Pairing: Art Collector (Mob Boss) Steve Rogers x Reader (Peach)
Summary: Steve learns to dance
Word Count: 298!
January Jumbles Scribbles Day 7 Prompt: "Do you love me now that I can dance?â
A/N: This is Prompt #7 of the #JanuaryJumblesScribblesChallenge. This is was so naturally a Peach Fic for me.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Not Betaâd. Read at your own risk. All fluff, no smut! Mob Steve, dancing, love and marriage and baby. Peach and Steve. This one is for me. đ„°
------
Steve had first watched you dance in bad lighting and worse intentions.
Youâd been on stage in that Atlanta club because you had a goal. Every shift another brick laid toward the dance school you were building. You moved with intention then.
Youâd eloped months later to a little chapel in Connecticut, no guests, no fuss, just instinct and certainty with a promise youâd learn how to keep as you went.Â
Love first. Details later.
Now you were learning.
Salsa night had been your idea. Steve stumbling at first, you laughing, correcting him with patient hands. Until his body caught the rhythm. Until you stopped leading and started trusting.
Now, at your home, the music played low. Kit slept down the hall, finally worn out after fighting bedtime like it was a personal insult. The penthouse was quiet in that precious way that only came after chaos.
Steve swayed with you in the living room, your back to his chest, his hands sure at your waist. No stage. No audience. Just you two, watching the New York skyline
In sync.
The realization hit him hard enough to make his throat tighten. Youâd chosen each other before youâd truly understood each other. And now, you were catching up.
He swallowed.
âDo you love me now that I can dance?â
What he meant was Do I fit into the life you dreamed of?
You turned in his arms and looked up at him, eyes warm and steady. Your hands slid up his chest.
âI loved you before you knew how,â you said softly. âI love you because you learned.â
Steve pressed his forehead to yours, smiling.
âI love you,â he said, now. âBecause weâre moving together.â
Prompt: January 2: "You make it very hard to think." for the January Jumble Scribbles Challenge
A/N: Clark is back! We met him in September and fell in love.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT. Read at your own risk.
Workplace tension, inappropriate thoughts, Power imbalance
implied oral sex (f recieving).
I don't have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! đ
I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
------
Clark had survived gunfire, collapsing bridges, and a deadline with Perry White breathing down his neck.
This was worse.
You sat across from him at the long newsroom table, laptop open, legs crossed in that pencil skirt you almost never wore. The one that meant you were either making a point or making trouble.
Maybe both.
The newsroom hummed around you. Phones rang. Keys clacked. Someone laughed near the copy desk.
Clark heard none of it.
All he could focus on was the line of your thigh. The way the fabric rode up when you leaned forward. The feeling that you knew exactly what you were doing and had decided not to help him.
He adjusted his glasses. Again.
You didnât look up. âYouâre staring.â
âIâm not,â he said quickly.
You finally lifted your eyes, mouth tilting. âYou are.â
He swallowed and tried, honestly tried, to look back at his notes. Words blurred. Sentences refused to behave.
âYouâre distracting me,â he said, quieter than he meant to.
That got you.
You leaned back in your chair, uncrossed and re-crossed your legs slowly, so he could see what he needed to see.
âIâm literally working.â
âYes,â he said, licking his lips as he stared between your legs. Remembering how you tasted. âThatâs the problem.â
Your eyebrow lifted. âClarkâŠâ
âYou make it very hard to think.â
The admission hung there, exposed. He waited for your reaction.
You just smiled.
âGood,â you said softly, and went back to typing.
Clark stared at his notebook, heart racing, trying not to imagine all the reasons you only wore that skirt when you wanted his attention, trying not to think about how easily youâd gotten it.
And failing completely. He moved like the wind.
In the blink of an eye, you were in the broom closet, and Clark was kneeling before you, pushing that skirt up.
âGood,â he whispered, pulling your panties down to your knees and sinking two fingers inside you as his breath ghosted your clit.
Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Social Media Manager!Reader
Summary: Assigned to manage Bucky Barnesâs public image, you learn quickly that night belongs to him; but daylight belongs to you. But is that about to change?
