from the way you’d started to kiss his jaw and whine impatiently in the elevator. Your hands run up and down his arms like you’re marveling at the strength it takes to carry you for as long as he was, making soft needy noises and squirming around.
He can’t even care about the possibility somebody could see him with you, one of the neighbor he’d lived next to for years watching as Jack Abbot carries the much younger girl next door through his entry way as she whines for him to touch her more.
“Calm down baby.” His voice is soft once he gets to his room, setting you down on his bed and taking a few seconds to stare at you as you lay there and pout up at him.
You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and his gut twists a little at the observation, a mixture of desperate unfamiliar need and the same guilt from before accompanied by a new layer of it.
He thinks of his wife for the first time in a while. He used to spend every waking second with her on his mind but she had naturally started to fade from his mind once he met you, something he hadn’t even noticed until you’d already been living across the hall for a few months.
You’d came over for the first time and asked him to borrow some ingredients, strolling around his living room and eyeballing the photos on his walls while he poured some sugar into a small tupperware bowl for you to take back to your place. You had turned to him with a curious face and asked him where his wife was, obviously confused considering you’d never heard of her before despite how frequently you and him small talked.
That was the first time Jack noticed how little he’d been thinking of her lately, not just in the painful mourning way he’d been suffering through since she passed but in general too.
Now he was waking up in the morning and anticipating the next time you’d knock on his door, focusing on his health again so he could occupy you on your walks and not picking up too many extra shifts at work just incase you needed something and he wasn’t there.
Jack was thinking about her again now as you laid on his bed but only because he couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted something this bad, trying to compare the feeling of you to how he felt in his marriage and still thinking it fell short.
He had loved his wife, undoubtedly, but he craved you in a way that almost felt inhumane.
“You’re being mean to me.” You say softly to break him out of his trance, having zoned out just staring down at you and the way your chest was rising and falling with every deep breath.
“I’m never mean to you honey.” He whispers back and finally moves to lay down with you, hovering over your frame and running a hand from your waist to your ribs as he kisses you softly. “I take good care of you, don’t I?”
It’s a bit mean to throw your words from earlier back in your face, especially as he lets his mouth trail down your neck. You make a whiny noise and grip his shoulders, nodding your head and shifting under him so your legs are spread further.
“Yes Jack yes, you take care of me.” You’re practically whimpering and he feels almost drunk from how easily you get this needy, pausing his soft kisses to shift up on his knees and tug your shirt over your head.
You’re the prettiest sight he’s ever seen and he can’t help himself from bringing his mouth right back to your chest, drinking in the way you gasp and moan while he’s licking and sucking on your nipples. His other hand is softly groping whichever breast he doesn’t have his mouth on at the moment and your backs arching off his bed, scratching his shoulders through his shirt.
“Please touch me.” You’re begging after only a few minutes of the slow torture and he lets out a sharp breath, shifting so he’s more to the side of you than on top.
You’re quiet when he rubs his hand down your chest and over your stomach, rubbing at the waistband of your underwear for a few seconds just to hear the way you pant before he’s smoothing over your thighs.
Your back is basically against his chest as he hooks your leg over his to make sure yours are nice and spread for him, kissing your neck softly when he rubs your hips above your underwear.
You bare your neck for him easily and he’s selfish in the way he marks you, sucking any part of your warm skin he can reach so you’re left purple and red all over. He wants anybody you see for the next week or two to know you’ve been with somebody else, to see the claim he laid to your body even if he doesn’t let things go as far as you want him to take it.
Jack doesn’t need to be asked twice to touch you, big hand leaving your hip so he can fully palm your core.
Your reaction is just the way he had hoped it would be, sharp gasp leaving your lips as you instantly buck up against his touch. You whine desperately when he goes back to rubbing your thigh instead, giving you a second to work yourself up to the point he wants you to be at.
“Jack.” You don’t even sound like yourself now and it’s intoxicating, so pleading and broken. “Please.”
“Please what?” He’s practically whispering, perfectly calm and the direct opposite of how broken you sound just from him lightly touching you.
He moves you so you’re fully between his legs, back against his chest as he cages himself around you to keep you from moving.
You’re practically shaking, whimpering and moving your hips against nothing with the hopes he’ll cave and end up touching you again. You’re distracting to look at, body bare except for the pathetic excuse of underwear shorts you’d been wearing under your shirt, like you’d just been hoping he would be the one to find you in the laundry mat.
He has half the thought to make fun of you for that, make you tell him exactly what you were thinking when you left your apartment wearing so little, but he doesn’t think you could handle him saying much at all right now especially not something so demeaning.
“I’m going to touch you.” He says gently instead and kisses the side of your head, letting his hand go back to groping your chest just to make sure you stay worked up.
Even though he doubts at this point he even needs to touch you for that to happen.
“Yeah yeah.” You’re nodding in agreement, seemingly pleased at his decision as you relax back against him and let him touch you freely.
His other hands back between your legs now, letting you get used to the feeling of somebody touching you where you’re most sensitive. He’s just rubbing back and forth, listening to the way you pant and pulling back whenever you start to try and shift against his hand on your own.
“You’re wet just from that?” His voice is a little mean now but you don’t seem to mind, trying to clamp your thighs around his hand but being stopped by the sharp swat he sends to your skin. You wince but move your foot back to the other side of his leg so yours stay open, pouting softly at the silent punishment. “Answer me when I ask you something.”
“I’m always wet around you.” You admit with an embarrassed tone lacing your words, squirming like you wish you could hide yourself from the way he’s staring down at your body. “Want you so bad.”
“I want you too.” He kisses the side of your head, still rubbing you with just enough pressure to make you feel the friction but not to actually get off. “Gonna make you feel so good, you’ve just got to be patient.”
“Stop being scared to hurt me.” Your voice is shaky but as firm as possible, trying to show him you’re a big girl and can handle a little bit of the roughness he’s so clearly holding back.
It’s obvious in the way he was grabbing your throat your first kiss, moving your body around easily whenever he needed to, and scolding you just enough for you to be able to catch the mean tone seeping in accidentally.
Jack clearly has a darker side to him that he’s not letting you see and it’s obviously frustrating you, wanting to be taken seriously.
“I’ll hurt you if that’s what you want sweetheart but not for your first time.” His words don’t leave any room for argument so you don’t even try, sinking back against his firm chest and letting out a deep breath when he shifts behind you and presses himself forward.
It’s not long before you’re not able to wait anymore and he lets you scramble to tug down your underwear, keeping his fingers lightly rubbing between your folds and watching as you struggle to get the fabric past his insistent hand.
Eventually he lets you pull them off and then he’s right back to touching you, bare this time. You both suck in a breath at the contact and you’re practically laying down from how far you’d slid down his chest, spreading your legs as wide as they can go and whimpering while he touches you.
“Do you touch yourself like this baby?” He can’t help the curiosity, the image of you in your bed trying to get yourself off stuck in his mind now.
You shake your head and frown, trying to twist your neck to look at him but being stopped when he uses his free hand to roughly grip your chin and make you keep your eyes on the way he’s touching you, thumb on your sensitive clit now while you roll your hips the best you can.
“No I…” You can barely think let alone speak, clearly struggling as you make a pained and desperate noise. “I get nervous.”
Jack sighs and collects some of your wetness on his middle finger before finally pressing it against the tightness of your hole, not pushing in just yet but teasing it with light pressure and letting you get used to the feeling.
“When you’re with somebody, they should always be this gentle with you at first.” He’s saying softly, remembering that he’s supposed to be actually teaching you something and not just getting you off because he desperately wants to.
You frown deeply as he starts to talk and he doesn’t really understand why, thinks maybe you’re still being pouty that he won’t get rougher with you.
He tries to distract you by finally pressing a finger inside of you and it seems to work for a second, another gasp leaving you as you instinctively clench around the intrusion. He groans, his length throbbing against your back at the thought of being fully inside you instead of just a finger.
“Fuck you’re tight.” He rasps and buries his face in your hair for a few seconds to try and collect himself enough to keep teaching you something, anything at all so he doesn’t keep letting himself think this is something it isn’t. “They’ll have to really get you stretched before anything okay? You need to remember that baby.”
It bothers him so much he can barely focus, the thought of somebody not taking their time with you. He doesn’t want to picture you with another man in general but especially not in a way that hurts you, leaves you too sore the next morning with nobody to take care of you.
He’s so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice your face stiffening at first, body a little tenser against him even though you’re still softly squirming to try and get him to put his finger deeper inside you.
“Jack stop.”
He does so immediately and goes to pull out of you before you’re making a panicked noise and closing your thighs around his hand. He lets you this time, pauses all movements just to wait for whatever it is that you need.
“N-no don’t stop that, god please don’t stop that.” Your voice is breathier now like the thought of him taking his hand away from you makes your chest tighten. “Just… stop talking about anyone else.”
It takes him a few seconds to register that and then his hands moving again, enough for you to relax and spread your legs back open.
You’re both quiet now as he adds another finger, lingering in the weight of your request and what it could mean if anything. He’s half sure you only asked because it was pulling you out of the moment, maybe making you nervous to think about doing this again with actual stakes, but the way you desperately tried to stop him from pulling away lets him pretend it was for another reason.
He’s selfish in the way he touches you now, thick fingers moving in and out of you while you cry and whine, gripping at his forearm whenever it feels like too much. He likes the way your nails dig into his arm when you think you might be close, thighs clenching and shifting when his thumb gently circles your swollen clit and how your lips part in breathy cries of his name.
He especially likes that.
You come with moans of his name filling the room and nobody else’s after you’d specifically asked him to stop mentioning other guys. Jack knows it’s selfish, even a little sick and perverted, but he could probably finish just from hearing that.
He’s throbbing against your back and he’s sure you’d be able to feel it if you were able to focus on anything after coming, body shaking a little as you pant endlessly and fall limb in his hold.
There’s a lot of softness that comes after, kissing the side of your head and being gentle in the way he cleans you up. It’s torture to be between your legs and getting to fully appreciate the sight of you for the first time without be able to touch you more but he doesn’t want to overstimulate you so early on.
He does let himself think about that vividly though, kissing against your thighs and picturing when he’s going to be able to put his mouth on you.
You’re quiet above him, eyes a little tired but still overly soft as you run your fingers through his hair and watch him wipe you down.
Then he’s back ontop of you and kissing you softly, shifting your back so you’re laying back against the pillows and not sitting up. It’s soft and bordering on romantic which makes his chest tighten, hoping you have no plans to leave his bed anytime soon.
“You okay?” He asks quietly against your mouth and he can feel you smiling, still touching his hair with one hand and letting the other drift down to the back of his neck.
“Felt so good.” You whisper back and your voice is a little hoarse from all the whining you’d been doing, nose bumping against his and then rubbing on his stubble for a few seconds. “Can I take a nap here?”
“You can do anything you want.” He says immediately, no hesitation as he gets up to get you one of his shirts and help you get comfortable, jumping at the opportunity to keep you with him just like he wanted.
Jack typically has a hard time sleeping through the night in general so he definitely never naps, needing to be truly past the brink of exhaustion to ever rest.
Yet he finds it to be the most simple thing in the world to crawl into his bed with you after taking off his leg, kissing you for a few more minutes before he’s wrapping you in his arms and tugging you back against his chest. He’s rubbing your stomach softly, hand under the shirt he’s given you, listening intently until he hears your breathing even out and then drifting to sleep right after you.
—
It’s one of the highlights of his decade to get to wake up with you still there, warm and making soft tired noises when you feel him start to stir.
His room is dark now other than the slight illumination coming from the moon outside of his window, casting just enough light for him to be able to watch your eyes flutter open.
You give him a soft sleepy smile and instinctively lean in to give him a kiss.
It’s easy to pretend that you are more than whatever this is when you act like this, mouths moving together sensually as if you have nowhere else you’d want to be.
Jack groans softly when your tongue pushes into his mouth, meeting it eagerly with his own and moving so hes hovering over you. Your hands are on his back, spreading your legs below him to let him slot between them.
He feels like a teenager again from how quickly he gets hard, your soft body under his putting him under some sort of spell. His hips shift and you let out a needy whine, scratching his shoulders lightly like you’re trying to encourage him.
You’re still making out slowly when he starts to thrust down against you, slow rolls of his hips to give you just enough friction to start to get desperate.
You’re tugging at his shirt fabric and he takes only a second to sit up and pull it over his head, back on you immediately and kissing you even more frantically. He’s moving your own shirt up towards your ribs but neither one of you wants to stop long enough to take it off, only able to when you need a quick second to take a breath.
It’s the first time you’ve both been nearly undressed together and he feels the effects of it instantly, your chest pressing against his when he lays back over you. Your skin is soft and hot to the touch, those now familiar soft whines leaving you when he lets his hand knead at your chest again.
“Jack please.” You’re whimpering and he finally stops kissing you in favor of sucking at your neck, bringing those marks from earlier back to the surface. “Can’t you just fuck me?”
He groans at the words and has to tuck his face in your shoulder, still rocking his hips against you even though they stuttered when you said that in that whiny voice of yours.
“Trust me, I want to fuck you so bad I can’t even think.” It leaves his mouth before he can stop it, not wanting to reject you again without making sure you know how badly he wants you.
“Then do it.” You’re begging now and he picks his head up to look at you, eyes wide and a little frustrated like you know he’s going to say no. You gasp when he thrusts down even harder, biting your lip as you stare at each other desperately. “Please Jack? Want you inside me.”
“I can’t baby.” He growls and kisses you to give himself a second to think without you arguing.
You’re quick to forget you were trying to convince him of something because you’re kissing him back deeply, angling your head so his tongue can get further and further inside your mouth.
He has that sick and perverted thought again that he’s coincidentally training you to be the perfect girl for him, kissing in a way he likes and not knowing how else to do it. Jack is selfish and wants everything you do to be for him, wants your body to instinctively move and react how he taught you regardless of who gets you next.
The thought of somebody else makes him want to forget his morals and fuck you like you’re begging him, be the one to take your virginity and fill you up for the first time.
He starts to reason with himself that it would actually be a good thing because Jack would never let himself hurt you in a way you didn’t like, he’d make sure you felt good around him and came so hard you weren’t able to see straight.
There’s nobody else who could fuck you like he could so he’s almost convinced himself that it’s a good idea when your phone rings on the nightstand.
You both stop, you’re completely tense under him and he sighs as he kisses you one more time and rolls off of you.
He lays there on his back as you sit up to grab your phone, screen a little too bright in the dark room and causing you to wince. He stares at your pretty face under the light as you open it up and answer it, not thinking much about the interruption despite the small disappointment he feels.
His hand is on your bare knee and rubbing your skin is soft circles, soothing both you and himself by keeping the contact.
“Hello?” Your voice is as soft and sweet as always, a little confused sounding which makes his eyebrows raise. “Oh Carter.”
Jack tenses up at the sound of a males name leaving your lips, his hand freezing and falling still on your knee. You’re avoiding looking at him as you listen to whoever it is speak on the other line, a deep voice bleeding through the speakers just enough for him to hear but not enough to make out the words.
“Tonight?” Your eyes go to the small digital clock on Jacks side of the bed, having to glance over his body in the process. You meet his eyes just for a second before they’re darting away again and it makes the pit in his stomach grow in understanding. “Of course I didn’t forget. I’ll be ready by nine.”
You’re hanging up after a quiet goodbye and now it’s suffocatingly silent in the room.
You’re still sitting up with your legs crossed under you, avoiding looking at him like you’re not still wearing his shirt and covered in marks he’d given to you. He waits for a minute before he’s sitting up and running a hand over his face, on the opposite side of the bed from you and facing the wall so you can’t see his expression when he finally gets himself to speak.
“You’ve got a date tonight?” He rasps out, trying his best to sound unaffected even though it comes out low and tight.
“I forgot.” You whisper back and you sound further away now, a glance over his shoulder confirms that you’d stood up off the bed and are searching for the shirt you’d shown up in so you can swap out of his. “He’s taking me to some art show downtown.”
Jack stares at you as you move around the room, eyes scanning over your body when you pull his shirt over your head and neatly fold it before putting it on his dresser. It feels really final to watch you change back into your own clothes, turning to meet his eyes and letting out a soft sigh when you see he’s already watching you closely.
He hopes it doesn’t show on his face, doesn’t want to be too obvious that he’s probably about two seconds away from throwing up.
“Carter.” He says simply and now you really stiffen.
You stand there for a few seconds like you’re waiting for something, eyes a little expectant and then full on disappointed when he scoffs and moves to put his leg back on so he can stand up and get out of the room that’s suddenly suffocating.
You leave his apartment and all the warmth goes with you.
He stands in his dark kitchen with regret sitting heavy on his chest, wishing he had stopped you and asked you to stay with him instead.
He isn’t sure if it’s the fear of rejection or his own guilt that stopped him but he knew he couldn’t ask you to do that. You deserved better than him and his baggage, his late hours at work and his dangerous hobbies that he needed to keep himself busy with to not think about the things that sent him spiraling.
He couldn’t imagine forcing you into a life where you had to explain him to your friends and family, ignore the curious and judging looks from his own when they realized just how young you were.
Jack knew you were lonely, it was obvious considering how much time you willingly spent with him and it was bad enough he’d taken advantage of your desperation for connection and nearly slept with you.
He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he stopped you from enjoying your youth, having a fun late night in the city surrounded by artsy people your age and not stuck on his couch watching old reruns because he’s too tired after work to properly take you out.
Jack hates himself for thinking all this and then still obsessively wanting you.
So much so that he purposely lingers near his truck right around the time you’d told your date you’d be ready. In his defense, he did actually need a few things from the corner store, so he sat in the parking lot and waited until he saw you come down.
Your date met you at the entrance of the lobby but didn’t take your purse from you or the jacket you were holding, smiled at you politely but couldn’t be bothered to open the door of his car or even wait for you to get in before he did.
It made Jack sick to his stomach all over again, jaw clenched as he sat in the dark interior of his truck and watched you drive off with some asshole only an hour after he’d had you sleeping next to him, panting under him and begging him to fuck you.
Jack decides right then that it all needs to stop, not just the sex lessons but helping you in general. He can’t be that person for you without wanting more, he’s selfish and possessive over somebody that was never supposed to be his and he knows it’s not fair to you.
So he doesn’t answer any of your texts that night, stays quiet in his living room whenever you knock on his door and waits until he hears you leave for work before he goes to check the mail.
He feels terrible for avoiding you but keeps trying to convince himself it’s in your best interest.
Jack is half asleep when the silent treatment finally breaks.
He’d fallen asleep on his couch accidentally, a beer can too many on the table in front of him and the same movie he’d been watching beforehand starting to roll credits. He should have been in bed sleeping after pulling a double at work but he couldn’t stand being in there lately, tossing and turning and trying to catch the faint scent of you lingering on his pillows.
There was a second of confusion, not sure why he had waken up in the first place, until the sharp knocks on his door made him flinch.
He was standing up on autopilot to open it, wincing at how stiff and sore his leg felt from falling asleep with it still on.
Any thought of his pain was gone the second he opened his door and saw your face, tears on your cheeks and your eyebrows furrowed in frustration.
“I need to talk to you.” You said immediately and he ushered you into his apartment, not necessarily wanting to be in an enclosed space with you but recognizing your tearful voice was far too loud to have a conversation in the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” He said softly and takes a few steps towards you on instinct, cradling your cheek and staring down at you when you nuzzle against his touch. “Why are you crying?”
“Because you’re an asshole.” You seem to remember that you’re mad at him because you step away from his touch, pushing his arm back down to his side and storming further into his apartment.
He stands there completely frozen as you toss your purse onto the chair near the couch, your eyes scanning over the beer cans and the obvious indent of where he’d been sleeping.
Then you’re back to looking at him and he knows what he probably looks like to you. The exhaustion is obvious on his face, clothes a little baggier than normal from a lack of taking care of himself and a constant awkward shifting on his leg to keep pressure off of it.
“Why aren’t you talking to me?” Your voice cracks a little and he deflates, taking a few steps closer again even though he doesn’t think you want him to touch you. “Did I do something wrong?”
“What?” His face faces in disbelief at the idea you could ever do anything wrong in general, especially to him. “Of course you didn’t sweetheart.”
“Then why?” Your words are louder now and they linger in the tense air, face pained as you wait for him to answer.
He sighs and runs a hand over his stubble that desperately needs some maintenance, wishes he had the time to plan out everything he wanted to say to you so he doesn’t accidentally fuck it up more than he already had.
“I just… I can’t do it anymore.” He lets his hands fall to his sides with a loud defeated clap and shrugs his shoulders. “I can’t watch you go out with these idiots knowing they can’t take care of you.”
He hopes what he’s trying to say is an obvious to you as it is to him, not able to bring himself to actually voice the fact that he has feelings for you beyond helping out a neighbor.
“You didn’t stop me.” You sound devastated, head shaking like you don’t believe anything he’s saying to you.
You’re not crying anymore thankfully but you look so hurt and disappointed that it makes him physically ache, moving to grab your arm softly and guide you to sit down on the couch with him.
“I waited for you to stop me and you didn’t.” You continue once you’re sitting beside him, legs pressed together in a small amount of addicting content. “Isn’t it obvious by now that I only want to be with you?”
The words hit him so hard that he doesn’t even have time to process them, eyebrows furrowing as the need for more information pushes him to speak.
“Why would that be obvious? The entire point of this was for you to be ready for other people.”
You look a little embarrassed at his sound logic, staring down at your lap where your hands are fiddling with your fingers. He sighs and takes one of them in his, squeezing it softly until you let your gaze drift back up to his.
“I don’t want other people.” You whisper, staring at him with a small amount of hope in your eyes like you’re just waiting for him to understand. “And I don’t want you to be with anyone else either. I just figured… you wouldn’t cross that line without a good reason.”
Jack thinks it’s a little juvenile of a plan but he also knows you’re not wrong. He would have never touched you without the feeling of helping you out with something, no matter how much he had wanted you since the second you moved in.
That little lie was all he needed to get himself through the shame and guilt, the ability to pretend it was for a greater cause and not because he was sick and desperate for a girl half his age.
“Jack.” You sigh when he doesn’t respond for a few seconds, turning so you can face him better and press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw. “Stop thinking.”
“That’s a big ask.” He mumbles back but he gladly turns to give you a real kiss, holding your face in his hand and keeping your mouth against his.
You kiss until you run out of breath, pulling back from him but rubbing your nose against his and letting your small hands grip his forearm desperately.
“Then just be with me for tonight.” You try to reason with him in any way you can, rubbing his arm softly and blinking at him with those big pretty eyes that drive him so crazy.
He stares at you for a moment before he’s standing up off the couch and tugging you along with him, ignoring the little surprised noise you make in favor of lifting you up with his hands on the back of your thighs. You gasp and then giggle softly once he’s got you in the air, arms behind his neck and legs around his middle as he starts to walk you to his room.
“You’re crazy if you think you’re going anywhere after tonight.” He tells you once he gets you settled on his bed, kissing the smile off your face as he climbs over you.
It’s a direct mirror of the other night as you get each other undressed fully this time, kissing the entire time and tasting his tongue deep in your mouth when it starts to get more heated.
“You’re going to be mine.” He says firmly once he’s got you in nothing but your panties, making sure your eyes are locked on his when you hear it. His free hand is all over your body, rubbing from your smooth thigh up to your chest and cupping around your neck for a brief moment while he waits for you to respond. “If I fuck you then you’re mine.”
“I’ve been yours.” You whisper easily, like you didn’t have to put any thought into it.
He falters, hand tightening around your throat on instinct and then releasing the pressure when he sees the way your eyes light up with interest.
“Don’t be nasty baby.” He’s teasing, kissing the corner of your mouth and bringing your leg up so it’s around his waist and he can press himself against you. “Gonna be gentle with you for your first time. You deserve it.”
“I want you to fuck me.” You’re pouting and gripping at him impatiently, running your hand between your bodies to touch his stomach and fidget with the waistband of his boxers. “That’s what I want Jackie.”
“Didn’t ask what you wanted.” He grumbles back, not caring that it comes off a little mean because you whine at the sound of how rough his voice had gotten and he knows you like it.
He’s back to kissing you and it’s filthier than normal, more tongue and spit than anything else.
You’re as vocal as always, whining and begging impatiently when he gets your underwear off and starts to touch you again.
Jack can barely think straight when he’s back inside of you, fingers pushing in easier this time now that you’ve felt the intrusion before and know what to expect. You’re gasping and crying out immediately, unintelligible words that he blocks out in favor of focusing on how you feel when he’s stretches you out.
“Want it so bad.” Your near sob gets through to him and he hisses through clenched teeth at how wrecked you sound already, shushing you softly and kissing your cheeks to try and calm you down.
“I know baby I know.” He’s whispering but you don’t seem to be hearing him, spreading your legs further to try and make space for him to slot back between them instead of using his fingers.
Jack is just as impatient as you but he’s terrified of hurting you too early, although throbbing so hard in his boxers that it’s painful to shift around.
It’s not long before it’s too much prep for both of you and you’re watching him with your chest heaving as he gets himself undressed the rest of the way, leg going on the floor right alongside your underwear that he had slowly pulled down your body before climbing back over you.
Your eyes go down between your bodies where his leg is and he tenses for a second despite knowing you mean well with the concern you have on your face.
“Let me ride you.” You say softly and his chest tightens with that old familiar shame he was still actively working on ridding himself of.
“I can fuck you.” He says gruffly and your eyes flash with regret, pouting a little like you’re worried you’ve hurt his feelings with your thoughtful suggestion. He kisses the expression off your face, a long deep one followed by a few quick pecks to try and ease your mind. “Next time baby.”
He says it both because he knows realistically he has limitations, there will be plenty of nights he’s not able to rail you into his mattress like he wants to, but also because he knows he would die a happy man the second he got to see you bouncing on top of him and desperately trying to get yourself off.
You look like you want to argue but you’re stopped when he’s pushing your legs apart and moving between them, sharp gasp leaving you when you feel his hard length pressing against you finally.
“Fuck Jack.” Your voice is sharp and already a little pained just from the dull sensation of him lining up with your hole, a growl leaving him at the sound of your distress.
“Just relax baby.” He says as softly as he can even though his throat feels tight and raw, kissing you gently to try and get you to calm down enough for him to push in. “You’re too tight sweetheart.”
“I… I can’t.” You let out another sharp cry when he shifts forward, nails digging into his shoulders so deep it makes him wince and lower his head down on your shoulder.
Jack has to use every ounce of self control he can muster to not just fully push himself into you and feel that tight heat he’s getting a taste of, that same sick and selfish part of him that wants you in the first place begging him to just take you already.
Instead he takes a few deep breaths before he’s kissing you with more focus, going back and forth between softly rubbing your side and massaging your inner thigh to try and urge your body to relax and accommodate him.
It’s a torturous ten minutes, especially due to your soft whimpers and the way you cry his name whenever he accidentally moves himself deeper.
Then you’re finally calm enough, bare chest rising and falling with the deep breaths he’d instructed you to take.
“Want you inside Jack.” You’re whining in his ear, clinging to him tightly and almost suffocating him when he immediately takes your queue and pushes in. You tense up again at the brief surge of pain and then let out a satisfied cry when you feel how full you are, clenching around him so ridiculously that he almost needs to pull out to give himself a break despite barely starting.
You’re both too overwhelmed to speak much more once he starts to actually fuck you, deep thrust accompanied by filthy kisses to keep you from waking up the neighbors with how desperately you’re whining for him to keep giving you more.
It’s pure need on both ends, your hips eagerly rocking upwards to try and meet his thrust sloppily while he uses his free hand to roughly push down on your stomach and keep you in place.
“Jackie.” It’s nearly a sob from you now and he can tell you’re close from how much tighter you’d gotten, almost an impossible squeeze for him to keep fucking you through.
He’s grateful you’re so inexperienced because he doesn’t think he’d last long either, not with the way you look as you stare up at him with teary and trusting eyes.
“I know baby you’re doing so good for me.” It’s more of a growl than anything else but he can barely think let alone speak enough to keep encouraging you. “Taking me so well sweetheart.”
“I’m so full Jack.” You whimper and cling to him tighter, nearly pulling him fully down on top of you and knocking him off his balance. “Feels so good.”
You’re stuttering through your sentences and slurring each word, eyes a little dazed in a way that makes him need to squeeze his shut to avoid coming inside you just from that fucked out look you have.
It’s more sweet than heated when you actually do finally reach your peak, holding onto him still and kissing the side of his jaw softly with your face buried in his neck as you squirm and shake your way through your orgasm.