Word Count: 400 (I'm getting there!)
Prompt: January 2: "Where Worlds Collide and Days Are Dark" for the January Jumble Scribbles Challenge
A/N: This is yet another new Bucky. đ This Thunderbolts Bucky is a bit unhinged and reader is a professional brought in to contain his fallout. We may see more of them later this month if they behave and you like them. No promises. đ
Warnings: Minors DNI. Not Betaâd. Read at your own risk. SMUT! 18+ ONLY. Explicit sexual content, consensual dom/sub dynamics, power imbalances, explicit sexual memory/flashback, choking, begging, orgasm denial, Dom Bucky.
I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! đ
NOTICE: I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
-----
By the time you were escorted into the Tower briefing room, three things were already trending.
And one of them was him.
Bucky Barnes sat at the end of the table like a weapon someone forgot to safeties-check. Boots planted. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. He didnât look at the screen until you cleared your throat.
âThatâs your face,â you said, tapping the tablet. âAgain. From a different angle.â
He exhaled. âI didnât pose.â
âYou never do. Thatâs the problem.â
Valentinaâs voice crackled over the speaker.
âFix it.â
The door sealed shut. Privacy mode. Bucky finally looked at you, assessing. Measuring.
âYouâre telling me this is a problem because I did my job.â
âIâm telling you,â you said, stepping closer, âthat where worlds collide and days are dark, people like me get called in to clean up the mess.â
His mouth twitched.
âThatâs poetic. How long did it take you to think that up?â
You didnât rise to the jab. You never did while doing your job. You just met his eyes and held them, steady as a line graph.
âAbout three seconds,â you said.âRight after I saw your engagement spike.â
That got his attention.
He leaned back in his chair like a predator pretending to relax.Â
âEngagement.â
âYou trended in three markets you werenât supposed to exist in,â you continued, stepping closer, unbothered by the way his shoulders tensed.
âNight footage. Low light. The kind people rewatch. Frame by frame.â
âPeople got hobbies,â he muttered.
âPeople get obsessed,â you corrected. âAnd you donât belong to them.â
Something shifted.
âYeah,â he said, voice gravel. âBelongingâs a helluva drug.â
The look in his eye dragged you backward to the night before, to the weight of a vibranium hand at your throat.
BuckyâŠplease.
Your voice had been wrecked, muffled into the pillow, tears streaking hot down your cheeks as your body shook beneath him.
Iâll be good. I swear. I'll be so good for you... JustâŠlet meâŠ
âYou donât get to cum,â heâd told you calmly, cruelly, ânot just until you beg. Until Iâm done listening to you beg.â
Your body hadnât been yours anymore. Every twitch, every broken sound, every helpless flutter around his cock had been an answer to him, for him, just because heâd decided it was.
The memory faded as daylight pressed in.Â
And Buckyâs gaze sharpened, like he knew exactly where you just went, and liked it.
Word Count: 600 (I'm trying. I'm going to get there. Bear with me plz.)
Prompt: âOh what are you doing here? The sun is up!â for the January Jumble Scribbles Challenge
A/N: This is the Congressman!Bucky we met during the September Scribbles event.
Warnings: Minors DNI. Not Betaâd. Read at your own risk. SMUT! 18+ ONLY. Enemies-to-lovers sparks, power dynamics, and a whole lot of sexual tension. Explicit sexual content. Implied sex act, references to fingering, counter-bending, messy desire. Public figures, political themes. We might be catching feelings. It's me.
I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! đ
NOTICE: I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
----
You woke to an empty bed.
The clock read 8:17 a.m.
You swore, sat up, pulled on his T-shirt, soft, familiar, the scent of bourbon and cologne clinging to it, and padded down the hall.
The kitchen light was on.
He was there. Already showered. Dark curls still damp at the nape of his neck. He stood at the island, naked from the waist up, reading something on his phone with the kind of focus that looked like armor.
Like the man who existed when the sun was up.
Your coffee mug was in his hand.