He stays inside of you for as long as he can so you’re not shocked from the sudden feeling of emptiness but you’re squeezing him too tight and he has to pull out as soon as you’re starting to relax. You whimper immediately at the lose and pick your head up to pout at him, eyes panicked like you’re genuinely distressed he didn’t finish inside you.
He shushes you gently and kisses your face over and over, rubbing your side as he lets you fully come back to reality before attempting to clean either of you up or get you dressed.
“Jack.” You’ve got the needy and frustrated tone he loves so much and he knows you’re not dropping it, meeting your eyes with a fond sigh as you glance down at where he’d came instead of inside you.
“Next time.” He promises again and he means it, fully intending to have that conversation with you ahead of time now that he’s got you like this.
Jack isn’t too opposed to the idea of getting you pregnant, not even sure he’s able to with the amount of pills he takes, but he has to push down that thought along with the rest of the sick ones he gets when he looks at your needy eyes.
You smile a little at the loose promise and tuck yourself back into his shoulder, soothing any concern he has about what just happened or how you’re supposed to operate going forward.
He’s undoubtedly the luckiest guy in the world to have you wanting him like this, feeling safe in his arms and desperate for him in the way he’d been for you since the second he laid eyes on you.
Jack was never the type of person to take the duty of taking care of somebody lightly and he doesn’t plan to let you down for even a second, kissing the top of your head softly and letting himself forget about any shame or insecurity just to hold you for awhile longer.
I ate this up!! This is freaking amazing wth seriously I absolutely love this. I can't even find the words to describe how beautiful this is, also this was a bonus because I love the age-gap trope! I don't even know this character but the writing pulled me in.
🌟 18+, intimate atmosphere, jealousy, babying & cooing, sci-fi element, lactation kink, handjob, male squirting, body fluids, fluff, unresolved childhood trauma, mommy (& daddy) issues, abandonments issues, fictional man being pathetic, Victorian neediness, not plot but also plot??, implied pre-established relationship
He had been hovering around you all evening, hands fidgeting in that restless way that meant he was hiding something.
Finally, with his ears flushed pink, Victor had produced a small jar of pale, pearlescent balm.
"I made this" he murmured, refusing to meet your eyes. "If you wanted—only if you wanted—your body could… respond. For me."
You had wanted alright.
His fingers had shaken as he dipped them into the balm and brought it to your breasts, rubbing it in with exaggerated gentleness that borderlined to worship.
The moment your nipples had tightened under his touch, he'd let out a shaky breath like he was witnessing a miracle.
"Beautiful… so beautiful" he whispered under his breath, voice gone small and awestruck. "I can't believe you'd let me have this…"
That was days ago.
Victor had made it for you in secret. An alchemical balm brewed over a couple of feverish nights, his hands trembling not from exhaustion, but from hope.
"A harmless endocrine stimulation, fooling your body, essentially" he murmured, cheeks bright as he handed you the small glass jar.
The formula was absurdly complex, full of botanicals and gentle compounds, designed with meticulous care so you'd lactate without pain, without pregnancy, and without any risk...
Just for him, because he wanted desperately to be able to nurse at your breasts.
That leads us to tonight.
Seventy two hours later.
Ten balm applications later –three times a day, plus his demonstration.
The lab is quiet, the lightnings outside casting long shadows across the cluttered room. The storm will soon fade into just a low growl in the back of your mind. You walk through the lab and into the bedroom.
Your gaze immediately lands on Victor.
The normally imposing man has curled himself under a tangle of blankets, like a child seeking sanctuary. From what?
Nightmares he never outgrew... About his mother's death? His father's teachings? Or perhaps it's the Archangel this time.
Either way, his shoulders are trembling and his breath is shallow. He's the image of bravado being peeled away like a banana in a monkey's ruthless hands.
His voice comes out cracked and raw. Pleading.
"Please… I don't want to be brilliant tonight. I don't want to be Leopold Frankenstein's firstborn. Not his son, not a Baron, not a doctor. I just... want to belong to you."
You slide beside him onto the four-poster bed, the warmth of your swollen chest brushing his face.
"Mhm… my sweet boy" you coo, fingers brushing down his taut arms. "That's correct. You don't have to be anything but mine tonight."
He exhales, nuzzling into your chest, erratic fingers moving to your nightgown's buttons.
Victor doesn't hesitate when you guide him downward, fingers sliding through his hair. His lips barely brush your nipple –reverent, terrified he might not be allowed.
"You don't have to be afraid. You've earned this. Taste me."
His eyes flutter and he groans.
Then, he closes his lips around your nipple.
The first suck is careful, tentative.
But when the balm's work meets his tongue and the warm bead of milk touches his mouth... He whimpers, the sound vibrated through you.
He suckles harder, instinct taking over. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer like he can merge into your skin. His cheeks hollowed, desperate, hungry, overwhelmed by the taste he's created and you've given so freely.
"Good boy" you praise, stroking his hair. "Drink."
He moans around you.
Each swallow makes him cling tighter, suckling with more urgency. Milk smears his lips when he pulls back for a gasp, and he dives in again with a breathless noise.
You carress his back as he drinks, comforting him through it, letting him nurse until he's flushed and milk-drunk and limp in your arms.
Only then, does your hand drift lower, skimming the tense line of his stomach until it reaches the heavy heat waiting beneath the blankets.
Victor's whole body jerks and then there's a whined moan.
You hum, collected. Pleased.
"C-can you…?" His voice breaks to something embarrassingly young.
"I can make you feel good" you whisper against the shell of his ear. A reassurance as much as it also is a cruel tease. "I can make you melt for me. I can make you want without thinking, Vicky."
His thighs lock. His lips part.
"Yes… please."
You wrap your hand around him. Slow at first, barely-there pressure.
Victor lets out a strangled whine that dies against your collarbone. He is already rigid, already leaking for you.
Pathetic and perfect.
"That's it. My sweet little genius. Let me take care of you... Hm, my baby boy?"
You stroke him with a lazy, deliberate rhythm, your thumb circling the sensitive head.
Victor gasps, his hips already twitching, wanting to thrust into your fist, but tonight, too shy to dare. His fingers clutch the blanket like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the physical world.
"You don't have to hold yourself together" you tease softly. "Not with me, because I know you're just a desirous, pathetic wretch."
His breath hitches.
"I'm— I'm already—"
"I know" you coo. "Let go for me, baby."
You tighten your grip just enough, twisting your wrist the slightest bit, and Victor comes.
Sudden.
His hips lurch, his breath shatters, the first release spilling messily over your fingers. His face buries into your chest as a soft, humiliated moan tears out of him.
"Mmh… God… I—"
His body is shivering violently, but your hand doesn't leave his still swollen member. You only slow down. Enough to make it twitch and him groan.
Then begins the stroking again. Softer this round, coaxing, milking him through the overstimulation.
Victor whimpers.
"I—I can't… it's too—"
"No" you cut him off sweetly, kissing his temple, "you can give me more."
He's trembling head to toe.
His cock throbs helplessly in your hand, slick from his previous release, and so sensitive, every stroke pushing him into that fragile state between pleasure and unraveling.
Your thumb brushes his tip again.
Victor's entire body seizes.
A broken cry escapes him as he jerks forward more violently than before.
This release is different.
Too wet.
Hot fluid spurts against your wrist, too strong to be just sperm, and he lets out a wounded, frustrated cry as he drenches your hand.
He tries to squirm away, overwhelmed and embarrassed, feeling unmanned, but you softly push him back fown, stroking him through the last spurts and the bigger aftershocks.
Then he freezes.
And then he cries.
Not pretty tears.
What you witness are real, ugly, raw sobs that claw their way out of him.
His breath stutters as the last spurt pulses against your palm, his body limp and novelly overstimulated. Utterly undone.
He collapses into you, face pressed –planted, really– between your breasts, tears soaking your skin.
"I—I don't— ...why—" he chokes out between sobs. "It was so—I couldn't— it was too much—"
You pull him into your lap, wrapping one the blankets around the both of you.
"Shh... You did so good for me. My perfect boy. My sweetest little one…"
This only makes him cry harder.
Years of lonely brilliance and pressure spill out with the same helpless force as his pleasure had.
Your hand threads through his damp curls, gently cradling him to your aching breast. His wet, quivering lips brush your skin instinctively, seeking warmth and comfort, seeking something that once was torn away from him. Unjustly so.
Maybe, in this moment, he's even seeking something he never had.
"I love you" he whispers against your chest, ruined. "I'm yours. I'm—I'm all yours…"
You try to sooth him, rocking him gently. "All mine? My baby, Victor? That is correct. You're mine."
He melts, still trembling, sticky, and exhausted, clinging to you helplessly.
The constant uproar inside him eases only because you are holding him through this aftermath. Your brilliant, broken boy, small and precious in your arms.
At some point, you slip out of bed, meaning to grab a glass of water.
There's a soft drizzle now, and the cold tiles make you hiss as you pad toward the lab sink.
Behind you, the blankets rustle violently.
"...where are you going?" Victor's agitated voice cracks like he's just woken from another nightmare.
He sits half-upright in the tangled sheets, hair impossibly wild, lashes wet, looking heartbreakingly betrayed.
And petulant.
"Getting water" you answer gently. "I'll be right back."
He swallows so hard it's visible in his throat.
His abandoned puppy look sharpens into something darker.
"You weren't leaving? I… I can't—Please don't leave me."
You cross the room back to him. Before you can touch him, he grabs your hand with both of his sweaty ones, clutching it like you're the only solid object in a collapsing world.
"I hate it" he says, eyes squeezing shut. "When you go further than an arm's length. I feel… hollow."
Then, lower, ashamed but honest...
"I even get jealous of the strays you feed in the mornings. And that blasted paperboy who smiles at you. I know it's childish—"
"It's alright."
"It's not" he insists, voice barely holding on. "But you must understand that I can't help it. I've never had anything warm that stayed."
His breathing hitches again. Letting go of your hand, he curls back under the blankets, fetal position, knees bent to his chest... Bringing his hand to his lips and suckling his thumb. He's grounding himself, trusting you enough to do so in front of you.
"Please hold me now. I mean... right now?"
You roll your eyes in mock exasperation, sitting beside him, combing your fingers through his hair as he nurses on his thumb, like a half-feral, over-wired creature.
His body relaxes gradually.
"I'm not going anywhere" you clarify.
He shifts closer at that, thumb still in his mouth, his free arm wrapping around your waist with desperate tenderness.
"You promise?" he mumbles around his finger.
"Yes, my love."
Victor lets out a tiny breath, then nuzzles deeper into your stomach, blankets pulled tight around you both like a little nest he refuses to let you leave again.
A/n: I fear Oscar Isaac may have cooked a little too hard.
I watched Frankenstein and somehow became emotionally invested in a sleep-deprived scientist with parental issues, an obsession complex, and approximately zero coping mechanisms.
Oscar Isaac somehow managed to make Victor equal parts brilliant, insufferable, charismatic, emotionally constipated, and deeply pathetic.
This is a safe place for people who saw Victor Frankenstein and thought, “I can fix him.” We cannot fix him. We will, however, analyze him extensively, project onto him aggressively, and write headcanons about him.
I know I am late, the movie was in 2025. But I am choosing to stay delusional and in my own world I'm not late at all.
Please let me know if you want an nsfw headcanon.
Anyways, here are my Victor Frankenstein headcanons. This is not proof read.
I don't think Victor Frankenstein is the type of man who falls in love easily.
Attraction? Yes. Fascination? Absolutely. But genuine love is different.
Victor spends most of his life with his mind somewhere else. He's always chasing the next discovery, the next question, the next impossible thing everyone says cannot be done. Most people only ever see fragments of him because he's already thinking three steps ahead.
The person who captures his heart isn't necessarily the most beautiful person in the room. It isn't even the most brilliant.
It's the person who makes him want to stay in the present. Someone who can sit beside him while he rambles about theories for an hour and somehow never looks bored. Someone who asks questions instead of simply nodding along. Someone who understands that his excitement isn't arrogance all the time sometimes it's just genuine wonder.
Victor isn't used to feeling understood and what's makes him get attached. Once he trusts someone, they become woven into his routine in ways he doesn't immediately recognize. He starts looking for them without meaning to. He notices when they're late. He remembers comments they made weeks ago. He begins collecting little observations about them the same way he collects information about his work. The difference is that this information matters to him for entirely different reasons.
He's surprisingly attentive when he's in love. People assume someone as obsessed with his work as Victor would never notice small details, but I think that's only partially true. If he cares about someone, he notices everything.
The way they take their tea. The books they reread. The expressions they make before they're about to disagree with him. He stores all of it away somewhere.
And despite how proud and independent he appears, I think Victor secretly craves gentleness more than anyone realizes. The world asks so much of him. His own mind asks even more.
There are days when he's exhausted in a way sleep can't fix or plagued by nightmares, and those are the moments where his guard slips. I can easily imagine him ending up stretched across a sofa with his head resting in their lap while they reads. At first he would claim he's only there because he's tired or because the position happens to be comfortable. Eventually he'd stop pretending.
Victor strikes me as the type of person who completely folds under affection once he trusts it. A hand moving through his hair while he's reading would distract him from an entire page. Fingers tracing absent patterns across his shoulder would make him noticeably quieter. He'd never ask for comfort outright, but once he learns it's safe to have, he'd find himself gravitating toward it again and again.
Some of his favorite moments wouldn't involve grand adventures or passionate declarations. They'd be simple things. Reading together in comfortable silence. Long walks where a discussion about philosophy somehow turns into an argument about literature. Late nights in his laboratory where she sits nearby with her own book while he works, occasionally interrupting him with questions that send him into another excited explanation. Rainy afternoons spent sharing tea and discussing ideas until neither remembers how the conversation began. The sort of quiet companionship that allows him to exist without constantly proving himself.
Victor is not naturally good at expressing affection. He feels things deeply, but translating those feelings into words is another matter entirely. He's much better at showing love through actions. He brings back books he thinks you'll enjoy. Leaves notes in the margins of articles he wants you to read. Shows up with strange little gifts that reminded him of you while he was working.
He'll spend hours explaining a discovery because sharing it with you feels more exciting than keeping it to himself. One of the most overlooked things about Victor is that he's lonely. Not physically but emotionally. He's surrounded by people who either fear him, admire him, or criticize him. Very few people truly know him. So when someone does know him and stays anyway, it affects him more than he'd like to admit.
He's the type of person who pretends he doesn't need reassurance while secretly treasuring every word of it. If you tell him you're proud of him, he'll act as though it's no great matter. He'll think about it for weeks.
Victor is also incredibly protective, though not always in obvious ways.
He pays attention to whether you've eaten. Whether you've been sleeping. Whether you're overworking yourself.
He'll criticize others for ignoring their health while simultaneously forgetting to take care of his own. The hypocrisy is completely lost on him.
Arguments with Victor are interesting because he hates being wrong. Not in a childish way but in a deeply personal way. His intelligence is tied to his identity, so criticism can sometimes feel like an attack. However, if he truly respects someone, he'll listen.
It may take him a few hours. Possibly a few days, but eventually he'll come back and admit they had a point. Usually in the most awkward way imaginable.
One thing I think people misunderstand about Victor is that beneath all the ambition and confidence is a man who is terrified of failure not scientific failure. Personal failure. Being abandoned. Being judged. Becoming like the people who hurt him. Those fears shape far more of his behavior than he would ever admit aloud.
The version of Victor who is genuinely in love isn't softer exactly. He's still stubborn obsessive frustrating, but he's trying, and for someone like Victor trying means more than grand declarations ever could. His favorite moments aren't necessarily dramatic ones. They're quiet evenings maybe a shared book or conversation that lasts until dawn. Someone sitting beside him while he works.
The simple comfort of knowing that when he finally looks up from whatever impossible thing he's chasing they'll still be there. and I think that's what love looks like for Victor Frankenstein.
Not a distraction from his ambitions or an obstacle to overcome but a place he returns to when the rest of the world becomes too heavy to carry alone.
Thank you for reading!
[My Masterlist] This is my Masterlist if you are interested in reading more of my stuff
I want to watch so many shows and movies, but I’m a big ass procrastinator. At this point TikTok spoils everything before I even get around to watching it, so I end up forming my own interpretation of the characters from random clips and edits. Then when I try to write them, I spend the entire time judging myself for not being canon-accurate. I’m genuinely my own worst enemy.
summary: the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but medical cleared him forty minutes ago. it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and his jeans suddenly feel far too tight. and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you.
warnings/tags: SMUT, sex pollen (dubcon-ish elements), masturbation (m), oral sex (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms, creampies, overstimulation, hyperspermia, mating press, standing sex, aftercare, manhandling, size kink/size difference (reader is smaller than steve, but it's steve he's massive), praise kink, dacryphilia if you squint, sweat kink if you squint, roommates to lovers, guilty!pervy!steve who apologizes but can't stop, PWP but lowkey with plot?, sprinkle of yearning, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI
word count: 14.4k (wtf)
from maddie: official, diagnosed, terminal case of the yapperitis for this one. i got stressed writing pt. 2 of ocayf, and so decided to take a "little break" from it, and accidentally wrote this instead. it's sort of inspired by this post by @blobfishlol (hope you don't mind the tag!) and it was meant to be a quick, filthy little pwp but apparently my brain said no 🤍 it’s been a hot minute since i’ve posted anything this long and i feel like i forgot how to write halfway through, so pls be gentle with me!! (pls don’t be mad this isn’t ocayf pt2, it’s coming 🥹)
dt: my bb @love-stucky for letting me yap her ear off about this fic, and also for the edit of the steve pic <33
masterlist
Steve's still running through the debrief in his head when he pulls up outside his apartment block.
The bike's engine cuts out with a rumble, but Steve still feels a deep thrumming vibration in his chest that won't quit. His heart's pounding - has been pounding since he left the compound, he realises - and that doesn't make sense for someone whose resting heart rate is forty-five. Frowning, Steve rolls his shoulders like he can physically shake off whatever this is. Adrenaline, probably. Leftover cortisol.
Plus, the mission ran long, the debrief even longer, and he's been running on fumes for the better part of eighteen hours. Maybe this is his body reminding him that he's not actually invincible even if the serum makes it feel that way sometimes. He's tired. That's all this is.
Medical cleared him forty minutes ago. Routine checkup, vitals normal, no injuries to note. Mission success. Another HYDRA facility taken out, mostly inactive but still operational enough to need clearing. A handful of guards, computers full of encrypted files for Nat to sort through, and more dust than seemed reasonable for a place that was supposedly still in use.
It was a weird amount of dust, actually. Steve keeps snagging on that. Active facilities don't accumulate dust like that, yet the lab was covered with the thick powdery kind that coats every surface and blooms up in pale clouds when you move through it wrong.
And move through it wrong Steve had.
When he'd taken down three guards in the main lab, the force of the fight had sent up a particularly thick puff of it. Enough that his throat constricted and his chest went tight. A too familiar tightness, low and stubborn, like he was twelve again when every breath was a negotiation. The kind that used to plant itself behind his sternum on cold Brooklyn mornings and refuse to shift.
He'd actually coughed. Hard enough that he had to step out of the room, hand braced against the doorframe while he caught his breath like some rookie who couldn't handle a little particulate in the air. But medical had checked his oxygen levels, listened to his lungs, found nothing wrong. Probably just particulate irritation, they'd said. The serum would clear it. And they'd been right - his breathing's fine now. Everything's fine.
Steve shakes his head, swinging a leg over his bike, and heads into the building. He's overthinking. Natasha told him he looked like shit and should go home and sleep for once. He'd laughed, told her she was projecting.
But now Steve's starting to think she might've been onto something.
The building's stairwell is mercifully cool and quiet, and Steve takes the stairs two at a time like always. Five flights is nothing. He's done it a thousand times, usually without thinking, but tonight by the second floor he's warm - too warm for the mild evening. The leather jacket that felt fine on the ride home now feels stifling, clinging to his shoulders and back.
By the third floor, he starts pulling at his collar. By the fourth, he's unzipped the jacket entirely. And when he hits the fifth floor, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and his breath is coming harder than it should.
Steve pauses, hand on the door to your shared apartment, and for a second he considers turning around. Going back to the compound, making medical run more comprehensive tests.
But the thought of another hour in that sterile medical bay instead of being home - instead of seeing you, sinking into that easy warmth you always seem to carry with you - stirs something wrong in his chest. Makes something tighten uncomfortably. He needs to be home. Needs the particular brand of domesticity that only exists in your shared space, where he gets to be Steve and not Captain America.
Yes. He just needs to get inside, see you, shower, and maybe eat something if you've made dinner. Then sleep for ten hours. Simple.
He pushes through the door before he can second-guess it, and the apartment wraps around him immediately - warmth, music drifting from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and pancetta that means you’re making his favorite pasta. Dropping his duffle by the door, Steve heads to the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of you humming off-key, moving around, the comfortable domestic soundtrack that usually settles something in his chest.
Some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. This is good. Normal. Exactly what he needs.
Until he rounds the corner and his brain stutters to a halt.
You're wearing his hoodie. Stood at the stove with your back to him, intently focused on cooking, and you're wearing his hoodie. It practically swamps your frame. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows because otherwise they'd swallow your hands, shoulders so broad they slip off one of yours, exposing a lacy bralette strap and the curve of bare skin that Steve wants his mouth on.
And shorts. Tiny black shorts that barely qualify as clothing, just peeking out from under the hem of his hoodie, leaving your legs completely bare from where the hoodie ends.
You're swimming in the hoodie. In something of his. The size difference so obvious it makes his hands itch at this sudden, visceral urge to grab you and see how you’d disappear under him. To see how easy it would be to cage you in, crowd you back against the counter. To get his hands under his hoodie and find out if you're wearing his scent on your skin the way you're wearing his clothes, if you smell like him now, if you thought about him when you put it on, if—
"Oh my god, Steve, you startled me!"
The sound of your voice catches him mid thought, and his brain slams back to room. You've spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and despite the startled words your whole face lights up. There’s genuine relief there, happiness that seems disproportionate to him just walking through the door. "How was the mission? You look exhausted, are you—"
"Is that my hoodie?"
The words come out rough, almost accusatory, cutting across your concern. Steve doesn't even know why that's the first thing out of his mouth, why out of everything he could say - something normal like hello, mission was fine, dinner smells good - that's what his brain latched onto.
You blink, clearly surprised by the abruptness, then glance down at yourself like you'd forgotten.
"Oh. Yeah." When you look back up there's mischief in your eyes. "It's way comfier than all of mine. You don't mind, do you?"
Mind. Right.
Does he mind that you're standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes, drowning in fabric that smells like him, looking so at home and domestic and pretty that something in his chest is pulling tight enough to hurt? Does he mind that this is somehow more intimate than it has any right to be? That the sight of you in his hoodie is doing things to him that he absolutely cannot examine right now?
"No, it's fine." His mouth is dry. When did his mouth get dry? "Keep it."
"Good," you reply, grin widening. "'Cause I wasn't giving it back anyway."
There’s a teasing lilt to it that Steve feels low in his gut. Or lower than his gut. Somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to be feeling things about his roommate, his friend, the person who should feel safe and comfortable in her own home without him losing his mind over a fucking hoodie.
But God, you turn back to the stove and Steve can’t stop watching. Even as you start chattering to him about dinner, about your day, something that would normally have him leaning against the counter asking questions, he's not hearing your words anymore. Instead, Steve's gaze drops without permission, returning to the way the hoodie shifts when you move, how it rides up when you reach for the spice cabinet and shows more of how those shorts cling to your ass.
He takes a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Close enough now that your scent hits him properly and floods his senses - that particular sweetness he associates with you, but underneath it, woven through, is him. His scent.
You smell like you've wrapped yourself in him, like you're marked with it, and the possessive bolt of heat that shoots through Steve nearly buckles his knees. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw clenching as his body responds with alarming intensity to something as simple as you wearing his clothes.
The kitchen feels too small suddenly - too hot, the air too thick, and Steve can't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. No prizes for guessing where else it's heading.
And the heat under his skin, that constant low simmer since he left the compound, suddenly cranks up to something that makes him lightheaded. His jeans are getting tight, his cock beginning to harden. And there's this clawing need building in his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to control.
Of course, it's not new, the attraction.
He's been attracted to you since you moved in six months ago. Since Sam had shoved your number at him and told him his apartment was depressing and lonely and that he needed a roommate. Since you'd shown up with boxes stacked in your arms and made some joke about not being a serial killer that surprised a laugh out of him.
Living with you has been comfortable in a way he hadn't expected, all casual dinners and movie nights and inside jokes. And yes, maybe he's spent more time than he'd like to admit thinking about what it might be like to close that distance, to make this more than friendly, to kiss you.
But Steve's not stupid. Asking you out could ruin everything. Could make you uncomfortable in your own home, make you feel like you had to say yes because of who he is, or worse, make you feel like you had to leave if you said no. The risk of destroying this easy, comfortable thing you've built together isn't worth it, no matter how many times Sam and Bucky tell him he's being an idiot and should just ask you to dinner already.
And yet, now his body doesn't seem to care. It's like every nerve ending in his body has suddenly rewired itself to point at you like a compass finding north. Something that's making his hands shake and his brain offer up increasingly detailed images of what he could do if he just closed the distance between you, if he just reached out and—
"Steve? Are you even listening to me?"
Your voice cuts through the spiral once again and he realizes you've been talking. You've turned back to look at him, and your eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together with worry.
"You look really flushed." You're studying him now, concern sharpening in your eyes, and then you're moving toward him. "And you're kind of just... standing there like something's wrong."
Your hand comes up, and the second your fingers make contact with his forearm, Steve jerks back like you've burned him. Nearly trips over his own feet putting distance between you. The brief touch sends electricity straight through him, and his cock responds immediately, twitching and thickening in his jeans until they feel obscenely tight. He shifts his stance, angles his body slightly away, desperately trying to hide what's becoming impossible to conceal.
This is insane. He's going insane.
Your eyes are darting over his face now, head tilted in that way you do when you're trying to figure him out, and there's genuine worry written across your features. Everything about it - you being this close, smelling like him, looking up at him with those big, concerned eyes - is making everything exponentially worse. The ache low in his gut intensifies, spreading outward until his whole body feels like a live wire.
"Steve, are you okay?" you ask, and he makes the mistake of watching your lips form the words. "You're really worrying me."
"Yeah." His voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. He clears his throat, trying again. "Fine. Just tired."
"Are you sure?" You take another step closer and Steve's back hits the doorframe. "You're sweating. Like, a lot. And you're breathing hard."
He is. He can feel it now, a bead of it running down his temple. And his t-shirt is sticking to his spine despite the fact that the apartment isn't remotely warm. What the fuck was happening to him? His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Prickling with something that's not quite pain but certainly is more than uncomfortable. Every nerve ending feels raw and oversensitive.
His jacket is still on and it's unbearable, too tight across his shoulders and trapping heat against his skin. He needs it off.
"I'm fine," he lies, and even he can hear how strained it sounds. "Just—I need a shower."
"A shower?" Your frown deepens. "Steve, maybe we should call Bruce or someone, you're clearly not—"
"I'm fine." It comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he watches you flinch. Fuck. Fuck, he's making this so much worse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—it's just muscle tension. From the mission. My muscles are sore and the serum makes me run hot sometimes, you know that, and I just need—a cold shower will help, it'll help cool me down and—"
He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, throwing out excuse after excuse while you stared at him like you'd never seen him before, like he's a stranger wearing Steve Rogers' face, but he can't seem to stop.
"The mission was intense," he continues frantically, needing you to believe him, needing you to stop looking so worried. "Lots of close combat and I'm just—I'm tense. All my muscles are tense. A shower will help. Just need to cool down and relax."
He turns and practically flees down the hallway, before he can say what he really needs - you, spread out beneath him, wrapped around him, making sounds he's only let himself imagine in his weakest, most shameful moments when his hand is on his cock in the dark and he pretends it's you touching him instead.
Steve stumbles into his bedroom and straight through to the en-suite, shutting the door and leaning against it like something's chasing him. His reflection in the mirror looks frantic. Face flushed dark, pupils blown so wide, chest heaving. His lips look fuller somehow, plumper and pinker, like he's been biting them without realizing.
Guilt churns in his gut alongside the relentless heat. He'd scared you. Snapped at you when all you'd done was try to help. Made you worry. Been completely fucking weird and now you probably think he's losing his mind.
Maybe he is.
Because he's so hard it actually hurts. His cock is straining against his jeans, thick and aching, pressing against the zipper unbearably. He can feel his pulse in it, each throb sending a jolt of sensation through him that was equal parts pleasure and agony. When he shifts his weight, the friction of denim against sensitive skin makes him bite back a groan.
He's never felt like this. This desperate, all-consuming need that won't quit no matter how much he tries to think it away, logic it away, force it down with sheer willpower.
Sweat runs down his temple, his neck. The leather jacket is still on and Steve tears it off with shaking hands, letting it drop to the floor. It doesn't help. Everything still feels too hot, too tight, like his skin has shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit his body anymore.
Steve's fingers fumble with his belt, clumsy in a way they never are. They're shaking now, struggling with the simple mechanics of a belt buckle while his cock throbs insistently behind the zipper.
He gets it open finally, pops the button on his jeans, and the relief of pressure is so immediate and intense that he has to brace one hand against the sink. But it's not enough. Not even close. He shoves the jeans down his hips and they catch on his thighs - still damp with sweat, fabric clinging - and Steve has to peel them off with more force than should be necessary.
His boxer briefs are tented obscenely, a wet patch of precum already visible at the tip, and Steve can't even meet his own reflection in the mirror.
The shirt comes off next, pulled over his head and discarded without ceremony. His dog tags clink against his chest, metal warm from his overheated skin. Every piece of clothing that comes off should make him feel better, cooler, but it doesn't. If anything, being bare makes him more aware of how wrong everything feels. The hypersensitivity of his skin, the way even air movement feels like too much stimulus.
Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and just the brush of fabric as he moves pulls a sound from his throat he doesn't recognize. When he shoves them down, his cock springs free, completely erect and already leaking.
This isn't normal. Even for him, even with the serum's effect on his libido, this is excessive. Steve looks down at himself and feels something close to shame.
Turning away from the mirror, Steve reaches into the shower, cranking the cold tap as far as it will go. He steps in the moment the water starts flowing and the cold hits him like a physical shock. For a blessed moment, it cuts through everything else. His overheated skin welcomes the icy spray like a mercy, the temperature difference sharp enough to make him gasp in relief. Steve braces his hands against the tile, head hanging under the stream, and tries to breathe through it.
Tries to think about anything other than you. Anything other than your scent and your touch and the sight of you in those shorts and his hoodie.
The water runs over his shoulders, down his spine, plastering his hair to his forehead. It should help. But his cock is still hard. Still throbbing. And as the initial shock of cold fades, the heat comes creeping back. That insistent burning under his skin that the water isn't touching.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately regrets it.
Because his mind is flooded with images of you leaning over the counter in those tight little shorts, making dinner. And his traitorous brain doesn't stop there, it keeps going, imagining you in that same position but for different reasons, imagining him behind you, imagining his hands shoving that fabric out of the way to find you wet and needy for him.
"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth.
His cock throbs in response, another bead of precum forming at the tip despite the freezing water, despite the fact that he's actively trying not to think about you. He looks down at himself - still achingly hard, heavy between his legs - and feels another wave of confused arousal crash through him that makes his knees weak.
Maybe it's just because it's been so long?
Steve tries to think back to the last time he actually took care of himself. Weeks? No, longer than that. A month at least, maybe two. He's been so focused on missions, on taking down HYDRA bases, on being Captain America, that he hasn't exactly had time for anything "extracurricular."
This is probably the longest he's gone without any kind of release since waking up from the ice.
The serum amplified everything about him, including ramping up his sex drive to levels that had taken some getting used to. Back in the forties, right after the transformation, he'd been blindsided by it. Suddenly he'd gone from Steve Rogers who could barely keep a girl's attention to someone who had urges that were damn near overwhelming.
He'd had to learn to manage it, to deal with needs that were sharper and more insistent than anything a normal man experienced. So he'd figured out his body's rhythms, what it needed, how often. Learned to take care of himself efficiently and move on.
Except now he's apparently pushed too far, gone too long, and his enhanced biology is making its displeasure violently known.
That has to be it. Has to be why he's reacting like this. Not because something's wrong, but because he's pent up and his body is responding to deprivation the way the serum makes it respond to everything: excessively.
And you. God, you in those shorts, in his hoodie, being so sweet and domestic, had just been the trigger. The match to kindling that had been building for weeks.
It's not pervy. It's just biology. Enhanced biology, biology nonetheless. So if he just takes care of it, he'll be fine. The need will ease, his head will clear, and he can go back out there and have dinner like a normal person instead of someone who can barely look at his roommate without getting hard.
Steve's hand drifts down his stomach almost without conscious thought, and when his fingers wrap around his cock he can't stop the groan that rumbles from his chest. The touch sends electricity up his spine, pleasure so intense it's almost painful after being hard and neglected for so long.
He strokes slowly at first, testing, and his head falls back against the tile with a dull thunk. The cold water streams over his chest but he doesn't feel it anymore. All his focus narrows to the heat building in his core, the slick slide of his fist over sensitized skin, the way his cock throbs with every stroke like it's been waiting for this.
And in his thoughts, you're there.
Steve's grip tightens involuntarily and he strokes faster, chasing friction, telling himself to think about something else, anything else. But his mind won't cooperate. It just keeps offering up increasingly vivid fantasies: what you'd look like without his hoodie, whether you were wearing anything under those shorts, if you'd be wet if he checked, if you ever touched yourself in your room late at night thinking about—
"Shit—," he curses, the sound echoing off the shower tiles.
God, what would you sound like? The question burrows into his brain and won't let go. Would you whimper? Moan his name? Would you be loud or would you try to stay quiet, biting your lip the way you do when you're concentrating? Would you beg? He thinks you might. Thinks you might say his name all breathy and desperate while he slowly thrusts into you, feeling you stretch around his cock inch by inch.
A low groan builds in his chest and Steve has to bite down on his lip so hard that he tastes copper. You're just in the kitchen. The walls aren't that thick. And the thought of you hearing him like this should horrify him but instead it sends another bolt of heat straight through his gut.
Steve's free hand slaps against the tile, bracing himself as his knees threaten to give out.
His cock is leaking steadily now, precum making the slide slick and easy, as his hand speeds up, rhythm getting rougher, chasing the sensation. And Steve can't stop imagining it's your hand instead of his. Your smaller fingers wrapped around him, struggling to fit around his girth, looking up at him with those eyes while you learn exactly how he likes to be touched.
Or better yet, your mouth. Fuck, your mouth. Those pretty lips he'd caught himself staring at stretched around his cock, your tongue sliding along the underside, taking him deeper while he threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you, feeling your moans vibrate around him.
A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Steve has to sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle it. He's so wound up, weeks of neglect and pent-up need making him hair-trigger sensitive. His hips thrust forward into his fist, searching for more friction, more pressure, chasing the orgasm building at the base of his spine with alarming speed.
This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. You're his friend, his roommate, someone who trusts him enough to live with him and wear his clothes and worry when he seems off. And here he is jerking off to fantasies of fucking your face. While you wait for him to come back for dinner.
But he can't stop. Can't make his mind go blank or think of anything else.
"Fuck—" His forearm isn't enough to muffle it and Steve bites down on his own arm as his orgasm slams through him. "Oh god, fuck—"
His cock pulses in his grip, and your name tears from his throat. Thick ropes of cum paint the shower wall, more than seems possible. The serum already makes him produce more than normal, but this is excessive even for him. It's almost painful in its intensity, pleasure so sharp it makes his legs shake, and he has to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright while it works through him.
For a few blissful seconds, pleasure drowns out every other sensation in his body
Then reality crashes back in, and with it comes the guilt.
Steve stares at the evidence of his release being washed away by the spray, chest heaving, and feels the shame burn through him hotter than the need had been.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"
But even as guilt churns heavy in his gut, even as he tells himself he's disgusting and inappropriate and a terrible friend, he looks down and his stomach drops. He's still hard. Not just half-hard, not softening. Fully, achingly erect like he hadn't just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life. The relief he'd expected, the clarity that should have come, was nowhere to be found.
Steve stares in disbelief. The serum gives him a faster refractory period than normal, sure, but this? This isn't normal. Even for him.
He wraps a hand around himself experimentally and has to bite back a groan. The touch sends sparks through his overloaded nerves, pleasure bordering on unbearable, but underneath it the need is still there. Still clawing at his insides, unsatisfied and demanding more.
If anything, the ache in his gut feels worse now. More insistent. Like his body is genuinely angry that he came and it wasn't inside you, that it was his hand and not your body taking it, not your pussy clenching around him and milking him dry.
"No," Steve says out loud, voice hard like he's ordering a subordinate. Like he can command his own body back into line through sheer force of will. "Stop it."
This can't be just pent-up sexual frustration. Something else is happening. Something must've happened at that Hydra base. It has to that - the dust. The way it had hung in the air, gotten in his lungs, made him cough like his body was rejecting it. What if it wasn't just particulate irritation? What if HYDRA had something in that lab, some kind of bioweapon that got into his system?
Steve's jaw clenches. He should call Bruce. Should've called him an hour ago instead of convincing himself this was normal. Bruce would run tests, figure out what he'd been exposed to, synthesize a counter-agent if needed. Or Tony. Tony has access to SHIELD's entire database on HYDRA weapons, might recognize the symptoms.
But the thought of making that call, of trying to explain, "Hey, I can't stop thinking about fucking my roommate, I'm hard enough to cut diamond, and I just jerked off in the shower while moaning her name," makes him want to die. Tony would never let him live it down, would make jokes about it for the rest of Steve's natural life.
He'd probably tell Natasha, who would tell Clint, and then the entire team would know that Captain America got dosed with some kind of HYDRA sex drug and spent the evening jerking off to thoughts of his roomate.
Maybe it'll pass on its own. The serum processes toxins faster than a normal metabolism; whatever this is might just need time to work through his system. He can get through dinner, make some excuse about not feeling well, go to bed early. Wake up tomorrow back to normal.
Turning off the water with more force than necessary, Steve reaches for a towel. Even the act of drying off feels like too much. The terry cloth dragging across his oversensitized skin makes him grit his teeth. He manages his chest and arms with rough, perfunctory swipes, but when the towel brushes his cock he actually hisses, the sensation sharp enough to make his vision blur.
He abandons the towel halfway through, still damp, and pulls his boxers back on, hissing at the friction of fabric against sensitive skin. The compression just makes him more aware of his situation. He's tenting the boxers obscenely, the outline of his erection impossible to miss, a damp spot already forming again where he's leaking. There's no hiding this. No way to pretend everything's fine when his body is advertising exactly how not-fine he is.
And the thought of putting anything else on makes his overheated skin crawl. Maybe he could manage sweatpants. Loose ones that won't cling. And then he'll return to the kitchen, try and act normal for dinner.
Steve takes a breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs, braces himself, and opens the bathroom door.
You're in his bedroom.
Standing there with frozen peas in one hand, and a pill bottle and bottle of water in the other. The shock of it - you, here, in his space when he's barely holding himself together, when he's standing here in nothing but his boxers with his cock still straining obscenely against the fabric - roots him to the spot. Your head snaps up at the sound of the door, eyes going wide.
"Oh! Sorry, you'd been a while and you were so weird earlier and I got worried..."
The words trail off. Steve watches it happen, the way your gaze catches on his bare, dripping chest. You're trying to be subtle, he thinks, trying to make it look clinical, concerned, but there's nothing clinical about the way your focus catches on the water beaded across his chest.
Your lips part slightly as you track a single droplet running down his sternum, over the defined ridges of his abs, following its path like you're memorizing it until it disappears into the waistband of his boxers.
And then your gaze drops lower.
Steve watches your pupils dilate the moment you see what’s impossible to miss, impossible to misinterpret. Time stretches. Your breath hitches just loud enough for him to hear, and neither of you moves.
"I thought—" Your voice comes out different. Breathier. You swallow so hard he can see your throat work. "I thought these might help. For your muscles."
You hold up the peas and pills like they explain why you're in his bedroom, but your gaze hasn't moved back to his face. It's still tracking over him - shoulders, chest, the V of muscle at his hips - and Steve can see the flush creeping up your neck in real time.
He should grab something to cover himself, should apologize, should do literally anything other than just stand there letting you look at him like that.
You start rambling now, that nervous spillover of words you do when you're flustered. "Frozen peas for the soreness, and Bruce made these painkillers specifically for your metabolism, remember? For when—"
"You didn't have to do that." His voice sounds like gravel.
"Sorry," you say quietly, and your eyes finally drag back up to his face. "I'm just… you really scared me earlier. I've never seen you like that."
The concern in your voice is palpable. But then you shift your weight and he catches the way your gaze dips again, just for a second. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips - unconscious, he's sure, but it doesn't matter because the sight of it sends heat straight through him so fast it makes his head spin.
Did you hear him? In the shower? Is that why you came to his room? Because you heard your name, heard what he was doing? The thought should mortify him. Should make him want to disappear through the floor. Instead, his cock gives an interested twitch that he knows you can see.
"Steve?"
Your voice pulls him back. You've moved closer. When did that happen? The peas and water are on his nightstand now and you're right there, close enough that when Steve pulls in his next breath, your scent floods his senses again. But there's something else now. Something sweeter, headier, that makes his enhanced senses lock onto you like a target.
Arousal.
You're aroused. The realization slams into him with physical force. He can smell it on you, subtle but unmistakable, and every instinct in his body that's been screaming at him all evening suddenly focuses with laser precision on that single fact.
"You're still really flushed," you say, and your voice has gone soft. Worried. "And you're breathing so hard. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"
Everything's wrong. You're too close and you smell too good and he can see your pulse fluttering in your throat and all he can think about is closing that last foot of distance and finding out if you taste as good as you smell.
"I'm fine," Steve lies, and it might be the most blatant one yet.
You turn to face him fully, and the genuine worry etched in your features makes his chest tight for different reasons.
"You do so much, Stevie," you probe, and the nickname lands like a caress. "You hold so much in. You've been working so hard lately, mission after mission." You step closer and Steve's breath catches, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. "I'm worried about you. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please tell me. I'll do it."
Anything at all.
Steve's mind immediately offers up about a dozen graphic answers to that - vivid, explicit images of exactly what you could do to help, each one more detailed than the last. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, has to physically fight back the thoughts of your mouth on him, your body under his, the sounds you'd make if he just gave in and took what his body is screaming for.
You don't mean it like that. You're just being kind, being a good friend, offering comfort the way you always do. You have no idea what's running through his head right now, how close he is to snapping.
"You don't—" His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat, has to force the words out. "You don't need to worry about me."
But you're not listening, or maybe you're just too concerned to care about his protests, because your hand comes up toward his face and Steve's reflexes take over before his brain can catch up. His hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-air, and the second skin touches skin everything goes white-hot.
The touch sears through him like lightning. He can feel your pulse under his fingertips, quick and fluttering, can feel the softness of your skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to yank you against him right then and there.
"Let me see," you protest, and before Steve can process the words you're pulling your wrist free of his grip. A determined tug that his lust-addled brain doesn't think to resist. Both of your palms come up to cup his face, cool against his burning skin.
Steve's lungs stop working. Your hands on his jaw, your thumbs at his temples, the way you're studying him with those worried eyes while standing close enough that he can see the individual flecks of colour in your iris is obliterating what's left of his control. "Oh my god, you're burning up. Steve, you're literally…"
He can't hear the rest. Can't process words when your hands are on his face and your arousal is flooding his senses and the coil of need in his gut has pulled so tight he thinks it might actually snap him in half. All he can think about is grabbing your wrists, pulling you flush against him, finding out if your mouth tastes as good as he's imagined when he finally stops being careful and takes what he wants.
Your fingers move to his neck - checking his pulse - and Steve stops breathing entirely. His cock throbs so hard it's painful and he can feel his control dissolving like sugar in water, going from solid to nothing in seconds.
He needs. God, he needs. Needs to touch you, taste you, needs to rip those tiny shorts off and find out if you're as wet as you smell, needs to bury himself inside you until this relentless burning finally stops, needs to pin you to his bed and fuck you until you're screaming his name and all of a sudden he can't remember why he was fighting this in the first place.
"I'm calling Bruce—"
"No!"
The word comes out too loud, too violent, and Steve watches you jump. He's scaring you again and he hates it but he can't stop, can't make himself be gentle when his whole body is screaming.
"You need to leave." The words sound strangled, barely human. His control is hanging by a thread and that thread is unravelling fast. "Please. You need to go. Right now."
"What? No, Stevie, I'm not leaving when you're clearly—"
"Please." It comes out like a whine, and some distant part of Steve registers that he's begging but he's too far gone to care about pride or dignity anymore.
He takes a step back, needing distance before he does something unforgivable. "You don't—you don't understand. You need to go back to your room. Lock the door. Don't come near me."
Your expression shifts to hurt and confusion, brow furrowing in that way that makes his chest ache even through the haze of need. "Why? Steve, I just want to help!"
"You can't help with this!" Too sharp, too harsh, and he watches you flinch like he's struck you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just—please just go. Please."
"You're scaring me." Your voice comes out small and it kills him, absolutely kills him. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, we can figure it out togeth—"
"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and desperate and too honest. "I can't—fuck, I've been trying, I've been trying so hard to hold it together but I can't think straight and all I want—all I can think about is—"
He cuts himself off with a harsh breath but it's too late. The truth is out there now, hanging in the air between you like something physical.
You stare at him with your eyes wide, and Steve can see your chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see the exact moment his words register. The shock flickering across your face, then understanding, then something that looks dangerously close to want. Your scent spikes so sharply it makes his knees weak, that sweet arousal flooding his senses until he can barely think through it.
"Steve," you breathe, and there's something in your voice he's never heard before. Something breathless and urgent.
You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up to rest against his chest, right over his hammering heart, and Steve's breath stops entirely. He can feel the tremble in your fingers, can see the way your eyes flick to his lips, and he knows with sudden, devastating certainty what you're about to do.
You push up on your toes, tilting your face toward his, close enough that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips, and Steve's last thread of control frays to nothing.
Lunging that last inch, he captures your mouth in a kiss that tries, briefly, to be gentle - some buried instinct trying for something tender, wanting to do this right. But the moment your lips part under his, a deep rumbling growl tears up from his throat and his hands are suddenly everywhere. One hand fists in your hair, gripping tight to angle your head exactly where he needs it, while the other clamps onto your waist. Tight enough that you know you'll feel the imprint of his fingers tomorrow.
God, you want to feel it tomorrow.
He yanks you flush to his body and you stumble into him with a gasp that's his undoing. Your mouth opens for him and Steve takes immediate advantage, greedy for it, greedy for every breath you'll give him, tilting his head to seal his mouth over yours properly.
His tongue sweeps past your lips to finally taste you properly, and you're even sweeter than every fantasy promised. Better than anything he imagined in that shower with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat.
When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, you make this small wounded sound that goes straight to his cock. You feel it twitch against your stomach through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he's so big, so overwhelming, radiating heat and the salt musk smell of his sweat that makes your head spin and your thighs clench.
Heat floods his system at the knowledge that you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. And he knows he can't satisfy the clawing need in his gut through your mouth alone.
Steve tears himself away from your mouth and every cell in his body revolts violently like he's ripping off his own skin. A needy little protest escapes you as you chase after him without thought, lips wet and swollen and so devastatingly pretty he almost stops caring.
"You don't," The words come out between ragged pants, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable as his own. "You don't understand." His chest heaves against yours, breath coming hard and fast as he presses his forehead to yours, hand still fisted tight in your hair because letting go simply isn't something his body knows how to do anymore. "I'm not in control right now. I don't know if I can be gentle. Don't know if I can stop once I start—"
"Then don't stop," you whisper against his lips, and your hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Take what you need, Steve."
And there’s no universe, no timeline where Steve Rogers could survive hearing that from your mouth, not even if he were perfectly himself.
His last thread of restraint frays to nothing.
Steve's mouth crashes back into yours with bruising intensity, all desperate hunger and zero control. You open for him instantly, no hesitation, just pure wanting, and the primal satisfaction that rolls through his chest is almost violent in its intensity.
Then his arms slide down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing. You're so light in his grip, so easy to position exactly where he wants you, and the rush of it - the physical proof of how easily he can manhandle you - sends a dark thrill surging through him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and your body moulds to his perfectly, soft curves yielding to hard muscle, and he can feel everything.
The frantic beat of your heart hammering against his chest. The clench of your thighs around his hips. The damp heat between your legs settling right against his cock through the layers separating you, and it makes him throb so hard he groans into your mouth.
But still, it's not enough. He needs you impossibly closer, needs to consume every inch of space between you. One hand shifts to palm your ass with a possessive squeeze that makes you whimper and roll your hips against him. It's an instinctive, needy grind that drags your core along the length of his still covered cock.
"Steve, please," you whine against his mouth. "I need—"
Your desperation makes Steve's pupils blow completely black, swallowing the blue entirely. He turns and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his hips, using the solid surface to hold you exactly where he wants you.
"God, I know, sweetheart. I know you do," he rasps against your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Tried to be good. Tried not to think about this. But so damn sweet I can’t think straight." His hands tighten on you possessively, fingers digging into flesh. "'m gonna take care of you now, I promise. Gonna make you feel perfect. Gonna stretch you open on my cock and fill you up until you can't take anymore. Fill you up so good you'll feel me for days."
Heat curls low and tight in your belly at his filthy promise, and your body reacts instinctively, clenching around nothing so sharply that a needy little moan slips out before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his bare shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the overwhelming reality of finally having him like this.
All that heated muscles under your palms, slick with sweat. He’s so much bigger like this, crowding every inch of space you have, caging you in, and your head swims with the sheer physicality of him.
But it’s the heavy, hard length of his cock grinding against you through thin cotton that nearly undoes you. Thick and insistent, pressed exactly where you’re throbbing for him, dragging against you with every subtle shift of his hips. The friction makes your breath stutter, your thighs tightening helplessly around him, trying to draw him even closer, to get more of that impossible, intoxicating pressure.
Steve moves with urgency that borders on frantic, carrying you the few steps to his bed and laying you down with slightly more care than the desperation vibrating through his body would suggest. But the second you're on the mattress, that restraint evaporates. He follows you down like he's magnetised, covering your body with his.
Heat radiates off him in waves, overwhelming, consuming. His breath fans over your cheek, uneven and ragged, and when his hips slot between yours, you feel just how hard he is. Thick, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers like he’s seconds from losing his mind entirely.
"Jesus," he groans, almost a choke, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the contact alone might save him. "I need—sweetheart, I need you, I need you so bad."
He kisses you again, harder this time, nothing gentle left in him. His mouth is hot, frantic, stealing your breath as his hands slide over you in frantic sweeps, already pulling at your clothes. It's rougher than he intends - though he’s trying, god he’s trying - but whatever is burning through him is stronger than his control.
His hoodie is the first causality, tugged over your head and tossed aside without care for where it lands. Immediately his mouth is on your bare skin, lips and teeth working down your throat to your collarbone while his hands slide up to cup your breasts through the thin bralet.
The delicate fabric does nothing to hide your peaked nipples straining against it, and the sight combined with the feel of them hard beneath his palms makes him groan low and desperate against your skin. His fingers hook under the elastic, pulling it up with greedy, impatient hands before it can register that he should probably slow down, be more careful with you.
But he can't. His mouth trails lower, hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple between his lips, tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it lightly, teasing. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging. He groans at the sting of it and sucks harder, alternating between your breasts with ravenous attention. Licking, sucking, nipping until both nipples are peaked and glistening with his spit, until you're squirming beneath him and making those breathy little sounds that drive him insane.
His hand palms and kneads the soft flesh while his mouth works, and every arch of your back, every tug on his hair, every whining plea that falls from your lips just winds him tighter. Normally could spend hours here, mapping every response, learning exactly what makes you fall apart.
But it's not enough right now. None of it is enough.
The need burning through Steve's veins is almost painful now, an ache so deep and consuming he can barely think past it. He needs more. Needs all of you. Needs to be inside you with an urgency that's rapidly shredding what little control he has left.
His mouth trails down your stomach, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become bites, small sucks that leave wet heat on your skin. He’s losing the thread of gentleness entirely, hands already at your shorts, fumbling with the waistband for half a second before impatience overrides coordination entirely.
He doesn't mean to - or maybe he does, he can't think straight enough to know - but his enhanced strength rips through the fabric like tissue paper, taking your panties with it. The startled sound you make is half protest, half arousal, because the ease of it, the sheer strength, makes heat pulse between your legs.
"Steve—!"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps into your skin as he chucks the ruined scraps aside. "I'm sorry, I'll replace them, I promise, I just—" His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider for him. "I need—I can't—"
But the words die in his throat completely because the sight of your pussy, slick and glistening for him, combined with your scent flooding his heightened senses, makes something in Steve's brain simply stop working. Every coherent thought evaporates, consumed by primal need. He's gone. Completely lost to whatever's burning through his veins.
All that exists is the need to taste you, claim you, bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets where he ends and you begin.
"Look at you," Steve breathes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip absently, like he can already taste you. "So fucking pretty and wet for me."
His biceps flex as he drags you down the bed effortlessly, hauling you closer with enough strength that a startled gasp tears from your throat. Your thighs end up over those broad shoulders and he settles between your legs like he's exactly where he's meant to be. His breath ghosts hot over where you're aching for him and you arch involuntarily, seeking and retreating all at once.
He's staring at your exposed pussy with an intensity that borders on feral, like you're something he wants to devour. Like's he's been starving for you longer than he'll admit.
Your cheeks burn. Heat pools low in your stomach as you try to squirm away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are despite how desperately you want this.
"Don't," he growls against your folds, the word a dark, commanding rasp in a tone you've never heard from him before but makes heat flash down your spine.
His arms clamp tighter around your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you in place easily. Utterly at his mercy. The possessive dominance of his grip steals what little breath you have left.
Then his mouth seals over you and any coherent thought you have dissolves into nothing. There's no teasing; whatever's burning through Steve's veins has burned away every shred of patience. He buries his face between your thighs and devours you like a man who'll die without his mouth on every inch of you.
His tongue drags through your folds in one long, devastating stroke that punches a broken cry from your chest that you barely recognize as your own voice. Steve's answering moan is one of pure relief, rumbling from deep in his chest and vibrating against your cunt. Your hips buck helplessly in his arms as he licks and sucks with focused, consuming desperation, and within seconds you're gasping his name.
Broad strokes of his tongue work through your slick folds, greedy in his pursuit of your pleasure and you're writhing against him, biceps flexing to keep you where he wants you. He finds your clit and sucks it between his lips with perfect pressure, circling the swollen bud with his tongue, and you grind against him shamelessly, fingers twisted so tight in his hair it has to hurt.
But Steve just groans his encouragement and you feel it everywhere, feel the way he's grinding against the mattress below seeking his own friction, aching for a bit of relief from the pressure, while he loses himself completely in the taste of you.
God, the sight of him. All flushed skin and flexing muscle, sweat making his broad shoulders gleam, chin glistening obscenely with your arousal. And those perfect plush lips are pink and swollen now, parted around another appreciative moan that makes you clench around nothing. His eyes are closed like he's savouring you, and when they flutter open to meet yours they're so dark and blown wide with need it sends another pulse of heat straight through you.
The flat of his tongue drags up again, licking up through your folds before spearing inside, and the obscene wet sounds of it mix with your gasping moans and his rough growls. One of his hands shifts from your thigh to spread you wider with his thumb, opening you up so he can fuck you with his tongue properly while his nose grinds against your clit.
The combination makes your back arch violently, pleasure spiking so sharp and quickly it's overwhelming.
"Steve—fuck—Steve, oh my god—" The words tumble out incoherent, your brain shorting out under the onslaught.
But he doesn't slow down. If anything, your babbling spurs him on. Two thick fingers slide into you, curling immediately to stroke that devastating spot while his tongue works in tight, merciless circles.You're shaking now, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his bruising grip, that coil winding tighter and tighter until you think you'll actually break apart from it.
"Need you to come," he rasps against you, and there's desperation in his voice that matches the frantic grinding of his hips against the bed, like making you come is the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Please, sweet girl, need to have it."
The raw pleading in his voice is what does it. That broken desperation, the way he's begging you like he needs this more than air, sends you over the edge so hard and fast you don't even have time to warn him.
Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches clean off the bed, thighs clamping around Steve's head as you cry out his name - or try to, the sound coming out more like a broken sob. White-hot pleasure explodes through your nerve endings, radiating out from where his mouth is still working you relentlessly, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except shake apart in his grip.