âOh,â you said, stopping short. âWhat are you doing here? The sun is up.â
âI know,â he said, flat
You shifted, suddenly aware of bare legs, borrowed fabric, and the way his gaze flickered down your body before snapping back to your face.Â
âDonât you haveâŠ?â
âI moved my first meeting.â
He set the phone down, face up.Â
Suspicion kicked in, muscle memory from months of press rooms and pointed questions, of not trusting men like Congressman Barnes to stay once daylight arrived.
Nothing like the man from the night before, when the city had been asleep and consequences felt theoretical.
âThatâs reckless,â you said.Â
He stepped closer, enough that the air between you changed.
âSo is pretending last night didnât matter.â
His hand settled at your waist and your fingers found the waistband of his trousers.Â
"I don't want you to go," You admitted, quieter than the hum of the fridge.
"Good," he murmured. "Because I already told my security detail they could wait in the car."
You laughed against his mouth, sharp and surprised.
"You what?"
He didnât smile, but his eyes did.
"You heard me."
"That's not subtle."
"I don't want subtle." His thumb traced the hollow beneath your eye. "I want you."
The admission hung in the air. His hand slid from your jaw to the nape of your neck, fingers carding in your scalp. Your fingers slid up his bare torso, mapping the lines of muscle and scars.Â
"Fifteen minutes," he breathed against your jaw, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
"Then I'm late for a meeting about agricultural subsidies, and you're the reason."
You laughed, breathless and sharp.
"I'll send a fruit basket."
His hand slid under the T-shirt, thumb tweaking your hard nipple.
"Don't you fucking dare."
His mouth moved to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point, and you arched into him, the T-shirt riding higher. Your fingers tangled into his damp curls, pulling him closer even as your brain screamed about consequences.
His hand slid lower, thumb hooking into the edge of your underwear, skin meeting skin.Â
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against your collarbone.
You didnât.
His phone buzzed, and he was already reaching for it one-handed, without letting you go. You heard him call someone, his voice steady and completely at odds with the way his hand was currently in your panties.
âYeah,â he said into the phone, calm and controlled. âPush it fifteen. Tell them Iâm reviewing the proposal.â
A pause. His thumb pressed slightly into your side.
âI donât care whoâs waiting.â
He ended the call and tossed it on the counter as he stepped in slowly until your back kissed the counter edge. His hands found your wrists, and pinned them behind you. His hard cock ground against you.
âSo hereâs what's gonna happen, Sweetheart. Iâm gonna bend you over the counter. And Iâm gonna fuck you so deep that you forget your own name. But not mine.â
âYes, sir,â you breathed. âCongressman Barnes. Sir.â
This is a series of drabbles that had its genesis in the Sexy September Scribbles Challenge, but has now become a thing. I've fallen in love with this verse.
9/30: "donât you dare close those legs" unFinished. Clark Kent x Reader
9/25: âyouâre taking me so wellâ Daydreaminâ Clark Kent x Reader
9/19: âyouâre so fucking tight...gripping me like a viceâ Only You Clark Kent x Reader
9/17: "I will give that mouth something to do." That Little Promise Clark Kent x Reader
9/14: âYouâre going to make me come againâ Again Clark Kent x Reader
9/9: "I just need you to say yes."-- Say Yes Clark Kent x Reader
9/5: âBreathe for me babyâ-- Even Clark Kent x Reader
9/1: âSlower.â-- Opposite Day Clark Kent x Reader
The Cleo Era | Muse Masterlist | Girls Who Wear Glasses
Summary: Cleo is growing up, and so is her crew. But Ari still has eyes for only you this holiday season and always.
Word count: 2.7 K
Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model!Reader
A/N: I'm Baaackkkkk! I've been on sabbatical from Tumblr for three months working on other projects, but here I am! Thank you to all who have checked on me. Love you bunches. I plan on participaing in the #JanuaryJumbleScribbles challenge but I will pace myself this time. Do expect something the next few days, maybe even tomorrow. : Here Muse Monday on a New Years Eve. They are my favorites and I love this one so, even though I know it won't get many views. Here is some holiday joy from my heart to yours. I have missed you heaux! This is a part of the Muse vers. Enjoy! (And if you do, or if you don't, let me know!) Happy Holidays!