But Steve doesn't let up. He keeps his mouth sealed over you, licking and sucking like he wants to devour every aftershock, like he's trying to pull more from you even as you're already flying apart. It's too much, bordering on overwhelming, but when you try to squirm away his arms lock you down harder.
"Stevie—'s too much—I can't—"
He finally pulls back just enough to press open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hipbones, working his way up your body as you try to remember how to breathe. His hands roam restlessly over your skin and when he reaches your face his lips are glistening, hair dishevelled from your grip, face flushed and chest heaving.
"Perfect, you're so fucking perfect," he rasps against your mouth, kissing you deeply enough that you taste yourself on his tongue. "But I need to be in you, need it more than I've ever needed anything." His hips grind against you unconsciously, the hard length of him pressing insistently through his boxers, now soaked through. "Need it so bad I can't think, can't breathe. Please, pretty girl, need you so bad I'm losing my mind—"
He's already moving, pushing himself up just enough to shove his boxers down with shaking hands. The elastic catches on his cock and he makes a frustrated sound, yanking the fabric down his thighs and kicking them off entirely. When he springs free, your breath catches.
He's big. Thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach with prominent veins running along the length. The head is already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and he's so hard it looks almost painful. Your eyes widen involuntarily as your brain tries to process how that's supposed to fit inside you.
Steve notices your stare, follows your gaze down, and a sound rumbles from his chest that's pure male satisfaction. The visual does something to him, you can see it in the way his pupils dilate even further, the way his jaw clenches, the way the muscle ticks. How much bigger he is than you, how easily he could manhandle you, how small and vulnerable you look pinned beneath all that muscle and raw strength.
"It'll fit," he promises, voice rough and absolutely certain despite the tremor in his hands. He settles between your thighs, caging you in completely with his body, surrounding you with heat and want. "I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you can take me, 'm gonna make sure you do."
One hand drops between your bodies and the thick head of his cock drags through your folds, gathering your slick, and the sensation punches a desperate sound from both of you. Each time he rocks forward your hips chase the friction instinctively.
His mouth finds your neck, lips and tongue working over your pulse before he sucks with an impatience that you know will bruise. You gasp and tilt your head without thinking, offering more, and Steve groans his approval against your skin. Teeth scrape over the sensitive tendon before biting down hard enough to make you whimper, and he soothes the sting with his tongue only to move lower and do it again. Marking you deliberately. Claiming you.
He keeps talking in between - words tumbling out of him like he’s not even talking to you anymore, just spilling whatever delirious need is consuming him.
“Fuck…'m gonna stretch this pretty little pussy open on my cock,” he babbles, almost dazed, eyes locked on where he’s lining himself up with you. “Fill you up so good… so fucking full. You'll feel me for days, sweetheart. Days. Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you."
He's so hot and hard against you, and when he notches himself at your entrance - just the tip of him pressing in - and even that has you whimpering at the stretch. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.
Oh god—Steve—" It comes out high and shaky, almost a whine. "Please—"
The plea tears from your throat but you don't even know what you're begging for. For him to go slower? For more? For relief from the burning stretch that's somehow perfect and too much all at once?
"I know, baby, I know," Steve coos against your throat, pressing kisses between words, and there's that desperation threading through his voice again. "Shh, I've got you, pretty girl. Just breathe for me."
But even as he's soothing you his hips press forward incrementally, working himself deeper, and you can feel every thick inch as he pushes in and your body struggles to accommodate him. The stretch burns and you bury your face against his neck with a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.
"Wait—Steve, you're too big, I can't—"
"You can," he pants, his voice is strained, shaking with the monumental effort of going slow when everything in him is screaming to just thrust home, to bury himself completely in your wet heat. "You're doing so good f'me. So fucking good. Just a little more—fuck—just need you to take a little more."
His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he rocks forward another inch. You're so full already and he's not even halfway in yet, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, and the whine that tears from your throat makes him groan and press his forehead to yours.
"That's it, that's it," Steve breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple - anywhere he can reach. "I know it's a lot, baby. But you're taking me so perfect. Look how good you're opening up for me." Another shallow thrust and you whimper against his mouth, nails raking down his back. "You're doing so perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, I promise. Just let me in, baby. Let me fill this tight little pussy up like you need."
The combination of his words and the relentless stretch is overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your nerve endings spark. Your body reacts instinctively, walls clenching tight around the thick length of him already inside you.
Feeling your wet cunt constrict around hi breaks whatever fragile restraint Steve had left. With a low, guttural sound he slams the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.
The cry that rips from you is sharp and broken - pain and pleasure so intense they're indistinguishable, blurring together into something that has you arching violently against him. You're so full you can barely breathe, stretched impossibly wide around him, and the sensation is so overwhelming you almost come from that alone.
Your walls flutter and clench around his length, desperately trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. Tears spring to your eyes, spilling over to track down your cheeks.
"Fuck—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracks as he kisses frantically at your tears, lips pressing to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. "I'm so sorry, pretty girl, I didn't mean to—you just felt so good, I couldn't—"
But even as he's apologizing his hips are already moving, pulling back and rocking into you with needy thrusts. He's not giving you time to adjust, can't seem to stop himself, his body operating on pure need now.
"So tight," he gasps against your skin. "So fucking perfect around me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need—" Another thrust, deeper this time, and you sob against his shoulder. "Need you so bad. Can't stop. Please tell me you're okay, please."
You try to speak. Try to form words through the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full but your brain can't form coherent words. All that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering "Stevie."
It's all you can manage before he shifts his hips slightly, angling deeper, and on the very next thrust the blunt head of his cock grinds right against your g-spot.
Pleasure detonates through you so suddenly you can't even cry out, mouth falling open on a silent gasp as he thrusts into you again. Your eyes fly wide, a shocked gasp tearing from your throat as white-hot sensation explodes through every nerve ending.
You're coming before your brain can even register it's happening. Two thrusts, maybe three, and your orgasm rips through you like lightning.
Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down violently around his cock as you gush around him, soaking his length and making the slide obscenely wet. The sounds falling from your lips are helpless and incoherent, your back arching clean off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure shorts out your brain completely.
"Fuck—oh fuck, that's it, that's it—" Steve's voice breaks on a groan as your walls spasm around him. "Good girl, such a good fucking girl, coming all over my cock—"
You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except convulse in his arms while your pussy milks his cock with desperate, rhythmic pulses that has Steve following you over the edge. With a guttural snarl he buries himself as deep as he can go as his cock throbs inside you, pulsing violently as the first rope of cum floods your pussy. Then another. And another. And it doesn't stop.
"Fuck—oh fuck!" Steve's voice breaks on a groan, hips grinding into you as he empties himself, and there's so much. Too much. Your walls are coated, flooded, completely painted white with his release, and he just keeps coming. Spurt after thick spurt filling you beyond capacity until you can actually feel it. Hot and excessive and so overwhelming your body can't contain it all.
"Steve—Steve—oh god." You try to squirm away instinctively, whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being pumped so full. "I can't—there's too much, I can't—"
But Steve's hands lock onto your hips like a vice, fingers digging in bruisingly as he holds you in place and grinds you down harder onto his cock, forcing you to take more.
"Shh, shh, you can," he hushes against your neck, pushes you down harder onto him, forcing himself impossibly deeper even as his cock continues pulsing, and more cum floods into you. "You can take it, sweetheart. Take all of it. Every fucking drop, just a little more."
Cum starts leaking out around the thick base of him, even though he's still buried deep, still pulsing, still pumping more into you. It spills out of you despite how tightly your pussy is stretched around his length, dripping down your ass and pooling on the sheets beneath you.
"Please," You're babbling now, tears flowing freely as you shake your head helplessly. "Steve, please, 's so much, I'm so full."
"Fuck, you're dripping with it," Steve pants against your neck, hips still rocking through the aftershocks, trying to fuck his cum further into your already overflowing pussy. "Taking all of it. Every drop. Knew you could. Knew this sweet pussy was made for me, pretty girl."
His cock gives another violent pulse and you whimper helplessly, completely stuffed, cum sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of his hips.
Your limbs feel boneless, trembling with aftershocks, and you expect him to soften now, to give you both a moment to recover. But Steve doesn't slow down. Doesn't even pause. His cock is still rock-hard inside you and his hips keep moving - pulling back and thrusting in with the same urgent intensity, maybe even more now that you're slick with both your release and his excessive cum.
A broken whimper falls from your lips as oversensitized nerves spark with each thrust. You're so full, so overwhelmed, you can barely process that he's still going, still hard, still needing.
"I know, baby, I know—I'm sorry," He sounds almost pained, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down. "I'm sorry, I can't—fuck, just need one more from you—just one more, yeah? Need to feel this perfect pussy clench around me again. Can you do that for me? Please, baby, just one more."
His rhythm picks up, hips snapping forward with primal desperation. You can barely nod, can barely do anything except take it as he pounds into you, the wet obscene sounds of his cum squelching with every thrust filling the room alongside your breathless whimpers and his desperate groans.
But it's still not enough for him. With a frustrated snarl Steve pulls back, and before you can even whine at the loss of him, he's grabbing your legs, pushing them up and back. Your knees press to your chest as he folds you completely in half, and when he sinks back in this new angle has you seeing stars.
"Oh god—" The broken cry tears from your throat as he sinks back in, and he's so much deeper like this. Impossibly deeper.
"That's it—yes," Steve's voice is guttural as he starts moving again. "Need to get deeper, need to—fuck, you feel that? Feel how deep I am?"
You're completely pinned beneath him, folded in half and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but take the brutal pace he sets. The new position has gravity working against you too, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you're babbling - words tumbling out that don't even make sense.
"Can't—oh god, Stevie, you're—'s too deep, I can't—fuck—s'good—please."
Your hands scrabble frantically at his back, nails digging in and dragging down, leaving angry red crescents that make him hiss and thrust harder.
Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest, your neck, and he leans down to lick it off with a groan, tongue dragging over your heated skin. His hips never stop that relentless grinding, working himself as deep as physics will allow. Driven by something beyond his control to keep fucking into your used, dripping pussy like his life depends on it.
"Taking me so well," he pants into your neck between messy kisses. "Look at you, so good for me. Letting me use this perfect cunt."
One of Steve's hands snakes down between your bodies, finding your clit, and the second his thumb makes contact you cry out - sharp and broken - because you're so oversensitive, swollen and puffy from two orgasms already
"Steve—no, I can't—can't again, 's too much."
"You can," he insists, and his fingers start circling that abused bundle of nerves with just enough pressure. "Can feel you getting tighter already. You're gonna come for me again, pretty girl. Need to feel you squeeze my cock one more time, please."
The stimulation is so intense you need to escape it. Every muscle in your body wants to flee the overwhelming sensation, but pinned beneath him like this there's nowhere to go, no way to twist away. You're utterly trapped, unable to do anything but take it. Take his cock pounding into you and his thumb working mercilessly over your puffy clit until pleasure starts building again despite your body's protests.
"Oh god, oh my god—Steve please." You're sobbing now, tears streaming as sensation builds too fast, too intense.
But your body betrays you. The combination of his fingers and his cock and being trapped beneath him with nowhere to go builds faster than should be possible when you're this wrung out. Your pussy flutters around him, clenching weakly, and Steve groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.
"That's it, come on, give it to me."
And you do. Your third orgasm rips through you with less intensity than the others but somehow more devastating because you're so oversensitive every nerve ending feels raw. You clench around him with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently where they're pressed to your chest.
But this time when you come down, gasping and trembling, Steve doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything he gets more frantic, more desperate, like your orgasm just made the need worse instead of better.
His rhythm gets more erratic, more brutal, like he's chasing something just out of reach and it's driving him insane.
"Not deep enough," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "Still not—fuck—need more, need—"
Without warning he pulls out completely, ignoring your confused whimper, and his hands are on you - gripping, lifting. You barely process what's happening before you're airborne, completely off the bed, and Steve is standing with you in his arms like you weigh nothing.
"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, voice rough, and you obey on complete instinct, the words not even processing in your brain. The moment you do he's lining himself up and pulling back you down onto his cock with brutal force.
The angle is devastating. Gravity works against you, impaling you on his full length, and the depth has you choking on a scream. You can feel him everywhere, so deep and stretching you in ways that shouldn't be possible.
"There—fuck yes, there." Steve's head falls back on a guttural moan as he starts using you, biceps bulging as he fucks you on his cock like you're a toy made for his pleasure. Lifting you up and pulling you back down with ease that should be terrifying but instead has you clenching around him.
You're completely helpless, just a ragdoll as he manhandles you exactly how he needs. Your hands scrabble desperately at his shoulders for any kind of stability. Every time he pulls you down gravity does half the work, driving him impossibly deeper, and all you can do is take it. You can't form words anymore, just needy little sounds as he uses your body.
Your brain is completely gone, drunk on the feeling of him, on being so full, on the obscene wet sounds of his cum leaking out with every brutal thrust and dripping down both of you to splatter on the floor.
"Look at you," Steve rasps, eyes wild as they lock onto where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. "Fucking look at you taking my cock. So small I can just—" He emphasizes with a particularly brutal drop that has you wailing. "Use you however I want."
Your thighs are shaking violently, muscles screaming, but it doesn't matter because Steve's holding you up effortlessly. Using his strength to fuck you on him at whatever pace he wants, and right now he wants it hard and fast and deep.
"Shh, I know, I know," he coos even as he doesn't slow down at all. "But you're doing so good f'me. My perfect girl, letting me use this tight little cunt. Can feel myself in your stomach, can you feel it? Feel how deep I am?"
You can only whine in response, completely overwhelmed, pleasure bordering on too much but your body keeps responding, keeps clenching around him like it can't help itself.
The last of your strength gives out entirely. Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore, and you're just gone. Completely boneless in his grip, every muscle turned to liquid, unable to do anything except let him use you exactly how he needs. Arms hanging limply around his neck, your legs barely maintain their grip around his waist; if it weren't for Steve's hands on you, you'd slide right off him.
"Can't—can't—Stevie I can't." The words slur together, muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck, your brain too fried to form anything coherent.
"I know, baby, I know, almost there." Steve assures, his rhythm getting choppier as he gets closer. "Just a little more, need—fuck—need to fill you up one more time."
His muscles flex and strain as he bounces you faster, using you like you're weightless, like you're nothing but a warm sleeve for his cock. The wet sounds are obscene - cum and slick squelching with every brutal thrust.
You're not even moaning anymore, just making these small broken sounds with every impact, completely and utterly spent. But your body still responds, still clenches weakly around him when he hits that spot deep inside.
"That's it, that's—fuck—" Steve's breath hitches and his grip on you turns almost painful. "Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"
His hips slam up one final time, burying himself as deep as gravity and anatomy allow, and then he's coming with a snarl, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His cock pulses violently inside you and somehow - somehow - there's still more.
Hot thick ropes of cum flooding into your already overfull pussy, and you can actually feel this time, the way it has nowhere left to go, just gushing back out around his length to run down your thighs, down his, pooling on the floor. It's insane. He's already filled you once and yet he's still pumping more into you, his body shuddering with the force of it, and you can only mewl meakly against his throat as he empties himself completely.
His hips slow gradually, the frantic rhythm finally easing as his cock gives one last weak pulse inside you. Steve's breathing is ragged against your hair, chest heaving, but something shifts - you can feel it in the way his grip on you gentles, the way the manic edge bleeds out of his muscles.
The burning under his skin that's been driving him insane for hours finally starts to fade. His temperature drops, the desperate clawing need loosening its grip on his chest, and for the first time since he walked through that door he can actually think.
His cock softens inside you, and the relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost dizzying.
"Shit," he breathes, and his voice sounds like his own again. Clearer. "Oh god, sweetheart, I—"
You make a weak, mewling sound against his neck and Steve's heart clenches with immediate guilt. You're completely limp in his arms, trembling, and guilt crashes through him so hard it nearly takes him to his knees.
"Hey, hey, I've got you," he murmurs, voice going soft and gentle as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands, which had been bruising just minutes ago, turn tender as they stroke up and down your back. "You're okay. I've got you now, baby."
He's still buried inside you and he knows pulling out is going to be uncomfortable, so he takes his time. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your sweat-damp hair, while the other supports your back.
"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He waits for some sign you've heard him - a tiny nod against his shoulder - before carefully lifting you just enough to slip free. You mewl at the loss, at the feeling of his cum immediately starting to leak out of you, and Steve makes a soothing sound. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby. Just let me take care of you now."
He shifts you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're something precious, and presses a kiss to your temple. His heart is still racing but it's slowing now, the frantic edge gone, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion and worry.
"You still with me?" he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face.
With gentle fingers, Steve brushes the strands of hair plastered to your sweat-damp forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a tenderness that's almost painful after the brutality of moments before. Your head lolls without the support, too heavy for your exhausted muscles, so his hand slides down to cup your chin, thumb stroking your jaw as he carefully tilts your face up to meet his gaze.
"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Need to see those pretty eyes."
Your lashes flutter, and when you finally manage to focus on him, Steve's chest constricts painfully. Your eyes are glassy, still wet with tears that cling to your lashes, pupils blown wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to exactly how far gone you are. The cloudiness there, the fucked-out haze, it's beautiful and devastating all at once.
Another wave of guilt crashes through him so hard he has to close his eyes briefly against it.
Keeping one hand cupped under your jaw to support your head, he reaches blindly for the nightstand with the other, fingers finding the water bottle you'd brought for him earlier - back when you'd been worried about him, before he'd lost complete control. The thoughtfulness of that gesture, the care you'd shown him, makes his throat tight.
"Gonna get you some water, okay?" He uncaps the bottle one handed, bringing it carefully to your lips. "Small sips, sweetheart. Just a little."
You make a small sound of protest, like even that is too much effort, but he persists gently.
"I know you're tired. But you need it, pretty girl." He tips the bottle carefully, supporting your head with his other hand, and relief floods through him when you part your lips and take a small sip.
The cool water touches your lips and you drink instinctively, slow and uncoordinated, and Steve watches with laser focus to make sure you don't choke. Some of it spills down your chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, murmuring praise the entire time.
"That's it. Good girl. Just a little more."
He coaxes a few more sips into you, before setting the bottle aside. And then his hands start hovering over you like he's not quite sure where to touch, if he should touch. The contrast between how he'd been manhandling you minutes ago and this careful hesitation would be almost funny if the guilt wasn't eating him alive.
"What do you need?" he asks quietly, and there's an edge of desperation to it. "I can—do you want food? A bath? I should probably get you cleaned up." His thumb strokes almost absently along your jaw, the only point of contact he seems to allow himself. "Just tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything. I'll give you anything."
There's an edge of desperation in the offer, like he's trying to make up for everything, trying to fix what he broke.
With what little strength you have left, you burrow closer into his chest, nose finding the warm curve of his neck, and the small movement seems to surprise him. Your breath ghosts over his skin as you mumble, words slurred with exhaustion but unmistakable.
"Jus' want you," you mumble against his throat, words slurring together. "Don' go."
Steve goes very still. Then something in him seems to unlock, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the frantic worry in his eyes softening into something almost reverent. His arms finally wrap around you properly. Securely. Like he's allowed to hold you now.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Okay, baby, I've got you."
Carefully, like you're something infinitely precious, he shifts you both down onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and gathers you against him, pulling you flush to his chest with one arm wrapped securely around your waist and the other sliding up to cradle your head. You immediately melt into him with a soft, appreciative sound that's almost a purr, and Steve feels some of the horrible tension finally start to ease.
"That's it," Steve whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I've got you, pretty girl. Not going anywhere."
His hand trails down from your hair to stroke along your thigh with soothing, repetitive motions. Soft and steady, like he's trying to ground you both. Another kiss to your forehead, then your closed eyelids, his lips lingering there as you start to drift.
"Sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."
You make another small sound, already halfway gone, and Steve tightens his arms around you. As your breathing evens out and your body goes completely slack against him, Steve presses his face into your hair and tries not to think too hard about what happens when you wake up. Tries not to wonder if you'll regret this, regret him.
He should probably be planning how to explain what happened. How to apologize for losing control. How to convince you this wasn't just whatever got into his system, that he's wanted you for months, that this meant something.
But exhaustion is pulling at him too, and you're so warm in his arms, and he's too tired to fight the way his body wants to curl around yours like he can keep the world out if he just holds on tight enough.
He'll figure it out in the morning.
For now, he just holds you closer and lets himself have this - your warmth, your weight, your trust - even if it's the only time he gets it.
more mads: thank you so much for reading this absolute filth fest (like… 7k of it is smut. i’m unwell.). i hope you loved it!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make me grin like an idiot. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 p.s. i hope someone got the panic! at the disco reference in the title 🙂↕️
taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @/love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll - if you’d like to be added to my taglist, please leave comment here!
Pairing: Steven Grant x F!Reader, slight Marc Spector x F!Reader
Summary: You have a crush on your sweet neighbour, and after Steven's bad date emotions surface. As the sexual tension between you grows impossible to ignore, a third party joins the chat, so to speak.
Genre: Fluff & Smut 🌝, tiny Angst
Warnings: sexy time with Steven, oral (f&m), dirty talk, bit of daddy kink (because Marc can't shut the fuck up when Steven is finally getting some), 👉👌
A/N: Please ignore the lame title 😭 (also fistbump if you read it with the song's tune). Feedback is always appreciated ♥️
You were a tiny bit of jealous. Steven just told you he's gonna go on a date with a nice lady from the museum, and he even asked you if it's okay to buy her chocolate and flowers.
"If it's okay to-? What the hell Steven, that's the sweetest thing! If she doesn't marry you on the spot I'll kick her ass!" - you told him cheerfully and he gave you his shy smile with that tiny little blush.
He also dressed up nice. You wished a man actually did these little things for you instead of just sendig you the fucking eggplant emoji.
You wished him luck and sighed dreamily after him as he walked towards the elevator.
He was so cute. How can a grown ass man be so good looking but also so shy?
He gave you an excited wave as the elevator door closed and you gave him a thumbs up with a big grin.
He was also a little bit weird. You sometimes heard him scream in the mornings or the middle of the night. Because of nightmares you guessed. He also looked tired and disoriented like 99% of the time. First you were a bit cautious around him, but once he witnessed when the bottom of the bag you were carrying groceries in ripped and everything was rolling in every direction on the corridor, he hurried over without hesitation and helped you carry everything inside. You offered him a cup of tea as a thank you which he accepted, and from then on you became friends.
You bit the inside of your cheek and sighed after him one last time, then walked back into your partment to get ready for a night out with some of your co-workers.
-----
Around midnight you arrived home, you didn't want to stay longer, because you didn't really liked the music at the disco you went to and a bunch of really drunk guys were hitting on all of you, and it totally killed your mood.
As you waited for the lift to go up, you reached down to pull the bottom of the little black cocktail dress lower on your thighs and pulled the tiny strap back on your shoulder when it rolled down by the previous action. You were wearing high heels and you exited the elevator without as much as a wobble, but there was a sudden flicker of lights and it caught you off guard, making you jump a little, but it was enough to somehow twist your ankle and fall to your knees with a yelp.
"Awww, are you fucking kidding me?!" - you hissed in pain as you rolled on your ass and looked at your right ankle.
Suddenly one of the doors opened and an absolutely miserable-looking Steven stepped out to look around.
His sad eyes widened in panic when he saw you on the floor and he hurried to you.
"Oh, god, are you alright?" - he asked as he crouched down in front of you, putting one of his hands on your shoulder.
"I fell, and now my ankle hurts." - you said lamely, feeling ashamed.
"Which one?"
You pointed to the right one and he reached down with both hands to gently inspect it. You hissed when he pushed his thumb with a little bit of force on the outside of your ankle and he quickly apologized.
"I'm sorry. I think you twisted it, it already started to swell." - he said as he looked at you and his hand moved absentmindedly up your leg.
You wanted to reply something, but your whole brain shut down when you felt his hot palm on your bare calf.
"Can you stand up?" - he asked you.
"Uhhhh... I don't know."
"Let's take those high heels off and try, yeah?"
You nodded and watched as he pulled them off and held them in one of his hands. He stepped next to you and leaned down moving your left arm around his neck and he wrapped his right one around your waist.
"One, two, three, up she goes!"
You sent out a quick prayer to not make a fool out of yourself for not being able to push yourself up with one leg despite being helped, but Steven lifted you up with a surprising ease.
"Ah, thanks, my ass was freezing down there."
"Well, not surprised, this dress doesn't do much to keep you warm." - he commented as he helped you limp towards your door.
You giggled, you could think of a few things on how he could warm you up.
"Where were you anyways?"
"Out with some friends from work, but the place we went to was pretty lame, so we decided to call it a night."
Steven nodded and you both stopped in front of your door. You reached in your bag to search for your keys to open it.
"Speaking of friends from work, how was the date?" - you asked as you looked at him and wiggled your eyebrows.
You felt as his body tensed up for a second, then he cleared his throat.
"The date? It went pretty well, yeah. It was pretty good."
"Ah, yes. That's why you looked like shit when you came out of your apartment." - you said as you unlocked the door and Steven guided you inside.
"It was my fault. Where?"
"Couch. How come?"
"I uh... I was late." - he said as he helped you sit down.
You looked at him confused as he walked to your kitchen to get some ice.
"But you told me the date was at seven and you left around six thirty."
"Yeah." - came his sheepish reply.
"And you were still late?"
"Yeah."
"Where was this steak house, next city?" - you joked, but when he came back with a plastic back full of ice, his eyes looked quite sad, despite him smiling.
He sat next to you on the couch, put a pillow in his lap for extra support and patted the top of it. You moved both of your feet there, you started to feel self-conscious in the little cocktail dress you were wearing and you didn't want to make the situation awkward by accidentally making him see something. The dress wasn't that short, but it was around your mid-thighs, and the cleveage was also pretty revealing.
Steven also noticed that. When he saw you on the floor his first instinct was to make sure that you were alright, but when he saw that there wasn't any seriois injury, he would be lying if he said his eyes didn't wander over your form.
He mostly saw you in casual clothes like sweatpants and loose shirts or jeans and a nice top, but he never saw so much of your skin uncovered.
He wouldn't say it wasn't pleasing though.
He cleared his throat and gently grabbed your leg above your ankle and put the pack of ice against the swollen area. When you hissed at the cold and tried to pull away your foot, he held it in place.
"Sshh, you're gonna get used to it." - he sushed you with a calm voice, but he yelped in surprise when a pillow landed in his face.
"Why did you do that?!" - he asked shocked.
"So I'm not the only one suffering!" - you said loudly. - "Oh my god, it hurts and it's cold and I can't take it anymore, just cut it off, doc!" - you squirmed on the couch in pain, but Steven just snickered as you grabbed another pillow and pushed your face in it.
"It's just a strain, we're not gonna cut it off!" - he told you and with his hand he started to massage your calf to give you some relief.
A tiny moan escaped your throat at the action, and you hoped it was muffled by the pillow. Goosebumbps started to appear on your legs, starting at your ankles and slowly creeping up towards your thighs. First you weren't sure if it was because of the cold ice, or his warm touch, but when the tingly feeling in your abdomen forced you to push your thighs together, you knew you were in trouble.
Sweet, selfless, caring Steven. With a handsome face and kind eyes, and smooth voice with a usually cheerful uptone.
You wondered just how late he was from his date, if he looked so sad right now. You guessed that woman either left him a rude message or they had a very unpleasant conversation about it.
"So, uh... no chance for a second date with that woman?"
Your voice brought Steven back from whatever zone his mind was at that moment. - Thruth was, he simply just wondered at how good your legs felt under his fingertips.
"Uhm, no, I don't think so... She told me to lose her number." - he said with those adorable puppy eyes of his.
At that, your own eyes widened.
"What?! You bought her chocolate and flowers, in my book it compensates of being a little late."
For a few seconds Steven looked at you thinking.
"Promise you're not gonna laugh?"
Your eyebrows knit together. He looked so helpless and tired and... scared.
"Of course."
First he looked torn, like he wanted to tell you what was on his mind, but at the same time he didn't. After he stopped chewing on his lower-lip, he confessed.
"I was two days late."
"Uhh, what?"
"The date was on Friday."
You looked towards the ceiling while you pursed your lips, trying to think with your little bit tipsy brain. You didn't drink much, but you still weren't completely sober either and it took time for you to process information.
After a little bit of counting you looked back at him.
"And today is Sunday."
He nodded.