Warnings:Â 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Art Curator Ari. Plus sized model Reader, menace mommy Muse, jealous/possessive Muse, simp Ari, Editor-in Chief Muse; possessiveness kink, oral (f receiving), sex on desk, SIZE KINK. Baby milestones, holiday party, mixed traditions, the Barnes and the Rogers with their children, Ari being totally gone for his girls.
I donât have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!
I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
-------
Ariâs gallery missed him the way lungs missed oxygen, but he refused to miss you, or leave you carrying Cleoâs entire tiny universe alone. So, with the twelve-week-old princess securely strapped to his charcoal-suited chest in a dove-gray carrier, he led a twilight walkthrough for a pair of VIP collectors while you drifted behind in cream wide-leg trousers, content simply to watch him in his element.
Halfway through the Mitchell room, a junior associate, Isabelle, all blunt bangs and eager grin, slipped a hand around Ariâs portfolio.
âLet me hold that for you, Mr. Levinson.â
Her fingers grazed his shoulder a beat too long.
Heat spiked in your chest. You knew Ari was yours. It was etched into rings, vows, hell, the baby strapped to him, but you still cleared your throat.
Loudly.
Isabelle jumped. Ari turned his head, caught your look, and the crooked grin that stretched across his mouth was pure trouble. Smoothly, he transferred the leather folio into your hands and went right on describing luminance values as if nothing had happened.
Later, with Cleo asleep in the pack-and-play Ari kept just outside his office door, so she could âsee the art,â as he insisted, and the investors gone, he pulled his door shut, but not closed. You could still hear your daughterâs soft snores.
âYouâre so hot when youâre jealous,â he said.
He stalked forward, bracketing your hips against the polished walnut desk.
âPossessive,â you corrected, tugging his silk tie until the Windsor knot slid loose. âDifferent art movement.â
His answering growl vibrated against your sternum. He kissed you deeply, and your back met the cool desktop.
âDo you have any idea,â he breathed between kisses, âwhat you protecting us does to me?â
âEnlighten me,â you whispered, nipping the corner of his jaw.
He grabbed your ass and lifted you onto the desk, his hips settling between your knees. The edge of the desk bit deliciously through your trousers. You tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged just enough to make him hiss.
âMine,â you said, soft but ironclad.
Ariâs pupils blew wide.
âYours,â he echoed, his voice rough silk. âOnly thing that matters.â
Your pulse ricocheted. He eased your wrists upward and looped his loosened tie around them, then pressed your palms to his chest so you could feel the hammer of his heartbeat.
His mouth traced the pulse at your throat, down to the dip between buttons. A tiny, perfect sound threaded the air, Cleoâs sigh from the pack-and-play, still dreaming, and utterly oblivious.
Ari stilled, his forehead resting against yours, breath ragged.
âWe canât wake the masterpiece,â he managed, even as his hands kept moving.
You brushed his lips once more, whispering into his mouth.
âThen curate me quietly, Mr. Levinson.â
âSay less, Mrs. Levinson.â
His hands slid beneath your blouse, thumbs stroking your nipples through the lace of your bra. The deskâs cool edge dug into the backs of your thighs, grounding the liquid heat leaking down your thighs.
You bit the inside of your cheek when his mouth followed the path his thumbs mapped, tongue tracing lace. A muffled whimper escaped you, and his eyes flared, urging caution and daring you for more all at once.
He dragged your hips forward until you felt the solid weight of his cock, charcoal wool rough against silk. One palm covered your mouth. He looked at you and you could see the dark take over the brilliant blue of his eyes.
âYou guarding me,â he mouthed, âmakes me want to worship you.â
His hands were suddenly everywhere at once, hooking your waistband, yanking fabric down your legs. Your blouse barely made it past your elbows before it was gone, buttons scattering softly against the desk. His jacket hit the floor, then his shirt, abandoned mid-motion as your fingers dragged it off him hurriedly.
You moved chest to chest, breath tangled, mouths colliding quietly. His hands skimmed bare skin like he couldnât wait to claim it, like every second spent dressed was a second wasted. You fumbled at his boxers, tugging, impatient, feeling him hiss against your throat when your fingers finally freed his hard, hot, aching cock.Â
âGod,â he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, hands gripping your thighs hard.Â
âNow.â
He stepped back just long enough to pull you roughly to the edge of the desk. Then he dropped to his knees.
Ariâs beard scraped electric along the soft inside of your thigh. His tongue, fuck, that tongue, slid through you, broad and slow, tasting you like you were his favorite fucking dessert.
You clawed at his desk, then his hair, riding the sharp edge between needy and greedy. Your voice was a high, broken whisper.
âRight there. Stay right fucking thereâŠâ
He hummed, vibration rolling through your clit, and you felt him smile against you. The hand that wasnât pinning your hips grabbed your ass, kneading it, each throb syncing with the slick slide of his tongue pushing deeper, lapping you open again and again.
You came apart on the tenth flick. No warning, just white-out behind your eyes, thighs clamping around his ears while you whisper-chanted his name. Your whole body shook through it, pulsing around nothing, greedy for more even while you gasped for air. You were a live wire snapping in his hands, aftershocks rolling through you hard. You finally unclenched your thighs from around his head and dragged him up by his shirt collar.
Your voice was wrecked, barely a rasp.Â
âGet up here. Need your mouth on mine so I can taste exactly what you just did to me.â
Ari stopped, breath shuddering out against your cunt, then lifted his head slowly, deliberately, like he was pulling himself back from the edge by force of will. His hands stayed firm on your thighs as he rose, bringing you close to him until you were chest to chest again, your balance tipped forward into his hold.
He kissed you slowly like he was sealing a promise. Then, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm, steadying you both.
You bit your lip to keep from begging.
He felt it anyway.
He crowded your space without rushing, thighs braced between yours, foreheads nearly touching. You could feel the restraint in him now, barely contained, as his thumb traced a grounding line along your jaw, tilting your face up.
âEasy,â he whispered, voice rough but steady. âLook at me.â
You did.
He fisted himself and swiped his head through your slick folds as your calves locked at his waist, drawing him exactly where you needed him. Wanted him.
Then, he entered you slowly, inch by hot thick inch.
Every roll of his hips was devastating, building pressure, slowing it, then building again. It was almost mean. You whimpered.
âSay it.â
âYou are mine, Ari Levinson,â you mouthed against his lips.
He shuddered. âAgain.â
âMine.â
His quiet groan vibrated through both of you. His hands slid between you, tracing tight circles on your clit, turning restraint into narcotic bliss. At the brink, he stilled, pressing his lips to your ear.
âIâll never forget that sound you made,â he whispered. âIâll spend my life earning it.â
Then he started pumping again, the sound of skin on wet skin music to your ears. He pushed you over the edge, catching your silent cry in the hollow of his throat. He followed, his body shaking with the effort of staying quiet, breath hot against your collarbone.
When the wave ebbed, he wound both arms around you, your forehead tucked into his shoulder, the loosened tie trailing down your spine like a ribbon on a finished gift. You stroked his hair, steadying him, and yourself.
The only sounds were his heartbeat, your soft exhales, and Cleoâs tiny sigh, deep in sleep.
â--
The weeks stacked up in milestones. When Cleo was sixteen weeks old, she graduated from co-sleeping.
At 11:45, she zonked out in the new birch-wood crib. At 2:17, you and Ari tiptoed back into her room on the hush of socks and anxiety.
You sat down together on the nursery rug, side by side, counting her breaths.
âInsane,â you whispered.
âCertifiable,â he agreed, passing you a lukewarm mug of chamomile.
Neither of you moved until the sun edged gold through the blackout curtains.
â
At twenty weeks, Cleo started eating solid food. You knew it was time when she started biting you.
She flailed her arms and smashed the plate against the high-chair tray, streaking vivid orange war paint across her cheeks.
Ari beamed behind the camera.
âSheâs exploring texture!â
âSheâs Jackson Pollock,â you said, wiping carrot from your forehead.
Cleo offered you a carrot-slicked fist. You accepted.
The critic approved.