"So you, mixed up the days, happens to all of us." - you shrugged, but when you saw as tears welled up in Steven's eyes, you could swore you heard as your heart cracked.
"But I was fully convinced that today is Friday?! Like I went to sleep on Thursday and I woke up today! So I thought today IS Friday cause I have no memory of the last two days!"
When the first sob escaped him, you moved your legs from his lap and ignoring the pain you kneeled next to him and pulled him in your arms.
You didn't know when was the last time that this man recieved a hug, but after the first initial shock while he processed that he indeed was touched, he wrapped his arms around your waist and put his face on your chest, breaking down.
You held him strongly, letting him lean into you, while you stroked his hair with one hand and his back with his other.
"I'm losing days of my life and I don't know why. I'm so scared."
"Sshh. I'm here. It's okay. We'll figure it out. I'm here." - you shushed him with quiet whispers and you felt him hold you tighter.
After a few minutes he seemed to calm down a little. His crying stopped and he was taking slower and deeper breaths now.
Slowly, he pulled away to look up at you.
"We?"
"Hmm?" - you asked as you cupped his face gently with one hand and with your other you tucked his hair away from his forehead. You smiled when the curls fell back right after you moved your hand back.
"We will figure it out?" - he asked quietly as his eyes wandered over your features, stopping at your lips.
You nodded as you looked down too and let out a small giggle when you noticed something at the corner of his mouth.
"There's a little bit of chocolate there." - you whispered as you tried to gently wipe it away with your thumb.
Steven's posture tensed, realizing he probably looked like an idiot during the most intimate time of his life and quickly reached up to wipe it down, but he froze when you grabbed his wrist and leaned into him, licking at the spot, and then gently moved your lips to his to kiss him softly.
You felt as his breath caught in his throat and you moved to climb in his lap to straddle him.
"Is this okay?" - you asked as you slipped further down on him and you noticed as he grew harder under you when he felt the heat between your legs.
He nodded quickly in both surprise and unbelievement. Was this really happening or is it one of his trippy dreams again?
It was a little bit funny. How he was afraid to touch you even when you leaned down again to capture his lips and let your tongue in his mouth to do its wonders. Even when you pushed yourself fully into him and he could feel every deep breath and hear every little moan that escaped you when you slowly started to move back and forth on his bulge.
"You can touch me too, you know." - you told him with a little half smile.
"O-o-okay." - he said shyly and took in a deep breath. He looked down at your body and put his hands on your hips and caressed his way up your waist and sides, while he moved his thumbs to your front but stopped when he reached the underside of your breasts.
You tried to stay patient with him. He was clearly inexperienced and tested the waters even after you kissed him and climbed in his lap, making it clear what you wanted.
And it was nice that you were finally with a man who didn't rush things, who took his time and by the look in his eyes appreciated what he saw and felt, rather than just fuck that hole quickly that every woman posessed.
But you were turned on. Beyond belief. You had a crush on Steven for a long time now, he was clearly incredibly handsome, but he was so sweet and humble at the same time. He wasn't a dickhead who used his looks to lure women into his bed then fuck them just to never call them again.
He was caring and loving and just so attentive. You thanked your lucky stars that that bitch he was supposed to meet toda- well, two days ago, was too stupid to see that.
Steven was having a hard time concentrating. Literally. You looked gorgeous. Well, that wasn't a surprise really, he had always thought that you were beautiful. But you were sitting in his lap after kissing him and now enjoying his touches while you're slowly riding his hard-on.
You were so... sexy.
And you wanted him.
Him.
Out of all people. And you just told him that you will help him find out what's happening to him.
Everybody else thinks he's a weirdo, he's late from work almost everyday, his boss is frustrated at him because of this, and he's sure his co-workers are just only tolerating him, because he's otherwise nice.
But you... you liked him. Why else would you reach behind you to unzip that little dress to slowly reveal your gorgeous black lace covered boobs?
Oh God, what did he do to deserve you?
'Touch her.' - a voice in the back of his head urged him.
Steven sat there for a few seconds just staring at you, taking in your beauty as his hands rested on your hips.
'Touch her. Undress her. She's waiting for you.'
He felt like in his dream, when that man wanted to take the scarab from him, and his body moved on his own.
Now his hands moved lower and grabbed the dress at your thighs, then he slowly pushed them up to reveal your panties that matched your bra.
'She's beautiful, and she wants you, idiot, take control.' - the voice was a little bit more demanding now. Impatient.
Steven nodded as he gulped big, and he pushed the strechy material up more, then took it off from you.
He sat up straighter and leaned up to kiss you. When your fingers landed in his hair to take control of the kiss, he felt himself grow bolder and his hands grabbed your ass, kneading it. He swallowed your moans and grew impossibly hard under you at the noises your were making. He helped you move on him, giving him the right friction to send pleasurable jolts at every part of his body.
"Fuck, Steven." - you moaned his name as you pulled away to take in a deep breath.
'Hear that? She's becoming needy. Can you feel her heat? She's on fucking fire. You need to fuck her. Hard.' - the voice in his head said.
Oh, yeah, Steven felt it. Especially when you started to unbutton his shirt with clumsy, slightly shaking hands.
The voice in his head started to chuckle.
'She's cute. Girls like her deserve to be fucked good. Do you feel that? She's fucking soaked. Eat her pussy. I bet she tastes good.'
Steven helped you to take off his shirt, and his confidence grew when he saw as your eyes practically drank in the sight of his bare chest.
It was him who reached behind you to unclap your bra and pull it off of you. He threw it somewhere next to him and he cupped your breasts, pushed them together and buried his face in them.
You let out a small giggle when you heard him take in a deep breath, then you moaned loudly when he kissed your left breast and sucked your nipple in his mouth.
'Oohh, what are you doing? Are you trying to make her beg? I like it.' - the voice chuckled.
"Steven, oh my God." - you threw your head back and pushed yourself more into him.
He switched to your other nipple and when he gave it a little harder tug, you started to roll your hips into his more with a needy moan.
'Oh, fuck she likes it. I wonder how long will it take for her to start b-...'
"Please, baby, please." - you begged him.
Steven's heart melted at the nickname and he quickly turned with you on the couch, so now you were laying under him. He kissed his way down your body until he reached your panties, and he took them off of you. He grabbed your knees and pushed them apart then he kissed your inner thighs several times just to hear your beautiful voice more.
Steven was never this excited in his whole life. He couldn't say he was experienced in this area, but he was feeling more courageous than ever before and that voice in the back of his head sounded very confident as it guided him.
'What do you think she'll do, if you bite her?'
Steven wanted to find that out too, but he didn't know if you were into that so he only used a little pressure when he sank his teeth into your soft felsh.
A surprised giggle escaped your lips and you propped yourself up on your elbows to look down at him with an excited smile and sparkling eyes.
Steven chuckled a little at your reaction, but his eyes turned darker when the voice spoke again.
'Fuck, look at that face. She's fucking gorgeous. Make her cum, I wanna see her face when she cums!'
Steven leaned down and licked your clit gently. Even with that small action your whole body jerked and a gasp escaped your mouth.
He ran the tip of his tongue down to your hole and gathered your wetness, then he licked his way up to smear it all over your clit and around it, while he never broke eye contact.
Your brows were knitted together as you watched him, while erotic moans left your lungs.
He started to slowly move his tongue in circles on your clit, and when you became even wetter and started to rock your hips, he pushed a finger inside you.
"Oh, fuck...!" - you cried in a high pitched voice and moved your hips more wildly.
'Oh, shit, Steven, look into her eyes. She's a dirty one. You gotta call her names. I know she's the most beautiful angel we ever saw, but look at her. She wants to get fucked. Like a whore.'
Steven shook his head a little at that. You were precious. You were kind. You deserve to be treated like a queen.
'Push another finger in her and call her a bitch!'
Steven growled and shook his head at the demand.
Since his mouth was still on you, the action made your eyes flutter close in pleasure and a barely audible whine left your lips.
"Ah, yes fuck me."
Steven still heard it, and his cock twitched in his pants. Before he could react further he felt like his body moved on his own again. His head lifted and his other hand moved to stimulate your clit with his thumb.
Then the words left his mouth before he could stop them.
"Yeah, you like it when daddy fucks your pussy, don't you, you dirty little whore?" - the voice spat and another finger was added when you incoherently moaned.
Steven wanted to say sorry, that he didn't mean it, but your pussy clenched around his fingers impossibly tight and his own cock twitched at your reaction.
'Told ya.' - the voice said smugly, and Steven felt he was in full control of his body again. - 'Fuck her faster, then when she starts to bend her back more, curl your fingers.'
Steven trusted this inner voice now and his lust filled eyes watched as your hands grabbed the pillows around your head. He wanted to taste you again so he removed his thumb and licked your clit again, sometimes up and down then he switched to stimulate it in circles. He smirked, because you went wild under him. He increased the tempo and in a few seconds you pushed down your hips and bent your back, so Steven curled his fingers and when he prodded a delicate spot inside you, you started to scream.
He made sure to abuse that place nice and steady, and in less than five seconds your pussy clenched around his fingers so hard he almost couldn't move them, so he pushed them in as far as he could and poked that spot while he sucked on your clit.
'Holy fuck, she's loud.' - the voice in his head commented amused and Steven let go of your nub and he climbed on top of you with a smile on his face, as he watched your body shake in a post orgasmic bliss.
When you felt a soft kiss on your forehead, you opened your eyes and smiled at Steven.
"Hey there." - he teased as he tuck your hair behind your ear.
"Hey, daddy." - you cooed, making him laugh nervously, but you pulled his head down to kiss him.
He kissed you back gently, but as the seconds passed you became more and more needy and his tongue met yours with equal force.
Your hands found the button and zipper of his pants and when you successfully pushed them down his legs along with his boxer briefs, you pushed him on his back to fully free him of the clothes.
You grabbed his cock and licked it from the base to the top and when his eyes closed in pleasure you took as much of him as you could in your mouth and started sucking him, slowly moving your head up and down.
"Shiiiitttt..." - Steven hissed and moaned when your hand started moving on the rest of his cock.
'Oh, fuck, she's good.' - the voice in his head growled.
"Yeah." - Steven whispered and he moved both of his hands in your hair, fingers grasping your roots to guide you.
You followed his tempo and he soon started squirming under you.
'We're not gonna last long if she keeps that up, and we haven't even fucked her yet.' - the voice warned. Why did it sound like it was out of breath too?
Suddenly, Steven grabbed your shoulders and started pulling you up. You bit your lip and straddled him again, and you lowered yourself on his cock. You both moaned at the pleasure, and you slowly started to ride him. Steven closed his eyes for a few seconds then he looked up at you with a smile. You smiled back and guided his hands from your hips to cup your breasts and he started kneading them while you leaned your head back moaning in delight.
He growled at the beautiful display before him and he started moving his hips up everytime you rolled yours into him. The pleasure increased incredibly fast and it soon turned too much for Steven. He pushed you on your back and pushed your knees against your chest as he penetrated you again, but this time he wasn't slow.
All of the pent up tension because of his stupid boss, his stupid date, his stupid sleeping problem and stupid black-outs came crushing down on him in that moment, and they concentrated in every one of his thrusts and you took everything he was giving you with an incredibly wet cunt and loud moans of pleasure.
'Yeah, she likes it rough, she's going crazy under us. Talk dirty to her again.'
Steven moaned and pushed his forehead against yours while he looked in your eyes.
"You like it when I fuck you like this?" - he asked with a growl and the sound made your pussy throb around his cock.
You both moaned at the feeling and Steven felt again as something took over his body again. He sat back on his knees, pulling your ass on his thighs, but your back remained on the couch. This way your back arched and he hit that spot deep inside you that made you see stars.
"Oh, Steven, fuck me, yes!" - you screamed in pleasure and felt yourself nearing your orgasm.
'Now play with her clit and she'll cum on our cock in no time.'
Steven felt in control again as he moved his thumb to your clit, and as he helped you near your peak, your juicy pussy hugged his cock stronger and stronger.
Steven felt as your whole body clenched suddenly and when your cunt throbbed around his cock as he was fucking you through your intense and loud orgasm, his thrusts became even more rough as he came in your pussy hard. His hands grabbed your hips impossibly tight and he thrusted his cock in your pussy so violently that you moved up on the couch with every move of his hips. Your screams mixing with his loud moans soon died down and he collapsed next to you, squeezing you between himself and the backrest of the couch.
You hooked your leg over his hip and he after a few seconds when he could move again he turned on his back and pulled you so your head was on his chest and he wrapped his arms around you while he kissed the top of your head.
When he heard your giggle, he smiled kissed your hair again.
"So the date wasn't so bad after all." - he said with a big sigh, making you laugh.
Warnings: kinktober, fingering, PinV, overstimulation, rough sex, size kink, dirty talk, light breeding kink, bruce may hulk out, aftercare.
The lab smelled faintly of antiseptic and solder, machines humming low as you perched yourself on the bench, watching Bruce shuffle around. His shoulders were tight, hunched, as if he was carrying the whole world in his hands. Maybe he was.
“Bruce,” you said softly. He stilled, the beaker in his hands trembling slightly.
You touched his arm, firm enough to ground him. “You’ve been holding back again.”
His lips twisted in that nervous smile you knew too well. “You know why. I can’t… if i lose it, if I let go…”
“Then you let me catch you,” you whispered, and kissed him before he could spiral further.
His was like a lighting fuse. His hands flew to your waist, almost too careful, like he was scared he’d crush you. You nipped at his lip, pulling him closer, and suddenly his restraint snapped. He pushed you back against the bench, kissing you hungrily, glasses askew.
“Geez..” he muttered against your mouth, his Midwestern softness cracking into something darker. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
His hands fumbled at your waistband, tugging you open just enough to slip inside. His fingers slid through your folds, finding you embarrassingly wet already.
“You’re-“ His breath stuttered and he pressed two fingers inside, slow but steady, curling them against your walls. The stretch had you moaning, nails digging into his lab coat.
“Bruce,” you gasped, hips rocking into his hand.
He groaned, hand falling to your shoulder as he worked you open, his fingers pumping faster, rougher. His thumb brushed over your clit with perfect pressure, and your body jerked, a helpless sound spilling from your throat.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice breaking, “that’s it, sweetheart, let me- oh my…” his other hand clutched the bench so hard the metal cracked.
You clenched around his fingers, whining his name, and he froze, trembling. You could feel the storm building under his skin- the change threatening to break through.
The green bled into his veins before your eyes, his body shuddering, expanding. Glasses fell to the floor, shattering, as his frame doubled in size. In seconds, the Hulk loomed over you, chest heaving.
For a moment, he hesitated.
“Hulk… hurt you?” His voice rumbled.
You decided to take your chance. “No. I want you. I want all of you.”
That was all he needed. With a growl, he ripped your clothes away in a single motion, his huge hands grabbing your thighs and spreading them wide. His fingers- thicker, heavier- pressed back inside of you, stretching you further, making you cry out.
He worked you open mercilessly, pumping until slick coated his knuckles, your thighs trembling with each thrust of his hand.
“Take Hulk’s fingers good,” he growled, his thumb circling your clit with rough precision. You arched against him, a sob ripping from your throat as you came hard around his hand, your juices dripping down the bench.
Before you could recover, he lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You gasped at the shear size of hi, the stretch almost unbearable.
“Bruce-“ you whimpered, your mind foggy.
“Hulk,” he corrected roughly, voice gravel and heat.
He pushed forward, slow at first, groaning at the way your body struggled to take him. Inch by inch he sank deeper, until the stretch had you clinging to him, your nails raking down his green skin.
“It’s too deep,” you whimpered, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
His glowing gaze snapped down to you, a low growl rumbling from his chest. He didn’t pull back. Instead, he slammed the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a force that made the bench groan.
“Take Hulk,” he ordered, “take all.”
His thrusts grew brutal, each one dragging a scream from your throat as he hits spots Bruce never could. The mix of pain and pleasure blurred, your body tightening as he drove you into his overstimulation.
He bent low, his tongue dragging across your chest before his mouth latched around your nipple, sucking hard while his cock pounded into you.
The sensation sent you over again, your orgasm ripping through you with violent force. Hulk didn’t stop, he fucked you through it, your body convulsing, clit throbbing as he ground agains it with his massive hand.
“Too much,” you whimpered, squirming.
“No,” he growled, fucking you harder, faster, until the wet slap of skin and cries filled the lab. His thumb pressed cruel circles onto your swollen clit, forcing another orgasm from you, then another, until you were trembling, body slack.
Only when he roared, hips driving forward one last time, spilling deep inside you, before Bruce slowly started to come back.
His breaths came in rough, uneven pulls as he slumped forward, his forehead resting against yours. The room was quiet except for the low hum of both if your heartbeats trying ti find their rhythm again.
For a long moment, he didn’t move—just held you, one trembling hand brushing damp strands of hair away from your face. “You okay?” he murmured, voice still gravelly, eyes soft with worry.
You nodded, tracing small circles against his chest. “Yeah,” you whispered, smiling faintly. “You?”
He exhaled, the sound almost like a laugh, then leaned down to press a slow kiss against your temple. “Better now.”
When he finally pulled out, he moved carefully, as if afraid to hurt you. He disappeared for a moment, only to return with a warm towel and water, tending to you with a quiet tenderness that made your chest ache.
Every touch was gentle, reverent—his way of saying sorry for how hard he’d lost himself earlier.
Once he’d finished, Bruce slid back into bed beside you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close against his chest.
You could feel the steady thump of his heartbeat under your palm.
He pressed his lips to your shoulder. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
You shook your head, nestling closer. “No, Bruce. You were perfect.”
He sighed, the tension finally melting from his body as his fingers drew lazy shapes along your skin. In that quiet space—between the flicker of city lights and the slowing breaths—you both stayed tangled up, saying everything without words.
a/n: this is all @chvoswxtch's fault. you know what you did, babe! whispering in my ear like a slutty little devil…
summary: briefly glancing around the vacant space before taking a seat at the counter, there you spotted none other than the regular customer that you, for lack of better words, had an embarrassingly massive crush on.
warnings: frank castle x diner waitress!reader, smut, mutual pining, kissing, public sex, clothed sex (the uniform stays on, hehe), dirty talk, size kink (the return of mr castle's canon coke can cock, hallelujah), manhandling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, spit kink, oral, fingering, pussyjob, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie
word count: 3643
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A soft hum vibrated quietly in your throat as you cleaned out the table in the corner where the last remaining customers had just departed from, leaving you all alone in the dark diner as the rest of the small staff too had gone home at this late hour since next to no one ever frequented the establishment in the time slot before closing.
After wiping down the table, the interior dimly illuminated by mostly just the neon lights scattered around the walls as well as the big one out front that glimmered through the windows, you then balanced the dirty plates out into the kitchen. Though when you sat the dishes down by the sink, the chime of the door out front found your ears.
However, when you twisted your neck to glance out of the wide hole in the wall, that divided the kitchen from the dining area, to spot the individual who had just entered the low-lit diner, the gentle melody that warmed up your chest promptly seized from your lips as your eyes began to widen.
Briefly glancing around the vacant space before taking a seat at the counter, there you spotted none other than the regular customer that you, for lack of better words, had an embarrassingly massive crush on.
You still remembered two months back when the gruff-looking man had first set foot into the diner. It had been like you’d been transformed into one of those wooden dolls where you press a button at the very base and its legs just collapse.
You still weren’t sure if it was a gift or a curse that the establishment had swiftly grown into a regular spot for him to frequent, seeing as you now spent most of your days either eye-fucking him from a distance as he sat in your section, or stumbled over your words as you tried to take his order. You’d even dropped all of his change one of the times he’d paid, sending the coins clanging across the linoleum floor, only for him to duck down and join you on the ground, the simple kindness sending such a shiver down your spine that you had crashed your skull up into the table like the true stumble fuck you felt like whenever he was near.
And when you finally managed to force your feet to shift, the advice, that one of your coworkers had recently given you on your little predicament, echoed quietly on your lips as you exited the kitchen, “okay, be bold... be bold…” in a feeble attempt at hyping yourself up.
Your fingers dipped into the pocket of the little apron tied around your waist, fishing out a small notepad and pencil, before you neared the spot he sat at.
“Hi, Frank,” you uttered, offering him a smile as his eyes flickered up to settle upon you.
“Evening, sweetheart,” he exhaled, the surely meaningless term of endearment that he had begun to drop into your short chats over the past few weeks still caused your ragged breath to hitch.
“You’re up late,” you briefly glanced to the round clock on the wall before reuniting your gaze with his unwavering one.
Tilting his head, the corners of his lips twitched slightly as he murmured, “yeah, well at least I’m not still stuck at work.”
“Touché,” you clicked your tongue against your teeth and wiggled the pencil in your grasp before asking, “so, what can I get you tonight?”
“Just some coffee,” his head nodded slightly as his gaze briefly averted, “and keep it coming.”
“Coffee as usual,” you slipped your notepad back into your pocket, “you and your endless cups of coffee, okay… perhaps I should just start pouring automatically whenever I see you come in, like it’s pavlovian or something.”
“Well,” his tongue fleetingly flickered out to wet his slight smile, “it would save me the breath, not having to ask for what I want if you just give it to me straight out of the gate.”
Heat promptly rose in your cheeks as your dirty mind played tricks on you and warped his words. Clearing your throat lightly as you swiftly choked on a tiny giggle, “uhm, yeah–, so, uh…” you stared down at the counter, though quickly darted them away when his hands that rested there began to distract you as well and make you that much more dizzy, “just the coffee, nothing else?” you uttered hazily as you then twisted around to snatch up the half-empty pot behind you and fill up a mug for him.
“Just the coffee,” he drawled quietly like a gentle crackling fire behind you.
“You sure?” you tilted your head as you spun back around and slid the cup across the counter towards him, “it’s Friday night. Why not go crazy and treat yourself to a piece of pie or something.”
Gliding his fingers into place around the warm mug, his eyes fluttered back up to capture your own, “I’m good, thanks.”
“Really? You don’t even wanna hear what the options are?” your teeth gently dug into your bottom lip, “I made them all myself, fresh this morning…”
Blinking back at you a moment, he then bowed his head as he gave in, “alright, sure, why the hell not.”
“Well,” you propped down your forearms on the counter directly across from where he sat, “there’s rhubarb pie with a meringue topping,” you uttered softly as you leaned against the table, slowly inching closer and closer to him, “there’s apple if you’re into the classics,” your gaze licked him up as your heart hammered in your chest like it was trying to escape, “and then today’s special, cherry pie…”
“Cherry, huh?” he hummed as he stared back into your eyes, even as you gradually tilted closer. You knew that if he dared to let his unwavering gaze stray, he’d surely be able to look straight down the neckline of your uniform from how you bent over the counter.
Dipping your vision down to his lips, you dreamily sucked in a breath as you added, “with extra whip cream on top…”
A smirk bloomed on his lips as an exhale then slipped from his lungs, “well how ‘bout that…”
The next thing you knew, it was as if your brain shut off completely as you then found yourself closing the short distance between you two and crashing your lips against his own. The kiss was short and rather clumsy before you then regained your senses and pulled back just as quickly as you had dived in.
“Oh my goodness,” you swiftly gasped as your hands soared up to briefly shield the lower half of your face, “I’m sorry, that was–, I shouldn't have just–, out of the blue without–,” you stumbled over your own words, “I'm sorry, please don’t tell my boss, I really need this job–”
But then, before you could crumble before him, Frank suddenly seized both sides of your face and pulled you back in for not only a kiss, but one that made your feeble attempt pale in comparison. Melting completely under the scorching warmth of his lips, you damn near crawled straight across the counter to scramble into his lap. However, when he finally withdrew, the kiss somehow seeming both as if it had stretched out an eternity, as well as only feeling like the blink of an eye, you stumbled slightly, and if it hadn’t been for his palms that remained on the sides of your jaw, you surely would have taken a nosedive right in front of him.
“Fuck…” you dizzily blinked back at him as only his hands cupping your features in a gentle grip kept you upright, “how–… how are you even better at that than I imagined?” your jello-like knees wobbled beneath you.
“Oh, you’ve spent a lot of time daydreaming about me kissing you,” he chuckled softly, “have you?”
“Well,” you sucked in a ragged breath as you noticed how the dull throb he always triggered between your thighs worsened, “it’s not just that my brain has been thinking about ever since you first came in here…”
“Oh yeah?” he shared your breath as his fingertips slowly strayed into your hairline, “what else has that pretty little head been thinking about, huh?”
And as the corners of your lips twitched into a smile, you gathered up the courage to utter, “…how about you come back here and I show you instead?”
With a soft smirk on his lips, his fingers then slipped from your face before he rose from his seat. Panting, your eyes tracked him as he took his sweet time making his way around the long counter to stand on the same side as you.
Tangling your fingers in his dark shirt as soon as he came in reach, you yanked him to you till his lips crashed against your own once again. Though the ravenous kiss didn’t last too long before you then tilted away as your legs began to bend and you sank down on the ground before him. You still stayed so close to him that your cheek pressed up against his thick thigh as you blinked up at him, a question twinkling in your eyes as your fingers slowly clawed closer to his belt.
But before your lips managed to part in order to ask for permission, Frank caught on and, as he breathlessly gazed down at your kneeling frame, offered you a nod.
Your mouth fell apart in an airy giggle as your stunned eyes widened at his girth that sprung forth as soon as you tugged down the zipper of his dark jeans.
It was soft, rather timid but sweet, as you began to pepper pecks along his length, smiling against the hardness as it twitched at your feathery touch before you soothed it with your glistening tongue.
And though you had a hard time ripping your gaze away from his cock, it more often than not drifted back up to Frank’s own stare as he leaned back against the counter.
When your lips eventually were stretched around his cock and drool was gurgling up your efforts as you bobbed your head, his fingers gently found your hair as his hips stopped resisting the greedy thrusts they craved in order to bury his dick further into your warmth.
A low growl rumbled in his chest when your sweet mouth became too much for him to bear, and he swiftly plucked you back up onto your feet. Spinning you both around till the counter pressed against the small of your back, he then picked you up and planted you on the edge of the tabletop.
Pressing your lips to his own, you then purred against his tongue as his touch wandered down your frame and disappeared up under the dress of your uniform to discover the soaked state of your panties beneath. To you, his fingertips fluttered over your covered core for way too long till he finally yanked the cotton to the side to sweep his touch directly against your aching pussy.
“Holy fucking shit,” you panted as he finally rolled your puffy pearl beneath the rough pads of his fingers, and you had to tilt away from his kiss a moment to reel in the ecstasy. Your nails dug into the back of his neck as you arched your back, though a smirk only bloomed on Frank’s features as he gazed back at your blissed-out features.
“You like that?” he uttered huskily, still so close that he shared your breath.
“I–, fucking–, yes!” you panted before reuniting your lips with his own just as a whimper crawled its way out of your lungs.
Soon his pinkie and forefinger flexed against your centre as the ones in between methodically pumped in and out of your pussy, caressing your velvety walls till you were on the verge of exploding.
But instead of unravelling and creaming all over his thick fingers, you gasped, “wait,” as you painstakingly yanked his touch out from beneath your skirt, “I-I need you inside of me, please, I wanna feel you, I can’t wait any longer,” a dizzy pout quivered at your lip as you begged. Answering your prayer, Frank then slid you off of the counter and spun you around for the curve of your ass to arch back against him.
“Then do it,” his deep voice tickled the shell of your ear as he slid a palm down over your frame before finding your clit once more in a rub that caused your eyes to roll, “go ahead, take what you want, sweetheart,” he uttered, encouraging your fingers to reach back to grasp his girth.
His digits kept on drawing patterns over your puffy pearl as you then slowly slipped his fat cock inside, “f-fuck…” you whined shakily as your eyes fell shut, your whole body freezing up for a second as your cunt clenched around the bulbous tip of him, struggling a moment before relaxing around his size and letting him in.
You felt his lips flutter against the side of your neck as the hand he didn’t have slotted between your trembling thighs, floated up around the curve of your ass, spreading his hand wide across it as he gently gathered up the skirt of your uniform to grant himself a peek of how you stretched for him.
“Atta girl, that’s it,” he groaned as you slowly began to move and fill your pussy up further, “you got it, sweet girl,” his own hips all the while staying locked and letting you control the pace, “keep going.”
Though it didn’t take long after you’d picked up a desperate rhythm, bouncing your ass back against him, that your upper body gave out, bending down over the counter and melting against it as you finally came undone, your loud moans echoing throughout the empty diner.