â----
It was Cleoâs first holiday season, and she was six months old. Exactly.
You threw a half-birthday party at your place for her and her little âclique,â as you and your friends had started calling them, the Barnes and Rogers clan. Your apartment smelled like fir and cinnamon, and something Ari had put in the oven that he swore, again, was not burning.
It was loud. Glittery. Perfect.
Cleo sat like royalty in the center of the living room, ringed by mountains of torn wrapping paper, crushed bows, and discarded gift bags. She wore a red velvet romper with puffed sleeves, her curls barely tamed beneath a bow headband sheâd already tried to eat twice. Ariâs watch gleamed on her tiny arm, absurd and precious, like something sheâd claimed by birthright.
Her first crown jewel.
Every time she made a new noise, a coo, a chirp, a babble, Ari nodded thoughtfully and responded with complete seriousness.
âThatâs a strong point.â
âAbsolutely, sweetheart, I agree.â
He didnât use baby talk. He wasnât pretending.
And neither were you.
When Cleo waved a glittery ribbon like a scepter and babbled at length, you nodded solemnly from across the couch.
âThatâs revolutionary,â you said.
Across the room, Luca Sebastian Barnes, two and a half years old and fueled entirely by peppermint bark and chaos, reenacted The Wild Robot using two candy canes and a crumpled gift bag.
âAuntie Muse,â he called, tugging on your hand with sticky fingers, âMami said no candy, but Papa said itâs okay if itâs the green kind, so I just need scissors. Please.â
His mother didnât blink from her encampment at Buckyâs shoulder. You stared at her, and then her almost-three-year-old who had just asked you for a dangerous weapon.
âHe got into the glitter glue this morning and redecorated the toilet,â Frumoasa said dryly.
âMirelaâs hair was next,â Bucky added from the armchair, grinning as he adjusted their three-month-old daughter in his arms. Mirela slept straight through the chaos, her curls blissfully glitter-free. Frumoasa had been nodding on his shoulder, exhausted and half gone, and Bucky looked like he was in heaven.
âFirst Christmas,â he murmured, gazing down at their daughter with that soft, stunned expression heâd never quite lost since Luca was born. âAnd she wonât even remember it.â
âSheâll remember me,â Luca piped up.
âShe better,â Bucky said, ruffling his sonâs curls. âYou were very loud about her arrival.â
Luca had already delivered a five-minute soliloquy about the injustice of raisins in cookies earlier and was now demanding more actual cookies from Bucky with a very clear Romanian. Papa, am spus nu fursecurile cu ovÄz.(Papa, I said not the oat ones).
He stomped one socked foot on the wood floor for emphasis. Frumoasa didnât even flinch.
âHeâs yours today.â
Bucky shook his head like it was a hostage negotiation.Â
âYou said you wanted to raise him bilingual, you deal with the sass.â
The front door opened. Steve and Peach arrived fashionably late because Kit, their ten-month-old, had very strong opinions about car seats and winter hats.
Little Kit was built like a little tank, round and smug in his little fair isle sweater, and had two favorite words, which he rotated between with great purpose.
âNO!â he barked when Peach tried to wipe his face.
âCleo,â he added sweetly when your daughter gurgled from Ariâs lap.
Ari sat her back down on the floor as he went to help Steve put their bags and coats in the bedroom.
The next moment, Kit broke free from Peach like heâd been launched from a cannon, toddled straight toward Cleo, and plopped down beside her as if gravity itself had decided it.
âCleo,â he said clearly.
She blinked once. Then squealed like heâd just offered her the moon.
âOh boy,â Peach muttered, unwinding her scarf.
âI think heâs in love,â Steve said, coming back into the living room, far too smug like his son.
Ari arched a brow. âHeâd better paint her a masterpiece.â
Kit responded by flinging a handful of wrapping paper into the air and shouting, âNO!â
He reached for Cleo again. She reached back. The mutual obsession was becoming a plotline.
âSheâs got a fan club,â you murmured to Ari.
âShe is the whole museum,â he whispered back.
â
Camera flashes popped. Someone turned up Mariah Carey. Your mom passed out warm cookies. Ariâs father tried, and failed, to get Luca to repeat anything in Yiddish. Ariâs mother lit the candles. Steve and Bucky ended up arm-wrestling over the last bourbon ball, and Peach smacked them both with a candy cane without pausing her bite of shortbread.
And then it happened.
Your daughter, cheeks flushed, eyes bright from overstimulation, turned toward Ari.
And as clearly as if sheâd been practicing for weeks, she said:
âDada.â
The room froze.
Ari froze.
Your heart stopped.
She said it again. Louder.
âDada!â
Ari dropped to his knees like sheâd just knighted him.
âThatâs it,â he whispered, stunned. âCancel the rest of the year.â
You clapped a hand over your mouth, your grin aching.
âShe said my name,â he said, dazed. âShe knows me.â
âSheâs known you since she grew ears,â you said softly, brushing your fingers over his cheek. âSheâs always been yours.â
Everyone clapped. Luca clapped the loudest. Kit clapped because everyone else was clapping. Mirela stirred in her sling and whimpered, and FrumoasÄ, barely awake, leaned over Buckyâs lap to pat her daughterâs back.
Cleo crawled straight into Ariâs lap, still gripping a crushed paper bow, and curled into his chest with a contented sigh. Ari wrapped his arms around her like he was holding the whole world.
He was undone.
âSheâs never saying another word,â he whispered against her curls. âDada is the final vocabulary.â
You laughed and bent to kiss the top of her soft head.
âGood luck with that,â you murmured. âSheâs your daughter. Sheâs going to have opinions.â
âAnd Iâll listen to every single one,â Ari said, quiet and fierce, arms tight around his tiny CEO and the sparkling ribbon scepter she wielded like a monarch.
â-
Later, the lights were low. The tree glowed softly. The chaos finally quieted. Cleo slept. The guests went home.
It was just the two of you on the couch, barefoot, blanketed, wrapped in peace.
Ari tucked you beneath his arm, your legs stretched across his lap, the echo of the party still humming in your bones. You stayed quiet for a long time, watching the tree lights blink slowly, like the heartbeat of the home youâd built together.
You were half asleep when he shifted.
âI forgot something,â he murmured.
He reached beneath the tree, not for a box, not for anything wrapped or glittered, but for a slim, flat folio bound with linen thread.
âThis is your real gift,â he said softly.
When you opened it, you forgot how to breathe.
It wasnât a book.
It was an archive. A story.
Muse, For Always.
Inside were sketches, charcoal, ink, watercolor, graphite smudged by memory. All of you. Moments. Ari had drawn you since the night you met. Since the first gallery. Since the first morning in his shirt. Since your wedding night. Since pregnancy. Since motherhood.
And then, your daughter.
Every stage. Every memory. Held in his hands.
The final page was unfinished: the three of you asleep together on the floor, tangled in limbs and blankets and love.
My girls.
The art I was born to make.
You cried instantly.
âThis is better than any gallery,â he said thickly. âYou and her, youâre the only masterpiece Iâll ever need.â
You kissed him then.
You had never felt more loved.
And somewhere down the hall, your daughter sighed in her sleep, content, safe, and home.
The Cleo Era | Muse Masterlist | Girls Who Wear Glasses
Summary: Cleo is growing up, and so is her crew. But Ari still has eyes for only you this holiday season and always.
Word count: 2.7 K
Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model!Reader
A/N: I'm Baaackkkkk! I've been on sabbatical from Tumbler for three months working on other projects, but here I am! Thank you to all who have checked on me. Love you bunches. I plan on participaing in the #JanuaryJumbleScribbles challenge but I will pace myself this time. Do expect something the next few days, maybe even tomorrow. : Here Muse Monday on a New Years Eve. They are my favorites and I love this one so, even though I know it won't get many views. Here is some holiday joy from my heart to yours. I have missed you heaux! This is a part of the Muse vers. Enjoy! (And if you do, or if you don't, let me know!) Happy Holidays!