And though your greedy efforts tried to keep going through your high, your shaky movements still degraded into trembling rocks as you slowly tilted back against him till your sensitivity began to fade away. However, when Frank finally began to move, his palm first gliding up along your horizontal spine before he let himself go, a crinkle found your brow as your body jostled against the counter at each zealous thrust he offered you, his heavy balls smacking against your buzzing clit each time he bottomed out and the tip of him kissed the deepest parts of you.
However, as you fought to keep your eyes open and one of your hands fluttered back to claw needily against one of Frank’s belt loops, your hazy gaze suddenly snapped open as you spotted the figure out on the dark street that came marching directly towards the front door of the diner.
“Shit!” you yelped before you shakily shot up and, in your panic, shoved Frank down behind the counter before the patron could enter. Smoothing down your uniform as the door chimed, your eyes were wide as you squeaked, “hello,” doing everything in your power to seem completely normal and not let your stare stray down to the man hiding by your feet, his throbbing cock still glistening with your juices.
“Hi,” the elderly man offered a tight-lipped smile before glancing around at all of the empty seats and uttering, “are you still serving pancakes?”
And though in actuality you weren’t still serving breakfast at this hour, your mind swiftly short-circuited as you felt Frank sneak a hand up under your uniform, “s-sure, but it’ll take a bit,” you breathed shakily as his touch teasingly traced the mess between your thighs, making you shiver with each light pet, “it’s just me working here right now.”
“Oh, that’s alright, I don’t mind waiting,” the customer murmured, though just as he did, you sucked in a sharp breath as the gruff man kneeling beside you let himself tilt closer and grant himself a brief taste, momentarily parting your petals with his tongue as his nose nudged against your pearl, lapping ravenously at your leaky hole that still quivered for his cock, before his mouth then soared up and captured your clit, wasting no time to suck down on it making your entire frame jump jaggedly at the dizzying sensation.
“A-alright,” you puffed unsteadily as you watched the stranger take a seat in a far-off booth, “I’ll be right back,” you murmured and lightly shoved Frank’s head away from beneath your skirt before you shakily made your way into the back.
Clutching a hand over your chest as you tried to catch your breath, you didn’t get the chance to glance over your shoulder before you felt Frank catch up to you after he’d snuck into the kitchen as well.
“You are terrible,” you whispered through a hazy giggle as he pressed a brief kiss to your cheek, his beard still glistening from the greedy taste he’d offered himself.
“Oh, you have no idea,” he exhaled before you caught onto his shirt and dragged him around the corner with you, into the pantry at the very bottom of the kitchen.
Twisting you around to face him, he kissed you once more, though it only broke when he plucked you up off the ground to sit you up on the steel table that stood between the many open shelves, all brimming with dried and canned goods.
Slotting himself in between your legs, he stole one last peck before his fingers enveloped his girth and offered it a silky stroke. Glancing down between your thighs as you began to shimmy your dress back up, his thumb hooked in the gusset of your panties before it could stray back into place and cover you back up.
Letting a dollop of spit drop from his lips and down upon your glistening pussy as he continued to stare, he uttered gravelly, “you want it?” before he tapped the hefty weight of himself against your puff.
“Yes,” you panted as you too blinked down at how he dragged the bulbous head of his cock through your folds, teasingly tracing the seam of your cunt and making you squirm beneath him.
“Oh, yeah?” he tried to make you beg for it, flicking his hardness crudely against your clit, “tell me how bad.”
“So bad,” you whined as his teasing swiftly became too much for you to bear, “please, Frank,” you nearly felt yourself drool as your eyebrows knitted tightly together, “just shove it back in.”
Huffing out a short chuckle, “okay,” he then took your breath away as he didn’t just slide the tip back inside, but instead slammed the entirety of his length back inside, burying himself completely in your haven, “like that?” he smirked as you struggled to breathe.
“I-I–,” your eyes fluttered as your fingers soared up to dent his shoulders, “o-oh god… that’s so much…”
“What?” he grinned as he tilted closer to you for his nose to ghost against your own, “I thought you said you wanted it,” he murmured cockily before pulling all of the way back out, “is it too much dick for you, huh?” your dripping essence clung to his girth as he slipped out and some of your desperation even dribbled onto the tabletop below.
“It’s–, shit,” you tried to keep up with his dizzying game, but your molten mind just wouldn’t let you, “Frank, please just fuck me. I can’t–, I–, urgh!” a shrill moan promptly escaped you as he then sank back inside, making your eyes roll in your skull as he swiftly slipped into a slow yet rough rhythm, “f-fuck… thank you…”
Smiling against your breathless lips, he uttered, “god, you’re cute…” before his hips snapped against you, offering you long and deep strokes that made it tough for you both to last much longer.
Though once you’d both tumbled over the edge, your cunt choking his cock and milking him for all of his worth, the slow and smouldering kisses that drew out over your lips eventually faded as he slipped his length out of you.
Blinking back at him, your eyes widened slightly in gentle puzzlement as he then sank down before you and began to clean up the mess you’d both turned you into, holding your gaze and eating you out till you had no other choice but to clamper a palm over your mouth to keep quiet as he made you cum one last time.
Hand slipping from your lips as you fell back onto your forearms and caught your breath, you scarcely saw as Frank then rose back up to his full height, his lips briefly dancing up the length of your thigh on his way back up, before his gaze caught sight of the row of pies lined up on a nearby shelf. They were all mostly gone, though what was left was covered by a layer of cling film.
Stretching out an arm, he ducked a finger beneath the plastic that covered the last remaining piece of the cherry one and then brashly dipped his digit into the crimson berry filling, before bringing it up to his lips to suck it clean, the display of which somehow making your sensitive core throb once more for him as he let his tongue lap up the greedy taste he’d granted himself.
As his lips let go of his finger with a pop, a hum rumbled in his broad chest, “that’s good,” before his eyes flickered down to his digit and he twisted it into a different angle to lick up the remaining pie filling. Though as he savoured every last drop, his dark eyes flickered back to capture your stare as he then added with a soft smirk, “but I think I prefer the one that you gave me…”
SUMMARY. You and Bucky have history. History of hating each other. One messy fuck in a bathroom later, you’re both scrambling to pretend it didn’t change anything. What better way to save one’s heart than by breaking the other first?
WORD COUNT. 17.5K
WARNINGS. college au, lowk enemies to lovers, enemies-with-benefits but with like so many feelings, MDNI, both reader and bucky are toxic, extremely messy, they hurt each other repeatedly, sometimes deliberately, verbal degradation, jealousy, possessiveness, hurt/comfort, angst, miscommunication, romanogers on the side (i like them together, sue me), intoxication, caretaking, reader gets sick (hangover, a fever), acts of service as love language, smut, brat taming, unprotected pnv, oral (f receiving), fingering, public-ish sex (bar bathroom, an alley), public risk, pussy pronouns, pussy slapping, pussy inspection, slight overstim, slight edging, choking, nipple tugging, hair tugging, hate-fucking, dom!bucky, mean!bucky, no use of y/n.
NOTES. that was long. no, seriously, please read the warnings before you interact. these guys are messy. college students acting like college students, and who better to tell you than someone who got fucked over so many times in college? heh.
I am incapable of not ending on a happy note, so there’s obviously a happy ending. Like I’ve truly tried my best to actually redeem them both, but if you don’t like it… please don’t complain 😭
Inspired by this fic by @smorgaswhored ! thank you 🥹
READ ON AO3
Steve and Natasha are dating, which is fine. Great, even. They're stupidly perfect together. What's decidedly not fine is Bucky Barnes tagging along everywhere like some sort of gorgeous, infuriating barnacle you can't scrape off.
The man is a menace. A complete and utter disaster of a human being who somehow manages to fail half his classes while looking like he stepped out of a cologne ad. He doesn't give a single flying fuck about his GPA, shows up to lectures hungover more often than not, has this way of smirking at you that makes your blood pressure spike in more ways than one.
Three days ago, everything changed. And by changed, you mean you fucked him in a club bathroom like some kind of feral animal in heat, and now you're sitting here trying to pretend it never happened while your pussy has the audacity to clench at the memory.
It went down like this. Steve and Nat had dragged you both to that overcrowded club downtown, sticky floors and watered-down drinks that cost twenty dollars. You'd volunteered to be the designated driver because you're a good friend, responsible, the kind of person who thinks ahead. What you didn't know — because why the fuck would you, since you and Bucky barely exchange civil words — was that he'd made the same decision.
So there you were. Stone-cold sober, watching Nat and Steve get progressively more handsy on the dance floor while nursing the same Coke you'd been working on for an hour. You were contemplating faking a family emergency just to escape when you noticed some guy sidling up to you at the bar.
He was fine. Decent smile, nice enough jawline, generically attractive. And you were bored, so you smiled back. Laughed at his mediocre joke. Let him lean in close enough that you could smell his cologne, woody and expensive that did absolutely nothing for you.
What you didn't notice, what you were too focused on Mr. Mediocre to catch, was Bucky watching from across the bar, jaw doing that tense thing it does when he's pissed, fingers drumming against his beer bottle.
The guy's hand landed on your lower back, and that's when Bucky materialized beside you like some kind of vengeful spirit. "We need to go."
You turned to look at him, ready to tell him exactly where he could shove his we, when you caught the look on his face. "Excuse me?"
"Steve's sick. We're leaving."
The guy next to you raised his eyebrows, clearly picking up on the tension, and Bucky's gaze slid to him with something that might have been a smile if smiles could draw blood.
"Bucky —" But he was gripping your elbow, steering you away from the bar, toward the bathroom hallway, and you were too stunned to resist.
The second you were out of earshot from the main crowd, you yanked your arm free. "What the actual fuck is your problem?"
"My problem?" He laughed, and it wasn't a nice sound. "My problem is you throwing yourself at some random dickhead when you're supposed to be here with us."
"I wasn't throwing myself at anyone, you absolute asshole. I was having a conversation. You know, that thing normal people do?"
"Looked like more than a conversation to me."
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I needed your permission to talk to people." Your voice was getting louder, going shrill. "And Steve's not fucking sick, so what's the real issue here? Mad I'm not paying attention to you?"
Bucky's jaw clenched and unclenched before he spat his next words. "You're such a fucking brat."
"And you're a mean drunk. As usual."
"I'm not drunk."
"What? Then why the hell am I not drinking?" The words came out with frustration that had been building. "This whole time I could've been getting shitfaced instead of playing babysitter to —"
"I'm not taking care of your ass," Bucky cut in. His chest was rising and falling too fast, the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth and then snapping back up like he was fighting himself.
"Fuck off, Barnes."
You turned on your heel and headed for the bathroom, needing space, needing air, needing to be anywhere but near him and the confusing mess of anger and heat that seemed to tangle in your stomach whenever you fought.
The bathroom was one of those single-occupancy ones with a lock on the door and a mirror that had seen better days. It was blessedly empty. You braced your hands on the sink and took a breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart.
The door flew open behind you. Bucky filled the frame, broad shoulders and wild eyes, and before you could tell him to get out, to leave you the fuck alone, he was inside with the lock clicking home behind him.
"What are you —"
His mouth crashed into yours, and every coherent thought evaporated. The kiss was mean, biting, aggressive, tasting like the anger that had been simmering between you for months, since the first time you met maybe. His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could devour your mouth properly, and you heard yourself moan before you could stop it.
"Shut up," he growled against your lips. You wanted to argue, push him away and knee him in the balls for being such a presumptuous prick, but his other hand was sliding up your thigh, shoving your skirt up around your hips.
"You're such an asshole," you did manage to gasp out when he moved to your neck, teeth scraping over your jugular.
"Yeah?" His fingers found the edge of your underwear, you felt him smirking against your skin. "Is that why you're soaked?"
God, you wished he was wrong, but your pussy had apparently missed the memo about hating him, embarrassingly wet and dripping down your thighs already. His thick fingers made filthy, wet squelching sounds as they slid through your slick folds, spreading your juices everywhere. "Bucky —"
"That's right. Say my name." He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and your knees nearly buckled. "Let everyone in this shitty club know who's making you feel this good."
You bit down on your lip, trying to stay quiet out of pure spite, but he crooked his fingers just right and a whimper escaped before you could stop it. He was good at this, unfairly good. His thumb found your clit while his fingers worked inside you, and you could feel yourself getting close already, wound too tight from months of unresolved tension.
"Look at you," he murmured, wonder creeping into his voice even as his words stayed cruel. "So fucking desperate. How long have you been thinking about this, huh? How long have you been getting yourself off to the thought of me?"
"Fuck you," you spat. Spat might've been an exaggeration for it came out breathy and weak.
"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you, baby. Gonna fuck you so hard you forget that asshole's name. Forget your own name."
He pulled his fingers out. Before you could protest the loss, he was spinning you around and bending you over the sink. Your palms slapped against the porcelain, as you felt him behind, the hard length of his cock pressing against your ass through his jeans. The sound of his belt buckle alone made you wetter.
"You want this?" Voice rough, he tugged your hair to make you meet his eyes in the mirror. "Tell me you want this."
"Yes." It came out as a hiss. "Now stop talking and fuck me already."
"Needy little thing." Bucky shoved his thick cock inside you in one brutal thrust, stretching your open around his girth until you were gasping and clawing at the sink. Nothing could have prepared you for the stretch. He was big, bigger than you'd let yourself imagine in the privacy of your own room. The burn of it mixed with pleasure, had you gasping. "Tight," he gritted out, pupils blown so wide and face slack with pleasure as he gripped your hips, and thrusted into your weeping cunt. "Jesus Christ, you're squeezing me so fucking tight." Brutal, punishing strokes had you scrambling for purchase on the sink. Each thrust pushed you forward, and you had to brace yourself to keep from smacking into the mirror, heavy balls slapping against your clit with every snap.
"This what you wanted?" he panted, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid up to wrap around your throat. "Wanted me to ruin this greedy little cunt?"
"Yes — fuck — yes —"
"Who's making you feel good? Say it."
"You — Bucky — oh my god —" The bathroom filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet slide of his cock pistoning in and out of you, and your moans that you couldn't control anymore. He felt incredible, impossibly good
"That's it, fuck." His grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your head spin. "Take it."
You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly like a spring wound too far. His cock was dragging against your walls, thick and perfect, so much you were babbling now, words falling out of your mouth, uncontrolled. "Please — please — I need —"
"You need to cum?" His laugh was mean. "Look at you, begging so pretty for me. Such a good girl when you're getting fucked stupid." The hand on your hip slid around to your clit, pressing down hard, circling the swollen bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. That was all it took. You came with a broken cry, clamping down around him so hard you felt him stagger.
"Fuck — fuck —" He pounded into you through it, chasing his own release, getting sloppy, losing his rhythm. "Gonna fill this pussy up. Gonna make you drip with my cum."
True to his word, he buried himself deep and came with a groan that you felt vibrate through your whole body. You could feel him pulsing inside you, spilling hot and thick, triggering another smaller aftershock that left you trembling. His forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, cock still buried inside you.
Reality started creeping back in. The uncomfortable reality that you'd just fucked Bucky Barnes in a club bathroom, smeared makeup and all. He pulled out slowly, his cum immediately starting to leak out of you in a thick, creamy trail down your thigh. You felt him watching it, possessive. "This is never happening again," you said, trying to inject some steel into your voice even though your legs felt like jelly.
Through the smudged mirror, you could see his expression, something like disappointment or hurt taking over his features, but it was gone so fast you couldn't be sure. "Yeah. Never again."
When you turned to face him, his face was carefully blank. Expecting a fight or at least some sarcastic comment, you stared at him, but he just looked at you with those blue eyes that gave nothing away. "Seriously? You agree?"
He shrugged, already tucking himself back into his jeans with an insulting efficiency. "You said it, not me. But yeah, probably a bad idea."
It shouldn't have stung. You were the one who said it first. But how quickly he agreed, how easily he dismissed what had just happened, made your chest feel tight.
Of course he agreed. He hated you just as much as you hated him. This was just... what? Hate sex? Getting it out of your systems? It didn't mean anything. "Right. Bad idea," you echoed, trying to fix your skirt with shaking hands.
He watched you struggle with your appearance for a moment, then reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so at odds with everything that had just happened that you froze. "You good?" his voice was soft.
"Fine."
"Okay." He unlocked the door but paused with his hand on the handle. "Wait like five minutes before you come out. Don't want anyone getting ideas."
Now, he’s sitting right in front of you, hands flying over his phone, not one look to your face.
Nat's grip on your wrist is unrelenting, dragging you down the hallway toward Steve and Bucky's dorm like you're a toddler being hauled to the dentist.
"I don't know why I have to be here," you complain, but she's not listening. She never listens when she's on a mission. And tonight's mission involves you third-wheeling while she and Steve do whatever disgustingly domestic couple activity they have planned.
"You've been holed up in your room for two days and it's getting weird," Nat says, not breaking stride. "Besides, we're just watching a movie. It's not a big deal."
It shouldn't be a big deal. You've done this a thousand times before. You've crashed at their place, sprawled across their furniture, stolen their snacks. But that was before. Before you knew what Bucky looked like when he came, how his cum felt like dripping down your thighs. Before everything got weird and complicated in ways you're desperately trying to un-complicate.
Steve opens the door, and you scan the room behind him automatically. The couch is empty. The kitchen is empty. No dark-haired asshole anywhere in sight. There's an annoying twist happening inside you.
"Class ran late," Steve says, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "He texted like twenty minutes ago. Should be back soon."
You settle onto the couch and try to figure out why you're irritated. There's a prickling sensation under your skin, this restless energy that has nowhere to go. It doesn't make sense. Usually when Bucky's not around, it's a relief. A chance to breathe without his smirking presence taking up all the oxygen in the room. Since when do you care if he's here or not?
Since never. You don't care. You're just... noticing. That's all.
Nat and Steve are doing that thing where they're technically watching the movie but mostly just existing in each other's space. It's sweet. It's nauseating. It's making you feel like a massive third wheel, which is exactly what you told Nat would happen.
An hour creeps by. The movie's some action thing with explosions you're not paying attention to. You're checking your phone every thirty seconds like a psycho, which is ridiculous because you don't even text him, the chat is nonexistent.
The door finally opens and Bucky looks like shit. Like he's been awake for seventy-two hours straight and spent most of that time getting hit by a truck. There are dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess. His usual sharp energy has been replaced by something dull and heavy.
"You good, man?" Steve asks, pausing the movie.
"Fine." Bucky's voice is rough. His eyes sweep the room and land on you for half a second before skittering away. "Long day. Gonna crash."
"There's pizza in the kitchen if you want —"
"Not hungry." He disappears into his room, door clicking shut with a finality. Steve and Nat exchange a look, shrug and go back to the movie. But you can't focus now, can't stop thinking about the way he couldn't quite look at you.
Before, he'd have said something. Some stupid comment designed to get under your skin, to start a fight, to make you snap at him. Before, he was always here, always present, finding new and creative ways to piss you off. Now he's not. It's wrong somehow. Off-balance.
You last another fifteen minutes before you can't take it anymore. "Bathroom," you mutter, standing abruptly.
The hallway to Bucky's room is short. The actual bathroom is to the left, and you don't care. You turn right and knock on his door before you can talk yourself out of it.
"Go away, Steve."
"It's not Steve."
Silence keeps you company before his voice comes. "What do you want?"
Without waiting for permission, you push the door open. Bucky's sitting on his bed, still fully dressed, looking up when you enter. His face slips for a fraction of a second, a raw, unguarded edge breaking through before he shuts it down like it never happened. "Can't you read a room? I said I was tired."
"You look like shit."
"Thanks. That why you're here? Give me a wellness check?" His voice comes out sharp, waking your frustration that was simmering beneath.
"No, I'm here because you've been acting weird and I want to know why."
He laughs, but it's not a nice sound. "I'm acting weird? That's rich coming from you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Forget it." He stands up, and you realize how small his room feels with both of you in it. "Seriously, go back to the movie. I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."
"Whatever this is? You're the one who's been avoiding me."
"I haven't been avoiding shit. I've had class and practice and a fucking life that doesn't revolve around you."
"Oh, so now I'm being self-centered? That's hilarious, Barnes, really. Because last I checked, you're the one who can't go five minutes without being a condescending asshole."
"And you can't go five minutes without starting a fight. What do you want from me? You said never again. I agreed. So what the fuck are you doing in my room?"
He's inside your bubble, closer, and you don't have a good answer. Don't have any answer that makes sense except for the truth, which is that you missed fighting with him. Missed the way he looks at you like you're the most infuriating person on the planet. Missed him, which is insane, stupid and absolutely cannot be true. "I don't know — I just... you weren't here and then you were and you looked like hell and I —"
"You what? Cared? Don't waste your energy. The only good thing about me is my dick, right?"
Oh. He's pissed about that. About how you treated him in the bathroom, one round of messy sex and immediately shutting down anything else.
"I didn't —"
"Yeah, you did." He's so close that you can smell him, the sweat of a hard day. "And you know what? You're right. That's all this is. All it's ever gonna be. So if you're here for round two, say it. But don't pretend it's anything else."
Your heartbeat stutters, starts hitting too fast, like it’s trying to climb out through your ribs. "Fuck you."
"That an offer?"
"You're such a prick."
"And you're a fucking brat who can't figure out what she wants." His hand comes up to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him. "So let me make it simple for you. You want me to fuck you again? Is that what this little tantrum is about?"
Slapping him would make sense. Turning around, walking out, cutting him off completely. But your pussy is getting wet, he can probably see it in your eyes, the way you're leaning into him despite yourself. "That's not true." It sounds weak even to your own ears. "Your dick's not the only good thing about you."
His fingers press in harder, thumb digging into the skin just beneath your chin. "No? Then what else?"
"I don't know... your mouth?" It's a gamble. A stupid, reckless gamble that could blow up in your face. But his eyes darken, a dangerous smile curving his lips.
"My mouth," he repeats it syllable by syllable. "Wanna know what my mouth can do besides piss you off?"
Before you can answer, he's kissing you. More urgent, more hurried than the bathroom, but not any less filthier. His mouth moves over yours and then deeper, testing how far he can go before you pull away. The drag of his tongue lingers, presses, coaxes your mouth open wider until you’re reacting before you can think about it. A sound slips out, caught somewhere between your throat and his mouth, swallowed almost as soon as it happens. "Get on the bed."
"You can't —"
"I said get on the bed." The command goes straight to your cunt. "Unless you want Steve and Nat to hear me make you scream."
That gets you moving, climbing onto his bed, him immediately on trail, caging you in with his body. Hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up. "These are cute," he says, fingers hooking into your underwear. Light pink with a little bow. "Be a shame to ruin them."
"Don't —"
He yanks them down your legs and dangles them in front of your face before shoving them into his pocket. "Too late."
"You're —"
His hand sliding between your thighs cuts you off, thick fingers spreading your soaked lips wide open, putting your dripping cunt on full display for him. He spits directly onto your exposed cunt, the warm, thick glob of saliva landing with a wet splat right on your swollen clit. He rubs it in, smearing the spit all over your slick folds until it mixes with your own juices and drips down your ass. Holding your pussy lips open even wider with both thumbs, his fingers dig into the soft flesh so nothing is hidden. He spits again, this time aiming straight into your twitching hole, watching the spit disappear inside you. "Look at this needy little pussy. Already soaked and I've barely touched her."
Humiliation and arousal both flood your system as he's inspecting you like you're something he owns, thumb dragging through your slick folds, smearing your juices everywhere before circling your swollen clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm and whine. "Bucky —"
"Shh. Let me look at what's mine."
His??
"It's not—"
"Whose cum was dripping out of this cunt two days ago?" He slides two thick fingers inside you, pumping them slow and deep, a moan slipping out, teeth clamping tight to pull it back. "Who fucked you so good you could barely walk straight?"
"That doesn't mean — oh fuck —"
"It does." Broad, rough fingers pump into you faster, your slick juices coating his knuckles and dripping down to his palm. "Got my cum all in this greedy pussy and you loved it. Loved being full of me. Bet you've been thinking about it, haven't you? Getting yourself off to the memory of my dick splitting you open."
What's worse is that he's not wrong. You have been thinking about it. Every night since it happened, fingers between your legs, trying to recreate the feeling of him inside you. "You're delusional," you lie through your teeth, and he laughs like he's caught you in it.
"Am I?" His fingers curl inside your walls, hitting that sweet spot that makes your vision blur. "Then why are you clenching around my fingers like you're trying to keep me inside you? Why's this pussy begging for more?"
Bucky pulls his fingers out abruptly, a filthy wet sound echoing as a whimper slips past your lips in the wake of the loss. Bringing them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact the whole time, he licks them clean, sucking every drop of your slick off with a groan. "Taste so fuckin' good."
Without wasting another breath, he moves down your body, shoving your thighs apart roughly and settling between them, mouth sealing over your throbbing clit like he's starving for it. Nothing is gentle about this. Calloused fingers dig into your thighs, holding you spread obscenely wide while his tongue works your clit in ruthless, sloppy circles, sucking hard enough to make your back arch off the bed. "Oh my god—"
"Let me hear how much you love my mouth. Thought it was only good for pissing you off?" The words against your cunt are muffled, but the vibration of it makes you writhe under him.
"Shut up and — fuck — keep doing that —"
He slides his tongue deep inside you, fucking your dripping hole with it in long, filthy strokes while his nose grinds against your clit. You forget how to breathe. Forget your own name. One of his hands leaves your thigh to push two fingers back inside you. The combination of his tongue and fingers has you climbing toward orgasm embarrassingly fast. "Such a messy girl," he says, pulling back to look at you. His chin is wet with your arousal, the sight of it making your pussy clench around his fingers. "Making a mess all over my face. Getting my sheets wet. Think they can hear you whimpering in here?"
"Bucky, please —"
"Please what? Use your words."
"Make me cum, you asshole —"
"Nope, ask nicely." A sharp smack lands straight to your swollen clit, the sting shooting straight up your spine, making your pussy clench hard around nothing.
"Please, Bucky. Make me cum." The words leave you in record speed, the need for release much more than the desire to keep your self-respect.
"Since you asked so nicely." His mouth goes back to your clit, sucking, while his fingers work inside you. You come with a strangled cry, thighs clamping around his head. The squeeze doesn't do anything to him, he continues his attack on your weeping hole, until you're pushing at his shoulders.
Looking entirely too pleased with himself, he pulls back to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Still think the only good thing about me is my dick?"
You're still trying to remember how to form words, whole body feeling like jelly. There's a suspicious wet spot spreading beneath you on his sheets. "You're still an asshole."
"Mhmm, but I just made you come so hard you nearly broke my jaw with your thighs. So, be nice." The finger which was buried inside your cunt, still slick with your release, taps your nose once.
He's hard, painfully so, you can see that. You almost say 'fuck me', beg him to put his dick in you and make you forget your own name again. But then reality creeps back in. Steve and Nat are just down the hall, more than that, you two are supposed to hate each other, and this was supposed to be never again.
"This can't keep happening." Sitting up, you try to fix your skirt even though your underwear is currently in his pocket.
"Right. This again."
If you didn't know him better, you'd think his face was neutral. Unfortunately for both of you, you do know him better. "I'm serious. This was — this was the last time."
"You said that two days ago."
"Well, I mean it now."
For a second too long, he stares at you, an expression you can't read this time. Hurt or anger or frustration or all three. "Fine," he finally says. "Last time. Got it."
"I'm serious, Barnes. We can't — I don't want —"
"I said fine." He stands up, adjusting himself in his jeans. "You should probably get back out there before they notice you've been gone for twenty minutes."
On shaky legs, you stand, very aware that you're not wearing underwear and that your hair probably looks like a disaster. At the door, you pause. "Bucky—"
"It's fine. Really. We're good." His back is to you.
Nothing about this feels good at all. You slip out of his room and head to the actual bathroom, taking a minute to clean yourself up and try to put yourself back together. When you look in the mirror, your lips are swollen, eyes too bright, and you look like exactly what you are — someone who just got eaten out within an inch of her life.
This was the last time. It has to be. Even if some traitorous part of you is already wondering when the next never again will happen.
Bucky Barnes never ignores you. He might annoy you to death, but ignoring you was beyond him. That is, until now.
The coffee shop smells like burnt espresso. There's a crack in the table that keeps catching your pen, your notes are all haphazard, the result of you not paying enough attention in class. But none of that matters because Bucky is sitting across from you and acting like you don't exist.
Before, he'd make a show of it, intentionally looking past you, making little comments to Steve that were clearly designed to get a rise out of you. This is different. He's genuinely not paying attention. Eyes on his textbook, highlighter moving across the page in steady strokes, completely absorbed in whatever bullshit he's supposed to be learning.
It's infuriating.
Steve and Nat are comparing notes, discussing, you're supposed to be doing the same but you can't focus. Because Bucky's right there, close enough to touch, and he might as well be on another planet.
You stretch your leg out under the table, let your foot bump against his calf. Nothing. No reaction. He just shifts slightly and keeps reading.
Fine. Maybe that was too subtle.
You lean forward to grab your coffee, making sure to press your shoulder against his. He's warm, you can smell that soap he uses, the one that's been haunting you for days. He glances up, shifts to give you more room and goes back to his reading.
What the actual fuck.
"Can you pass me that?" you ask, pointing to his highlighter even though you have three of your own sitting right in front of you.
He hands it over without looking at you.
There's a pressure building in your chest, hot and uncomfortable, anger or something much worse. You click the highlighter open and close, open and close, the sound obnoxiously loud, out of place.
Bucky doesn't say anything. Again.
You highlight a random sentence in your notes. Then another. You're not even reading what you're marking. Neon yellow drags across the page while you watch him from the corner of your eye. But he's a statue. A really attractive statue that ate you out yesterday and is now acting like it never happened.
At this worst possible moment, you also remember what his mouth felt like between your legs, the filthy things he said, how he pocketed your underwear like some kind of trophy. Fuck him for being able to compartmentalize like this. Fuck him for sitting there looking all studious and put-together while you're falling apart.
'Accidentally', you knock your notebook off the table. With a soft thud, it lands on his foot. Bucky closes his eyes, takes a breath that looks like it's taking considerable effort, and leans down to pick it up. When he hands it back, his expression is carefully neutral.
"Thanks." The word is saccharine.
"Mhmm." That's it. That's all you get. Not even a proper word.
You last another five minutes before you physically can't take it anymore. You nudge his leg again, harder this time, and he finally looks at you. Exhaustion in his eyes makes an ugly twist in your gut.
"You done?" His words are simple. Calm, even. But they land like a slap, and suddenly you're furious. Furious at him for being so unaffected, at yourself for caring, at this entire fucked-up situation that you can't seem to escape.
"Yeah. I'm done."
It's been fifteen minutes and Bucky hasn't even acknowledged that you exist.
The bar is crowded, loud, and you're three drinks deep, feeling pleasantly buzzed. The tall, dark haired, decent smile guy, has been buying you drinks.
His name is Mike or something with an M. You're just nodding while you scan the room. You spotted Bucky the second you walked in, sitting at a high-top with some guys from his team, nursing a beer and looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.
He hasn't looked at you once. Not when you walked in, not when M-name put his hand on your lower back, not when you threw your head back laughing at something that definitely wasn't that funny.
You don't care. Why would you care? He made it perfectly clear at the coffee shop that he's done with whatever game you two have been playing, agreeing oh-so readily that it was a mistake.
The alcohol makes this easier somehow, looser. That's how you let the guy pull you towards the mass of bodies near the speakers, when he says something about dancing. The music is too loud, bass thumping in your chest. His hands land on your hips, chest to chest. You press back against him, definitely more grinding than dancing.
Over his shoulder, you can see Bucky. Still at his table, still not looking.
Fuck him.
You roll your hips, let this random guy's hands wander, and pretend you're having the time of your life. The guy's mouth is at your neck, saying something you can't hear over the music, hands sliding too low but you don't stop him.
Three songs. That's how long you last before you can't take it anymore.
You extract yourself from his hands, with a smile and an excuse about needing another drink, and make a beeline for Bucky's table. His friends scatter like they can sense the incoming storm. Then it's just the two of you. "Having fun?" you ask.
Bucky takes a long pull from his beer. "Could ask you the same thing."
"I am, actually. Matt's a great dancer."
"It's Mark, actually. And that wasn't dancing."
You lean against the table, invading his space. "Oh, so you were watching? Thought you were too busy brooding over here to notice."
"Hard to miss when you're putting on a show."
"I'm not —" You cut yourself off, force a breath. "Why do you even care?"
"I don't." He clearly doesn't, what with you storming over here to make a point. But his knuckles are white around the bottle and there's a muscle jumping in his jaw that makes you look closer.
"Liar."
"Go back to your date." His voice is so cold it actually makes you flinch. "I'm sure he's missing you."
"What's your problem?" The words come out loud, but the music swallows most of it. "You've been acting like I don't exist. Like nothing happened."
"You said it couldn't happen again. I'm respecting that."
"By ignoring me completely? By acting like we're strangers?"
"What do you want from me?" He finally looks at you, a burn in his eyes. "You want me to what, pine after you? Beg you to change your mind? You made your choice. Multiple times, actually."
"You agreed!"
"What the fuck was I supposed to say? No, I won't respect your boundaries? Jesus Christ." He runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired, worn down. "Go dance with Mark. Go home with him. Do whatever you want. Just stop —"
"Stop what?"
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want me to do something about it."
The bass of the music has nothing on your heart, you can feel it in your throat. You do want him to do something. To fight for this, whatever this is, to care as much as you’re suddenly realizing you do.
Reckless with alcohol and frustration, the words get past you. "Maybe I want you to —"
He sets his beer down with a force. "Well I'm not going to. So go find someone who will."
The dismissal stings, the casual way you're written off, like you're an inconvenience he's tired of dealing with. You're drunk enough that your filter is nonexistent, angry enough that you don't care about the consequences. "You know what? Fuck you, Barnes. I was trying to —"
"Trying to what? Start another fight so we can fuck about it later? I'm not playing that game anymore."
"I'm not —" But you are. You came over here specifically to get a rise out of him, to make him react. "God, you're such a —"
"Watch it," he warns, but you're too far gone to stop now.
"Or what? You'll ignore me harder? Give me the silent treatment? Real mature, Bucky. Really —" His hand shoots out and catches your nipple through your flimsy top, pinching hard enough to make you gasp. Right there in the middle of the bar, where anyone could see.
"Mind your manners," his words are quiet, only to your ears, but there's nothing quiet about the look in his eyes.
The pain mixing with pleasure makes your brain go numb. The shock of him touching you after days of ignoring, shoots straight to your cunt. The way he's looking at you like he wants to devour you whole definitely helps. "Or what?" The words come out breathy, challenging.
His other hand comes up to your mouth, calloused fingers pressing against your lips, pulling your lower lip down, even as you try not to give in. "You really wanna find out?"
When your mouth opens — to say what, you're not sure, — his fingers slip inside. The taste of salt and skin floods your senses. And because you're you, because you can't help yourself, you bite down. Hard enough to make a point.
Saliva smeared fingers pull out, only to hold your cheeks, smushed together. "That's it. We're leaving."
"'m — ngh — n’goin’ any — wheh —"
Bucky doesn't let you finish your pathetic excuse of a sentence, he's pulling you through the crowd, fingers wrapped around your wrist in a grip that's just shy of painful. You could fight him, dig in your heels and make a scene. But you do what lost causes do best, follow him.
He drags you out a side door into an alley that smells like garbage and stale beer. The door slams shut behind you, muffling the music. It's just the two of you in the dim light from a flickering streetlamp.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" His voice is rough, angry, and he's backing you up against the brick wall.
"Takes one to know one."
"Can't go five minutes without running your mouth. Can't follow a single fucking boundary you set yourself. What am I supposed to do with you?"
His hand slides under your skirt, where you're already wet. You've been wet since he pinched your nipple in the bar, maybe since you saw him sitting there looking miserable.
"This what you wanted?" His hand yanks your soaked panties aside so his thick fingers can drag through your dripping folds. "Wanted me to lose my shit? To stop being nice?"
"You're never nice," you gasp as he pushes two fingers inside you.
"No, I'm not." He curls them viciously, battering that spongy spot inside you while his thumb grinds rough circles over your swollen clit. "I'm the guy who can't stay away from you even though I know I should. I'm the guy who gets hard every time you look at me like you hate me, who's so fucked up over you I can't think straight."
The confession should probably mean something, but you're too busy trying not to collapse as he fucks you with his fingers. Fast and rough, his thumb circling your clit, his other hand gripping your hip to hold you in place. "Bucky — please —"
"Please what? You want my cock?" He's grinding his rock-hard bulge against your thigh so you can feel every thick inch straining against his jeans. "Want me to fuck you against this wall where anyone could see?"
"Yes —"
"No." He emphasizes the word with a particularly brutal thrust of his fingers. "Bad girls don't get cock."
"That's not fair —"
"Life's not fair, darling'." His fingers are pistoning into you, three thick digits stretching your pussy open, the wet squelching sounds obscene in the quiet alley. "You cum on my fingers or not at all."
Whimpering, you're chasing your orgasm, feeling his hard length against your hip, but he's not giving you what you want. Won't give you what you need. "C'mon," he murmurs, almost gentle despite the way he's finger-fucking you. "Let me feel it. Let me feel this greedy pussy cum for me."
It crashes over you sudden and intense, your cunt clamping down hard around his fingers, gushing slick all over his hand as your legs shake. He works you through it, fingers gentling as you breathe hard against each other.
After the post orgasmic haze, you realise you you just let him finger you outside a bar. He just made you cum, now he's pulling his hand away and putting distance between you like he can't stand to be close anymore. "Bucky —"
"Go home." He won't look at you. "Go home and sleep it off."
"I'm not drunk."
"Then you've got no excuse for acting like this." His eyes finally meet yours, the look in them makes your chest ache. "We're done with this. Whatever this is, we're done." Walking away into the bar, he leaves you standing in the alley his fingerprints bruised into your skin.
The first thing you register is that your mouth tastes like something died in it. The second thing is that you're not in your bed. The third thing, the thing that makes your eyes snap open in pure panic, is that you're in his bed.
Bucky's bed. The same bed where he'd eaten you out two days ago, where you'd gripped his sheets and fallen apart on his tongue. The same room you'd stormed into and started a fight that ended with his hand between your legs. The mattress is firmer than yours, and there's this indent in the pillow that smells like him.
You sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The room spins, a pounding in your skull that suggests last night was a terrible series of decisions. You're wearing a t-shirt. Not yours though. Grey and soft from too many washes, hits mid-thigh, it's his.
Your jeans are folded on his desk chair. Your top, the black one with the low cut, is there too, along with your bra. Which means you're bare under his shirt, which means —
The door opens and Bucky walks in holding a bottle of ibuprofen and a mug of what smells like coffee. He's already dressed in a jeans and a Henley, that looks ridiculously hot on him. Hair is slightly damp like he just showered, looking way too put together for whatever the fuck happened last night.
"Did we—" You can't even finish the sentence, mortification crawling up your throat. "Did we fuck?"
Bucky laughs, a sound you realise you've grown to miss these past few days. "We've fucked before," he says, setting the ibuprofen on the nightstand. "But no. Not last night."
The relief is immediate and confusing. "Then why am I wearing your shirt?"
"You don't remember?" His words are soft, so soft so as to not spook the skittish animal — you.
"No?"
Something flickers across his face as he sighs, too quick to read. Could be frustration or concern or maybe just exhaustion with your bullshit. He sits on the edge of the bed, which feels weirdly intimate considering you're barely dressed, and runs a hand through his hair. "After the alley, you went back to the bar. Did a few more shots with Nat. Then you puked in the bathroom, I had to change your clothes because you'd gotten it all over yourself."
Oh god. Oh god. You want to sink through the mattress, disappear into the floor and maybe cease existing entirely. He had to change you. He had to see you messy and puking, had to strip off your clothes and put you to bed like you're some kind of disaster he's responsible for. Your voice is small when you ask, "why didn't Nat help me? You didn't have to do that."
"Nat was in the exact same condition as you." He hands you the coffee, your fingers brushing his when you take it. "Steve took care of her."
The parallel. Steve and Nat. You and Bucky. Like you're couples, like this is normal, like taking care of each other when you're shitfaced drunk is just what you do. Except you and Bucky aren't anything. You're just two people who can't stop fucking each other in semi-public places and then insisting it'll never happen again.
Panic starts crawling up your spine. This is too intimate and domestic.
"You can shower before you go," Bucky says, standing up. "I'll get you some clothes to wear home. Your stuff from last night is probably beyond saving."
He's being nice. That's what's so disorienting about this whole thing. He's being genuinely nice to you, and you don't know how to process it. Where's the smirk? Where's the condescending remark? Where's the Bucky who makes you want to simultaneously punch him and jump his bones? This version, the one who brought you coffee and pills and is offering you his shower, is uncharted territory. "Thanks." The word feels awkward in your mouth.
Bucky nods, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You sit there, holding the coffee mug and trying to organize your thoughts into something that makes sense. The coffee is exactly how you take it, meaning he's been paying attention. This is somehow worse than you thought.
The shower helps. There's something grounding about standing under the hot water, washing off last night's mistakes with his soap and shampoo. You're now going to smell like him all day, which is just another thing to add to the list of problems you're actively ignoring.
When you come out, there's a stack of clothes on the bed. Sweatpants with a drawstring, another t-shirt, a pair of boxers. Which you're definitely not going to wear. A lie to keep yourself sane.
The walk home is a blur. You spend the rest of the day aggressively not thinking about any of it. His hands steady while he dressed you when you were too drunk to manage it, the coffee fixed exactly how you take it, the way he didn't just drop you off, even though he could've. You wouldn't blame him.
By evening, the guilt sets in. You need to return his clothes. That's what a decent human being would do. Definitely not because you want to see him, not because you can't stop replaying the morning in your head.
You fold the sweatpants and t-shirt neatly, walk to his dorm with a stomach full of nervous energy. The boxers you're keeping, because returning used underwear is a level of awkward you're not prepared to handle. That's what you tell yourself now, what you'll tell him if he asks.
He answers on the second knock, surprise in his eyes.
"Hey," you hold out the clothes. "Wanted to return these."
"Could've kept them." But he takes them. There's this moment where you're both just standing, not knowing what to say.
He looks good. He always looks good, but right now he's in joggers and an old t-shirt, barefoot and relaxed, something you rarely see in him. Your stupid brain is reminding you of all the ways you know what's under those clothes, all the ways he's made you fall apart.
Bucky does what you're not expecting, he leans in slowly, giving you time to see it coming, time to stop him if you want. Close enough that you can feel his breath before it happens.
No, not again. You turn your head at the last second, his mouth missing yours, catches your cheek instead, the contact soft and wrong all at once. He goes still, not sure of what he just touched. "We can't do this anymore." The words taste like ash on your tongue.
His expression is carefully blank as he pulls back. "Right."
"I'm serious, Bucky." You're talking fast, words tumbling out before you can stop them. "Last night was — this morning was — we need to stop. This whole thing, whatever it is, it needs to stop."
"Okay."
"No offense, you're a great lay —" God, could you sound more like an asshole? "— but this is getting too complicated. And I just think it's better if we —"
"I said okay." His voice is flat, face carefully set, not to give anything away. The problem is, you don't want him to just agree. You want him to fight you on it, to argue, to do literally anything other than just accept it. But he's standing there looking at you with those blue eyes that give nothing away, and you're realizing that maybe he's relieved. Maybe he's been looking for an exit and you just handed him one.
The insecurity, the pain in your chest, doesn't reflect on your words. "Okay. So we're good?"
"Yeah. We're good."
There's nothing left to say after that. Walking away feels wrong, even though it was you who'd suggested it.
The truth you're not ready to admit, the one that's been building since that first bathroom encounter is that Bucky's not really that much of an asshole. Or maybe he is, but you're starting to not find it annoying. You like the way he challenges you, pushes back, doesn't let you get away with your bullshit. You like the quiet moments too, the coffee this morning, the way he took care of you when you were a disaster, how he looks at you sometimes like you're more than just someone to fight with.
You can handle hating him. You can even handle wanting him. What you can't handle is this other thing, this softer thing that's taking root in your chest and making everything more complicated than it needs to be.
So yeah. It has to stop. It has to. Even if you're already missing him, and he's only been gone from your sight for thirty seconds.
The thing about trying not to think about someone is that the harder you try, the more they invade every corner of your brain like some kind of parasitic thought you can't evict. It's been three days since you handed back Bucky's clothes, since you told him it was over, did the mature, responsible thing and ended whatever fucked-up situationship you'd stumbled into.
It's also three days of failing spectacularly at not thinking about him.
You see him everywhere. In the guy at the coffee shop who orders black coffee, the way Bucky takes. In the dark-haired stranger at the crosswalk whose shoulders are just a little too broad. In every fucking corner you turn, there he is.
Except he's not. He's never actually there.
Fourth afternoon you end up at Steve's dorm. Not on purpose — well, maybe a little on purpose. Nat wanted to pick up some textbook Steve borrowed, and you tagged along. With a thin, embarrassing hope inside your ribs that thinks Bucky would be there on the couch like always, smirking at you over his laptop.
He's not.
Steve's alone, doing dishes in his hideous yellow rubber gloves, and he barely looks up when you walk in. "Bucky's at practice," he says, like you asked. Like it's written all over your face that you're looking for him.
"Cool," you aim for casual and land near manic. "I wasn't — I didn't ask."
Steve gives you a look that says he's not buying it, but he's nice enough not to call you out.
The next day, you hit the cafe where you do study group. Your regular table is empty. The corner booth where Bucky always sits, is occupied by some freshman with headphones the size of dinner plates. You order your latte and sit in the wrong seat. Everything feels off-kilter.
Your phone sits on the table in front of you. You've opened his contact approximately sixty-seven times in the last three days. His name just sitting there, never texted him, never called. The message thread between you is completely blank, just a white screen full of possibility and cowardice.
What would you even say? Hey, remember when I said we should stop? Yeah, about that. Or maybe: I think I made a mistake. Or the truth, which is something closer to: I can't stop thinking about you and it's making me crazy and I don't know what to do.
Your thumb hovers over his name. You close the app. Open it again. Close it.
Next night you end up at the bar. Same one where he fingered you in the alley, where you drank too much and ended up in his bed wearing his shirt. The bar is busy, some kind of hockey watch party that you don't care about. You scan the crowd automatically. Looking for dark hair and blue eyes.
He's not here either.
You end up doing a shot with some girls from your class. They're nice alright, but you're barely listening to what they're saying. An exam, about a professor's office hours. Your brain is white noise and static, all Bucky all the time, and you hate it. Hate that he's taken up residence in your head without paying rent, and that you can't seem to function like a normal person anymore.
The group chat is the worst part. Steve posts a meme about a professor. Nat responds with crying-laughing emojis. Bucky texts back with 'lmao'. Your thumb swipes his text, ready to reply, or react. But what use is it?
He's alive. He's fine. He's out there somewhere living his life like nothing happened, like you didn't happen, while you're spiraling in this pathetic tornado of your own making.
What do you say to someone you pushed away? What do you say when you're realising that maybe you made the biggest mistake of your life?
Next morning, Nat corners you in your dorm room.
She uses the key you gave her for emergencies. You're still in bed even though it's almost eleven, wrapped in your comforter like a burrito. She takes one look at you before sighing, sitting on the edge of your bed. "Okay. We're talking about it."
"Talking about what?"
"Don't play dumb. You've been weird. You're not eating, you're not sleeping —"
"I'm sleeping fine."
"— and you've been moping. So we're talking about it."
You could deny it, brush her off, change the subject, keep pretending everything's fine. But you're so tired of pretending, and it's Nat. Maybe if you say it out loud, it'll make more sense. "I slept with Bucky."
There's not an ounce of surprise in her face, she doesn't even blink. "I know."
"What? How —"
"Please. You two have been eye-fucking each other for months. It was only a matter of time. How many times?"
"Does it matter?"
"Humour me."
You count in your head. The bathroom at the club. His room when he ate you out. The alley. "Three. Ish."
"Ish?"
"It's complicated."
"It always is with you two. So what happened? Why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?"
You spill all of it. Nat listens without interrupting. By the time you're done, you feel wrung out and empty. "I told him it was too complicated. That we needed to stop. And he just... agreed. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing."
"Did you want him to disagree?"
The question you don't know the answer to, or rather, gaslighting yourself into not knowing the answer. "I don't know. Maybe. Yes. I don't know."
"Babe." Nat reaches over and squeezes your hand. "Why did you tell him to stop?"
"It was getting messy. Because we were supposed to hate each other and instead we were —" The words gets caught in your throat.
"Instead you were what?"
"I don't know. Something else."
"Like what?"
You close your eyes, and try to find the words for this feeling that's been building in your chest for weeks. "He knows how I like my coffee. When I was drunk and disgusting, he took care of me. He gave me his clothes. He's an asshole but he's also... he's not. He's funny and smart when he's not trying to piss me off, and the way he looks at me sometimes —"
"You like him." Three words you were not ready to hear.
"No. I don't — we hate each other. We fight constantly. He drives me crazy."
"Yeah, because you like him." Nat says it gently, like she's explaining something obvious to a child. "You like him, and it scares you, so you pushed him away before he could hurt you."
"That's not —"
But it is. The realization hits you like cold water. You like Bucky Barnes. Not just his dick — though, that too —, but him. The way he challenges you, the way he sees through your bullshit, the way he makes you feel alive in a way nothing else does. You like him, and you sent him away. "Oh my god. I'm so stupid."
"Little bit, yeah."
"What do I do?"
"Tell him."
"I can't just — he agreed it was a mistake. He was probably relieved when I ended it. He hasn't tried to contact me once in three days, Nat. Not once."
"Because you told him it was over. What's he supposed to do, ignore your boundaries?"
She's right. Of course. You set the boundary, and he respected it, he even said so. Now you're mad at him for doing exactly what you asked.
Your phone is in your hand before you fully decide to grab it. You don't let yourself think this time, thinking is what got you into this mess. It rings, and rings, and rings.
After more ringing and more nothing, you're ready to give up, and he picks up. "What?" His voice is rough, annoyed, your courage almost failing you.
"I need to talk to you."
There's silence first, sigh second, and then, "I'm busy."
"It's important."
"I said I'm busy."
"Bucky, please."
Another pause, longer. You can hear noise in the background. Voices, music maybe. He's somewhere, anywhere but talking to you. "Fine," he finally says. "Library. Tomorrow. Two o'clock."
"Okay. Yeah. I'll be —"
He hangs up before you can finish.
Bucky is ten minutes late.
Not that you're counting.
Eleven minutes now.
You picked a table in the back corner, the one behind the stacks where people go to make out or cry during midterms. Private enough for this conversation, whatever this conversation is going to be. Your hands are shaking, like you're some kind of nervous wreck, which you are.
Twelve minutes.
Maybe he's not coming. Maybe this was his way of telling you to fuck off without actually saying the words. You pull out your phone, pull up his contact for the thousandth time, and that's when you see him.
He looks wrong. There's no better word to describe him right now. Bucky always carries himself like he owns whatever space he's in, loose, confident and just arrogant enough to be annoying. But right now he's tense, shoulders up near his ears, and he won't quite look at you as he drops into the chair across from you.
"Hey." Your voice comes out too soft.
"Hey." That's it. That's all you get. He's looking at the table, at his hands, at anything that isn't you. There's this wall between you that wasn't there before. Or maybe it was always there and you were busy being annoyed to fully notice it.
"Thanks for meeting me," you try again.
He shrugs.
This is going great. Really stellar. You've had more productive conversations with your houseplant.
"I wanted to talk about — about what happened. About what I said."
"It's fine." His voice is flat, bored almost. "You were right. It was getting complicated."
"No, I wasn't right. I was —" You take a breath, try to organize the thoughts that have been ping-ponging around your skull for four days. "I was scared. And I said things I didn't mean because I didn't know how to —"
"Don't." The word cuts through your rambling, sharp enough that you stop mid-sentence.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do this." He's finally looking at you now, his eyes cold in a way you've never seen. "Don't come here and try to rewrite what happened. You said you didn't want this. I respected that. We're done."
"But I do want —"
"Want what? To fuck again? Is that what this is?" He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Because if you're just looking for a booty call, you could've just sent a text."
The casual cruelty of it makes you flinch, you try to hold yourself together. "That's not what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
Okay, here it is. The moment you've been building toward, the confession you practiced in your mirror this morning like some kind of lunatic. Your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. "I like you." The words feel clumsy and inadequate. "I know I said it was just sex, and I know I pushed you away, but I was wrong. I like you, Bucky. I want to — I don't know what I want, but I want to try. To see if this could be something."
The silence that follows is excruciating. He's just staring at you, face completely blank, you can't read anything even if you try so hard.
"You're confused," he says finally.
"I'm not —"
"Yeah, you are. You're confusing good sex with feelings. It happens."
"Don't tell me what I'm feeling." There's an edge creeping into your voice now, frustration bleeding through. "I know the difference between —"
"Do you?" He leans forward, there's a meanness in his smile. "Because from where I'm sitting, this looks like buyer's remorse. You ended things, realized you miss getting fucked, and now you're trying to make it into something it's not."
"That's not fair."
"No? Then explain it to me. Explain how four days ago you couldn't get away from me fast enough, and now suddenly you're catching feelings."
"Because I was scared, okay? I was scared because it was starting to feel like more than just sex, and I didn't know how to handle that, so I —"
"So you ended it. Which was the right call."
You're getting angry now, the frustration boiling over. "Why are you like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like an asshole. Like you don't —" You take a breath. "You took care of me. When I was drunk and disgusting, you took care of me. You made my coffee the way I like it. You gave me your clothes. That wasn't nothing."
"That was basic human decency. Don't make it into more than it was."
"I'm not —"
"You are." He stands up, the sudden movement making you jerk back. "You're making up a story in your head where this was something it wasn't. We fucked. It was good. It's over. That's it."
"Bucky —"
"I don't like you that way." Each word lands on you like a physical blow, bruising your skin. "I liked fucking you. That's not the same thing."
Sitting feels wrong now, feels too vulnerable, too small compared to him, you stand too. "I don't believe you."
"I don't care what you believe."
"Then why did you take care of me? Why did you —"
"Because I'm not a complete monster. Leaving you to choke on your own vomit seemed like a dick move. Don't romanticize it."
You're too close now, in his space, you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Under all that, there’s a raw, painful part of him he’s trying to hide behind cruelty. "You're lying."
"I'm really not."
"Then why are you so angry?"
"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed. There's a difference."
Without giving yourself time to think it through, you reach for him. Your palm lands against his chest, warm through the fabric, fingers curling like you can hold him there, keep him from slipping out of this moment. It comes out of you all at once, that need to make him stay, to make him understand what this is doing to you. You push up on your toes, closing the distance, tugging him closer as you go for his mouth like it might fix something, like it might make this real in a way words haven’t managed to.
He turns his face away, just a quiet shift, a small angle of his head at the last second. Your lips miss his mouth, drag across his cheek instead.
The contact is wrong. You feel it immediately, the way your mouth presses into skin that isn’t answering, isn’t meeting you halfway. Your hand is fisted in his shirt. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing under your palm, steady, unchanged, like this isn’t cracking anything open for him the way it is for you. The rejection is clean, absolute, leaving a sharp burn behind your eyes you can’t blink away fast enough.
"I just wanted to fuck you. That's all this was. That's all it's ever going to be. So if you're looking for feelings, if you're looking for some kind of relationship, you're barking up the wrong tree."
"No — no — you're —" You choke on your own words, trying to get the word 'lying' out, but you cannot.
"I'm not. You're just too caught up in your own bullshit to see it. You want the truth? You're too much drama. Too much back and forth, too much hot and cold. I don't have the energy for it. The sex was good, great even, but dealing with you? With all your shit? Not worth it."
Each word is a knife, precise, designed to cut you, gut you, you feel yourself bleeding out right there in the library.
"Fuck you." Your voice cracks on the words.
"Yeah, that's about all you're good for."
Whether you want them or not, the tears flow. But you're not going to cry in front of him and give him the satisfaction of breaking you. You just won't. Grabbing your bag, you run. Past the stacks and the reference desk, you don't stop until you're outside in the cold air that bites at your wet cheeks.
What use is knowing you like him when he doesn't like you back? When he never did? When all those moments you thought meant something were just your imagination filling in blanks that were never there to begin with?
You were stupid to come here. Stupid to think he felt the same way, to think you were anything more than a convenient fuck.
He wasn't respecting your boundaries. He was relieved when you ended it. The anger, the coldness, the cruelty, that was all him, telling you the truth. That was him showing you exactly what you meant to him.
Nothing.
You meant absolutely nothing.
Heartbreak is supposed to be metaphorical. That's what you always thought, anyway. Just a turn of phrase people use to describe feeling sad. But it turns out your body doesn't know the difference between metaphorical and literal, and it's staging a full-scale revolt against the fact that Bucky Barnes doesn't want you.
Day one, you can't eat. Your roommate makes you toast. It sits on your desk going cold and hard while you stare at the ceiling. Your stomach feels like someone filled it with concrete, and the thought of putting anything in your mouth makes your throat close up.
Nat texts. You don't answer. She texts again. You turn your phone face down and watch the light bleeding around the edges when it buzzes.
Sleep doesn't come. You lie there in the dark, and your brain plays the library scene on repeat like some kind of sadistic highlight reel. Too much drama. Not worth it. That's about all you're good for. The words have teeth, and they're chewing through your chest cavity, making a home in the empty space where your self-respect used to be.
Day two, your head starts pounding. It's this dull, persistent ache that sits right behind your eyes and pulses in time with your heartbeat. You take two ibuprofen and they sit in your empty stomach like rocks. Everything hurts. Your muscles, your joints, your skin when the blanket touches it, everything. You tell yourself it's just tension. Just stress manifesting physically. Just your body being dramatic because apparently you are, according to Bucky, too much of everything.
The crying comes in waves. You know how in the movies, a single tear rolls down your cheek? Yeah, it's not that. This is ugly, snotty, hiccupping, making your eyes swell up so bad you can barely open them. You cry so hard you throw up, and then you cry about that. The whole thing is so pathetic you almost laugh.
Throat feels you swallowed glass. Every time you try to drink water it's a special kind of torture. You've got a fever. Skin too hot, too cold at the same time, thoughts getting fuzzy, everything feels like burning.
Nat comes by. You pretend you're asleep. She leaves soup outside your door that you don't touch.
You're not heartbroken, you tell yourself. You're just sick. Getting sick right after emotional trauma is just a coincidence. People get colds all the time. This has nothing to do with the fact that you put yourself out there and got eviscerated for your trouble, nothing to do with the fact that you cried your eyes out.
The room swims when you open your eyes. Everything's blurry and soft, like someone smeared Vaseline on your corneas. You try to blink, the ceiling fan is on, rotating slow because you're freezing even though you're pretty sure you're burning up. There's your hot water bottle on the nightstand, the one shaped like a box that Nat got you as a joke. There's your water glass. There's Bucky.
There's Bucky?
Sitting in your desk chair like he belongs there, you must be hallucinating, delirious with fever because there's no way he's actually here, in your room, looking at you with something that might be concern if you didn't know better.
You reach out without thinking, hand stretching toward him like you could touch him if you tried. Your fingers are shaking. Everything's shaking. "Hey," you mumble, voice sounding like someone beat you up for days. "You're not real."
He leans forward, and dream-Bucky looks tired. Worried. Nothing like the cold, cruel version from the library. "What do you want?" Dream-Bucky asks, his voice soft. Softer than he's ever used with you, softer than you knew he could be.
"Not fair," you slur, coherent sentences are beyond you right now. "S'not fair of you to haunt my dreams."
"It's not a dream, baby."
Baby. He's never called you that. Not even when he was inside you, not even in the heat of the moment. You almost laugh, but it comes out as a cough that rattles your chest.
"Sure isn't," you speak when the coughing stops. "Dream-Bucky would hate me too. Just like real Bucky. Can't even have nice hallucinations."
You think dream-Bucky says something else, but the words blur together and you're already sliding back under, into the dark where nothing hurts quite as bad.
Hours later — could be three, could be ten, time is meaningless when you're this sick — you surface again. The room is dimmer now. Your mouth tastes like death, and your whole body aches like you got repeatedly hit.
And dream-Bucky is still there.
Still in your desk chair, but now he's got his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, hasn't realised you're awake yet. It's nice watching him, even if it's just a dream. He looks tired. "Can't you just leave me alone? I don't want to dream of you."
Your voice brings him to your room again, head snapping up, relief plastered on his face. "You're not dreaming."
He reaches out, hand cupping your face, palm cool against your too-hot skin. Real. Definitely not a fever dream. "You've still got a temperature."
You jerk back from his touch like it burns. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Nat told Steve you were sick —"
"Why the fuck do you care?"
Bucky flinches, like the words hit him physically. "Can we not do this right now?" he asks, tiredness in his voice prominent.
The audacity of this man, flinching like you hurt him and not the other way around. "Yeah, of course. Get out."
"I just want to help you. You're in no shape to take care of yourself."
"Better me than you. So get out." You try to sit up and the room tilts sideways.
"I'm sorry. Please let me help you." His words are pleading, an act, you think.
You're upright now, barely, using the wall for support. "Sorry for what? For saying I'm just a good fuck? For telling me I'm too much drama? For —"
"For everything. I'm sorry for everything." There's hurt in his eyes, but you're too angry to care about right now.
"I don't fucking care, Bucky. Get out."
His jaw sets in that stubborn way you recognize. "No. I'm not doing this push and pull again."
"Oh, that's great. Because I'm just pushing you. There's no pull whatsoever."
He stands up, takes a step toward you. "Please. Let me just take care of you, help you, and then I'll be gone if that's what you want."
"What are you gonna possibly do that I can't do myself?"
"I made broth." He gestures toward your desk where there's a thermos you didn't notice before. "I'll heat it up. It's supposed to help with the cold. I also got aspirin for the fever, and some throat lozenges, and —"
"Fine. Leave that here." You swing your legs over the side of the bed, trying to stand, the floor immediately rushes up to meet you.
Bucky catches you, though you wish he didn't. His hands are on your arms, steadying you, you're too dizzy to push him away. "Did I say you can touch me?" you snap when the world stops spinning.
"Please. I just didn't want you to fall."
The irony is not lost on you. Didn't want you to fall. The audacity of that statement when he's the one who made you fall in the first place — metaphorically, emotionally, completely. Now he's worried about the literal fall? Fuck him. Fuck him for every mixed signal, every cruel word, every moment he made you think you might mean something.
You're too weak to fight his hands on you, the touch burns, even if you're the one running hot now. "You know," you say, and you hate how shaky your voice sounds, "I can't really fuck you right now. Since — you know — I'm sick and all."
The embrace of his touch leaves you like you'd slapped him, hands dropping to his sides. "That's not — I didn't come here for that."
"No? Then why are you here?" You're shuffling toward the bathroom because you desperately need to pee and also need to get away from him. "Come to finish the job? Make sure I'm completely destroyed?"
"I came because I was worried about you."
"Well, don't be. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You can barely stand."
"Not your problem." You make it to the bathroom and shut the door in his face, leaning against it, legs shaking.
Through the door, you can hear him moving around. The sound of your microwave running. Cabinet doors opening and closing. He's still here, still in your space, you don't have the energy to keep fighting him.
You finally emerge, teeth brushed, face washed, feeling slightly more human. The smell hits you first, however slight they may be. Savory and warm that makes your stomach remember it exists. Bucky's set up your desk like a sick station: the bowl of broth with a spoon, aspirin, a fresh glass of water, those throat lozenges he mentioned. "Sit," he says, gesturing to your bed.
"I'm not a dog."
"Please sit down before you fall down."
You sit, mostly because standing is taking more effort than you have to give. He gently moves the bowl to sit in front of you.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat something."
"I said I'm not —"
"When's the last time you ate?" His voice is gentle but firm, and it pisses you off how much he sounds like he actually cares. If you didn't know what he's capable of, you'd trust this act.
"Doesn't matter." Truth is, you can't remember. Day before yesterday, maybe? Time is soup.
"It matters. Drink the broth."
"You're not my mother."
"No, I'm the guy who made you soup at four in the morning because I've been losing my mind worrying about you. So please, for the love of god, just drink the fucking broth. "The words come out sharp, frustrated.
You don't point out that he has no right to lose his mind worrying about you, and take the bowl mostly to shut him up. It tastes even better than it smells, rich and salty with actual vegetables and herbs you can't identify. Your stomach wakes up properly, growling, and before you know it you're halfway through the bowl.
Bucky sits back in the desk chair, watching you with what looks like relief.
"Happy now?" you ask between bites, because you can't let him think this means anything.
"Getting there."
You want to throw the bowl at his head and scream at him for showing up here, for being nice to you, for confusing everything when you were just starting to build up the walls you need to survive this. You want to ask him why he said all those horrible things if he was just going to show up at your door with homemade soup like some kind of reformed asshole.
But you're so tired. Tired of fighting, of hurting, of not understanding what he wants from you.
After the soup, your body decides it's had enough excitement for one day. Bucky helps you back to bed, his hand on your elbow, steadying you even though you don't ask for it. The sheets are cool against your fever-warm skin, and you're asleep before you can tell him to leave.
When you wake up, the room is bright with morning light. Your head feels clearer, the fever-fog lifted enough that you can think in actual sentences instead of fragmented thoughts. The chair where Bucky sat is empty.
Of course it is. He came, he did his good deed, checked the 'take care of sick girl' box off his list, and now he's gone. Probably relieved to escape before you woke up and made things awkward again. The thermos is still on your desk, the bowl washed and sitting in your dish rack. The whole thing feels like something you might have dreamed except for the physical evidence that he was here.
You sit up slowly, testing your body's response. Better. Definitely better than yesterday. Your throat doesn't feel like shredded glass anymore, the headache has downgraded from horrible to a dull throb. Progress.
Thing is, you can still feel where his hand was on your face. The ghost of his touch like a brand, and you're pathetic enough to wish it was still there. To wish he was still here, sitting in that stupid chair, looking at you like you're worth worrying about.
You're reaching for your phone, to do what, you don't know, maybe check the time, maybe torture yourself by looking at his contact, when your door opens.
Bucky walks in carrying another bowl, and you just stare at him. He's wearing different clothes than last night, so he definitely left and came back, which means this is intentional. A choice he's making. "Sorry. I went to my dorm to make this. You didn't have enough ingredients here."
You continue staring. Your brain is trying to process the fact that he left to make you soup. That he came back. That he's here, in your room, in the morning light, and he doesn't look like he's planning to run.
He sets the soup on your desk and crosses the room quickly, crouching beside your bed. "Are you feeling better?"
Words seem beyond you right now. You're too busy cataloging the worry in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, how he looks at you like he's afraid you might shatter.
"Hey." His voice softens, warmth seeping through. "I'm gonna check for fever, okay? Is that alright?"
He's asking you permission to touch you. You want to trust this. The gentleness, the care, the softness he's showing you. But soft can turn sharp so quickly. You learned that in the library.
"People usually do that with a thermometer." Your voice is still rough but functional.
"I'm a college student. I don't own a thermometer." The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, and you feel an answering pull in your own lips before you remember you're supposed to be mad at him, supposed to be protecting yourself.
When you nod, his hand comes to your forehead, gentle, soft. His palm is cool, and you fight the urge to lean into it. "Better. Still warm, but better."
The shower helps. Standing under hot water, letting it beat against your sore muscles, washing away two days of sick-sweat and misery. You take your time because the steam feels good, and also because you're half-convinced that when you come out, Bucky will be gone. This is a fever dream. An elaborate hallucination. He's not really here making you soup and checking your temperature and asking permission to touch you.
But when you open the bathroom door, wrapped in your towel, he's still there, still sitting in your chair. Very much real. You really should've brought a change of clothes inside.
His eyes drop to the floor immediately, color creeping up his neck. "Uh. Uhm. I'll go — I'll step out. While you — you know — change."
The awkwardness is almost funny. This is the same guy who's been inside you, seen you fall apart on his tongue, who's had his hands all over your body. Now he can't look at you in a towel?
"Dude, you've seen me naked before. You don't have to be this awkward."
The memories hit you both at the same time, you can see it in the way his jaw tightens. All the ways he's touched you, all the sounds you've made for him, all the times you've been bare and vulnerable.
Maybe it's defiance or maybe you're just tired of this dance, but you reach for the edge of your towel and start to unwrap it. Bucky crosses the room in three strides, hand catching yours. "No."
You're backed against the wall. He's close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, close enough to see the specks of gray in his blue eyes. "Yeah, sorry." The words tasted bitter in you head, tastes bitter when they come out too. "Forgot you can't keep it in your pants with me. That's all I'm good for, right?"
"Stop." His hand moves to your waist. His other hand catches both of yours, pins them gently above your head, no force in them. You could break free if you wanted. Except you don't want to.
"Bucky, what the fuck —" You twist against him, pushing at his hold, more stubborn than urgent, trying to get free more out of principle than actual desire to escape.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I fucked up. Monumentally." His words are earnest, desperate.
Your heart is trying to break out of your ribcage. He's so close, and he smells like coffee and that stupid soap he uses. This is too much, confusing, reminiscent of all the times you've been in this position, pinned, wanting and completely at his mercy.
"I was horrible to you that day," he continues. "In the library. I haven't been able to sleep since I fucked up."
You stop squirming inside his touch. Stop breathing, maybe. Because he's looking at you like you matter, like hurting you actually hurt him. "Then why did you — You don't get to simply apologize and be done with this."
"You know you're confusing, right?" He sighs as he says it, almost a fond exasperation. His thumb is tracing circles on your waist through the towel, probably without him realizing.
"What?"
"Baby, you fucking confuse me. All the fucking time."
Baby again. He keeps saying it like it's natural, like it belongs in his mouth when he's talking to you.
You're still very aware that you're in a towel. That his hand is on your waist, warm through the terry cloth, your hands still above your head, however light his hold is. "You know, if you don't want to see me naked, maybe don't put me in this position. The towel's gonna slide off my tits any second now."
He drops your hands like they burned him, steps back, putting distance between you that feels wrong now that it's there. "Sorry," he mutters.
You want to tell him to stop apologizing. Or maybe apologize more. Or maybe come back and put his hands on you again because the absence of his touch feels like a loss. Your thoughts are tangled up in themselves, a mess of want, hurt, anger and confusion that you can't sort through.
"I liked you." The words burst out of him like he's been holding them in too long. "Fuck it— I like you. I've liked you since the very start. Since Nat and Steve started dating. No, even before that."
Hope starts building in your chest, easing the pain, soothing the hurt, which is dangerous, which you can't afford right now.
"I saw you in class one day and I've liked you ever since." He's rambling now, words spilling out faster than he can organize them. You've never seen him like this. Bucky doesn't ramble. "That's how Steve got to know Nat, actually. Because Nat's your friend. I talked about you all the time to Steve and that's how Steve got to know Nat."
Wait.
"And then you're this firecracker who can't shut up, and we got off on the wrong foot —"
"What?" Your brain is trying to rewrite history, slot this new information into the narrative you've been carrying around forever.
"I didn't mean to pick a fight with you that day." He runs his hand through his hair, looking almost sheepish. "I didn't mean to pour coffee over your notes, I was — I was nervous. And we've been butting heads ever since, and it's my fault because I had this huge crush on you and I poured coffee all over your fucking notes. How dumb is that?"
The coffee incident. You remember it, the way your carefully highlighted notes had turned into a brown-stained disaster. You'd snapped at him, and he'd fired back instead of apologizing. That was the start of it. The first battle in a war you thought he wanted to fight. But he's saying it was an accident. An accident born from nerves, from liking you, from being so focused on trying to impress you that he'd fucked it up spectacularly.
You think about all the fights since then, all the barbed comments and intentional provocations. You'd convinced yourself he hated you when, this whole time, he was just trying to get your attention the only way he knew how.
"Ever since then, you've not let me know peace." He's pacing now, and you're still standing against the wall in your towel like an idiot. "I just wanted to get to know you, and then we started annoying each other, and I started liking it because it was kinda our thing. Our love language, you know?"
Love language. Like fighting with you was how he showed affection, like every argument was actually him trying to be close to you.
"And then we — uh — had sex that day," he continues, "and you told me it wasn't happening again. I was crushed. Then it happens again, and you say the same thing."
"You agreed," you point out, because that part still stings.
"What was I supposed to say? No, I love you so much, please don't break my heart? I thought if I could just have you in whatever way you'd let me, that would be enough. Even if it was killing me."
Love. He said love. Did he notice? His face doesn't change, like the word slipped out without him registering it, and you're standing here holding this piece of information in your chest, this fragile thing, while he's still walking back and forth like standing at one place could kill him.
"And then that night," he says, and his voice gets quieter. "The night you got drunk."
"What about it?"
"You told me you liked me."
Suddenly, the room starts spinning, like you're both drunk and hungover at the same time. "What?"
"We — uhh — I — I fingered you in that alley, and then we went inside, you got drunk, and you told me you liked me. Said you'd been thinking about me, that you couldn't stop thinking about me."
No, no, no. You don't remember that. You remember drinking, remember Bucky's hands on you in the alley, remember waking up in his bed. But confessing your feelings? That's a blank space in your memory. "I don't — I don't remember that."
"I know." He stops pacing, looks at you with what might be sadness. "The next morning, you didn't remember anything. Asked if we'd fucked like the idea horrified you. And I realized you had no idea what you'd said to me."
Oh god. Oh god, the morning after. You'd been so mortified, so convinced it was just another mistake, and he'd been hoping. He'd been carrying your drunken confession around like a promise, and you hadn't even known.
"I thought maybe — I don't know what I thought. That maybe on some level you meant it, even drunk. So I was hopeful. And then that evening, you came to return my clothes, and when I tried to —"
The way you'd turned your face, the way you'd said he was a great lay but it was too complicated. Fuck.
"You pulled away, said I was — I was — Like that's all I was to you."
The hurt in his voice is tangible, the way he couldn't even repeat your words, and you're realizing how many ways you've wounded each other without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to, because hurting him felt safer than being vulnerable.
"That fucking destroyed me," he admits. "I'd just heard you say you liked me, and then hours later you're reducing me to a dick. So when you showed up at the library saying you liked me, I — I panicked. I thought you were confused, or trying to spare my feelings, or that you'd just had some realization about missing the sex. I couldn't go through that again. Couldn't let myself hope and then watch you take it back."
It's all clicking into place now. The cruelty in the library wasn't because he didn't care. It was because he cared too much, because you'd hurt him first, even if you didn't know you were doing it.
"So you decided to hurt me first," you say.
The pain in his face is visible, pulling at your heartstrings even though he was the one that hurt you. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That wasn't fair at all. I thought I was protecting myself, because I couldn't bear to be hurt like that again."
He's pacing like a caged animal now, three steps one way, pivot, three steps back. His hands are running through his hair, tugging at the ends, and he's still talking, apologizing, explaining, words tumbling out in this stream of consciousness that you can barely keep up with.
"Bucky," you call, but he's not listening.
"— and I just kept fucking it up, kept saying the wrong thing, kept pushing you away when all I wanted —"
"Bucky."
"— and in the library I was such a dick, I can't believe I said those things to you, I can't —"
You step into his path, hands on his chest, and physically push him backward until his the back of his knees hit your bed and he sits. The look of surprise on his face would be funny if this whole situation wasn't so fragile, so precarious, like one wrong move could shatter whatever's happening between you.
This position — him on your bed, you between his legs — feels intimate, maybe even more than those three times. His hands come to your hips automatically, looking up at you with eyes that are red-rimmed and devastated, pulling you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his face against your stomach. The hug is tight, almost desperate, you can feel him shaking. "I'm sorry." His voice is muffled against the towel. "Please don't leave me."
His words pry you open from the inside. This is Bucky Barnes, the guy who struts through life, who never asks for anything, who'd rather die than show weakness. And he's holding onto you like you're the only thing keeping him anchored, like the thought of you leaving is unbearable.
Your hands find his hair without conscious thought, fingers threading through the dark strands. You've had your hands in his hair before, have pulled it while he was between your legs, gripped it while he fucked you. But this is gentle, tender, you offering comfort instead of taking pleasure.
There's wetness seeping through your towel. At first you think it's just water from your shower-damp skin, but then you feel his shoulders hitch, feel the way he's breathing in these controlled inhales like he's trying not to fall apart completely.
He's crying.
Bucky is crying, face pressed against your stomach, arms locked around you like you might disappear.
The realization hits you at the same moment you feel wetness on your hand. Your hand that's still in his hair, your own tears dripping onto your fingers. When did you start crying? You didn't notice, too focused on him, on the way he's holding you, on the impossible fact that this is happening.
You're both crying. Two people who've spent months hurting each other, finally breaking down.
"You hurt me." The words need to be said, need to exist in the space between you, even if he's not ready to hear it again. "What you said in the library — it hurt me so much I got physically sick."
His arms tighten against you, pulling you closer. "I'm so fucking sorry." The words are desperate, broken. "I will never hurt you. Ever again. I said those things and I couldn't breathe afterward — hurting you hurt me too, baby. I'm so fucking sorry."
Baby. This time it doesn't make you bristle or question. "I thought you hated me," you whisper. "I thought I was nothing to you."
He pulls back enough to look up at you, face wrecked, tears tracking down his cheeks, eyes swollen. Beautiful, broken and completely open in a way you've never seen. "You're everything to me. You've been everything to me for so long, and I've been too scared to say it. Too scared you'd walk away."
One of his hands leaves your waist to cup your face, thumb brushing away your tears even as his own keep falling. The gentleness of it makes you want to sob. How many times has he touched your face? But never like this. Never with this kind of reverence.
"I'm not walking away. I'm right here." You mirror his movement, your hand on his cheek.
"You're right here," he repeats, like he can't quite believe it.
You're both a mess. Crying, shaking, holding onto each other, towel soaked through with tears. You're pretty sure you look like a disaster, and Bucky's face is blotchy, eyes red. But none of it matters.
None of it matters because he's looking at you like you hung the moon. "I love you." This time there's no mistaking it for a slip. "I'm in love with you. I don't even know how long. I love the way you argue with me. I love how you never back down. I love that you called me out on my bullshit from day one. I love —"
You kiss him. Soft, tentative almost, afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing is forming between you. His lips are salty with tears, so are yours, and you can feel him trembling as he kisses you back. He's pulling you closer while trying to be gentle about it. The towel is probably going to fall, but you can't bring yourself to care. This kiss feels like a promise. Like an apology, a confession and a beginning all wrapped into one.
Breathing hard, you pull back. His forehead drops to rest against your stomach again, his breath hot against your skin through the damp towel. "Say it back," he whispers. "Please. I need to hear you say it."
Maybe it's too soon, maybe you should make him work for it, make him prove he means all these pretty words he's saying. Maybe the smart thing would be to guard your heart a little longer, keep some walls up just in case.
But you're so tired of being smart, of protecting yourself, of pretending you don't feel what you feel. "I love you too." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. "I love you even though you're an idiot. I love you even though you hurt me. I love you even though — maybe because — you drive me completely insane."
His whole body sags with relief, like he was holding his breath waiting for your answer. "Thank god," he breathes.
No more pretending this is just physical when it's been emotional from the start.
He kisses your stomach through the towel, pulling you down onto the bed with him. You land in a tangle of limbs as he wraps himself around you like he's trying to merge your bodies into one.
He's quiet for a second, looking at you with those devastated blue eyes, "I'll never hurt you like that again." Unadorned, nothing poetic or flowery about the words.
You're a realist even now, even in this moment. "You can't promise that. People hurt each other. It happens."
His hand caresses your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Not like that. I'll never speak to you like that again, never make you feel like you're nothing to me. I promise. I promise, baby."
There's a desperate sincerity in his voice that makes you believe him. Or maybe you just want to believe him. Maybe it's the same thing. "Okay," you whisper.
"Okay?"
"I believe you."
His exhale is shaky, relieved, and he pulls you closer, the towel finally giving up its fight to stay in place and gaping open at the side.
"I'm gonna fuck this up sometimes," he says. "Probably a lot. I'm gonna say the wrong thing or do something stupid because I'm an idiot who doesn't know how to handle feelings."
"Yeah, probably. I'll fuck up too. I'll push you away when I get scared. I'll pick fights because it's easier than being vulnerable." You're tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt, random swirls and shapes that don't mean anything.
"So we're both disasters."
"Seems like it."
His laugh is quiet, almost surprised, like he didn't expect to be laughing right now. "At least we're disasters together."
Together.
Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, slip underneath to touch warm skin, the need to feel him solid beneath your hands, maybe to tell yourself this is real. "Tell me something."
"Anything."
"That first day. When you spilled coffee on my notes. What were you actually trying to do?"
He groans, the vibration of it you feel against your cheek. "I was trying to ask you out. Had this whole speech planned. Then I got nervous and forgot I was holding coffee and — yeah. Disaster from the start."
"What was the speech?"
"Absolutely not. That's going to my grave."
"C'mon."
"Nope. Some secrets stay buried. All you need to know is I'd been watching you for weeks like a creep. Knew your coffee order, knew what corner of the library you liked, knew your schedule."
"That's actually kind of creepy."
His hand slides into your hair, fingers gentle against your scalp. "I know. I'm not proud. But then you yelled at me about the coffee and you were so pissed and so pretty, and I just... kept trying to talk to you. Even if it meant fighting with you."
You think about all those fights. The debate that got so heated the TA had to separate you. The time you fought about nothing at all, just because you could, because it meant you got to be in each other's space.
"I liked fighting with you," you admit.
"I know. I could tell."
"It was the only time you paid attention to me."
"Baby, I was always paying attention to you." His voice gets more serious. "Every single second you were in a room, I knew exactly where you were, who you were talking to, if you were smiling. I was so far gone for you it was pathetic."
All this time you thought he barely noticed you except to annoy you, he was cataloguing your every movement.
"The club. That first night. You got so mad. Was it — was it about that guy?"
There's no shame in his words. "I wanted to punch him, wanted to drag you away and tell him you were mine even though I had no right. I was jealous, pissed off and I followed you to the bathroom to yell at you about it."
"And then we fucked instead."
"Best decision of my life. Fuck, it was incredible. But, after that I couldn't pretend anymore, couldn't pretend I just wanted to annoy you. I was addicted."
You lift your head to look at him, there's a softness in his expression that makes him look vulnerable.
"Every time you said it was the last time, I died a little," he continues. "But I kept coming back for more because having you for a moment was better than not having you at all."
The words hurt in the best way. You did the same thing, kept saying never again while knowing you'd end up right back in his orbit. "I'm sorry," you say.
"For what?"
"For pushing you away. For not seeing it sooner. For — For making you think you were nothing to me."
"Hey." He sits up, brings you with him so you're straddling his lap, towel falling away completely now but neither of you caring enough to correct it. His hands cup your face, making you look at him. "We both fucked up. We both hurt each other. But we're here now, right? We're figuring it out."
"Yeah. We're here."
His lips brush yours, and you think about all the ways you've kissed before. It's nothing like before, it's a kiss that means something beyond want, that says I'm sorry and I love you and I'm not going anywhere.
There's a specific kind of torture in wanting someone you think you can't have. You'd lived in it for months — watching Bucky, fighting with Bucky, fucking Bucky, all while convinced it meant nothing. Convinced you were nothing to him beyond a convenient release. The torture was in the wanting, in the knowing it could never be more, the way your heart skipped when he walked in a room even as you told yourself you hated him.
You'd gotten good at that torture, had made a home in it, learned to navigate the ache of unrequited feelings dressed up as animosity.
Now it's gone. This is having Bucky, knowing he wants you back.
He is lying next to you now, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. Your towel is somewhere on the floor. You're still sick, still running a fever, but he's here. He stayed.
He's going to keep staying, you realize. Through the sickness, fights and the moments when you both fuck up.
It won't be easy. You're both too stubborn, too quick to anger, too used to hurting each other to suddenly become soft and gentle all the time. There will be fights. Real ones, not the foreplay kind. And there will be days when you drive each other crazy, and there will probably be moments when you wonder if this was a mistake.
But then he'll make you coffee exactly how you like it. Or you'll catch him watching you like you're precious. Or you'll patch him up after a game, or you'll fight about something stupid and end up laughing instead of crying.
His fingers are tracing patterns on your bare shoulder and you think about how touch can mean so many different things. All the times he's touched you in anger, in desperation, in hunger. And now this. Gentle, aimless touching, just because he can, because you're his and he's yours.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs.
"How we got here."
"Long fucking journey."
"Worth it?"
"Every second of it."
The torture of wanting someone you can't have is finally over. The torture of having someone you could lose is just beginning.
But as Bucky presses a kiss to the top of your head, as his breathing evens out and his heartbeat steadies under your ear, you think maybe this is the kind of torture you can live with.
Maybe this is the kind of torture that's actually called love.
MY MASTERLIST!
EXTRAS. first time writing smth where both of them are this toxic, please go easy on me! thank you for reading!