Warnings:Â 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Art Curator Ari. Plus sized model Reader, menace mommy Muse, jealous/possessive Muse, simp Ari, Editor-in Chief Muse; possessiveness kink, oral (f receiving), sex on desk, SIZE KINK. Baby milestones, holiday party, mixed traditions, the Barnes and the Rogers with their children, Ari being totally gone for his girls.
I donât have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!
I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
-------
Ariâs gallery missed him the way lungs missed oxygen, but he refused to miss you, or leave you carrying Cleoâs entire tiny universe alone. So, with the twelve-week-old princess securely strapped to his charcoal-suited chest in a dove-gray carrier, he led a twilight walkthrough for a pair of VIP collectors while you drifted behind in cream wide-leg trousers, content simply to watch him in his element.
Halfway through the Mitchell room, a junior associate, Isabelle, all blunt bangs and eager grin, slipped a hand around Ariâs portfolio.
âLet me hold that for you, Mr. Levinson.â
Her fingers grazed his shoulder a beat too long.
Heat spiked in your chest. You knew Ari was yours. It was etched into rings, vows, hell, the baby strapped to him, but you still cleared your throat.
Loudly.
Isabelle jumped. Ari turned his head, caught your look, and the crooked grin that stretched across his mouth was pure trouble. Smoothly, he transferred the leather folio into your hands and went right on describing luminance values as if nothing had happened.
Later, with Cleo asleep in the pack-and-play Ari kept just outside his office door, so she could âsee the art,â as he insisted, and the investors gone, he pulled his door shut, but not closed. You could still hear your daughterâs soft snores.
âYouâre so hot when youâre jealous,â he said.
He stalked forward, bracketing your hips against the polished walnut desk.
âPossessive,â you corrected, tugging his silk tie until the Windsor knot slid loose. âDifferent art movement.â
His answering growl vibrated against your sternum. He kissed you deeply, and your back met the cool desktop.
âDo you have any idea,â he breathed between kisses, âwhat you protecting us does to me?â
âEnlighten me,â you whispered, nipping the corner of his jaw.
He grabbed your ass and lifted you onto the desk, his hips settling between your knees. The edge of the desk bit deliciously through your trousers. You tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged just enough to make him hiss.
âMine,â you said, soft but ironclad.
Ariâs pupils blew wide.
âYours,â he echoed, his voice rough silk. âOnly thing that matters.â
Your pulse ricocheted. He eased your wrists upward and looped his loosened tie around them, then pressed your palms to his chest so you could feel the hammer of his heartbeat.
His mouth traced the pulse at your throat, down to the dip between buttons. A tiny, perfect sound threaded the air, Cleoâs sigh from the pack-and-play, still dreaming, and utterly oblivious.
Ari stilled, his forehead resting against yours, breath ragged.
âWe canât wake the masterpiece,â he managed, even as his hands kept moving.
You brushed his lips once more, whispering into his mouth.
âThen curate me quietly, Mr. Levinson.â
âSay less, Mrs. Levinson.â
His hands slid beneath your blouse, thumbs stroking your nipples through the lace of your bra. The deskâs cool edge dug into the backs of your thighs, grounding the liquid heat leaking down your thighs.
You bit the inside of your cheek when his mouth followed the path his thumbs mapped, tongue tracing lace. A muffled whimper escaped you, and his eyes flared, urging caution and daring you for more all at once.
He dragged your hips forward until you felt the solid weight of his cock, charcoal wool rough against silk. One palm covered your mouth. He looked at you and you could see the dark take over the brilliant blue of his eyes.
âYou guarding me,â he mouthed, âmakes me want to worship you.â
His hands were suddenly everywhere at once, hooking your waistband, yanking fabric down your legs. Your blouse barely made it past your elbows before it was gone, buttons scattering softly against the desk. His jacket hit the floor, then his shirt, abandoned mid-motion as your fingers dragged it off him hurriedly.
You moved chest to chest, breath tangled, mouths colliding quietly. His hands skimmed bare skin like he couldnât wait to claim it, like every second spent dressed was a second wasted. You fumbled at his boxers, tugging, impatient, feeling him hiss against your throat when your fingers finally freed his hard, hot, aching cock.Â
âGod,â he muttered, forehead pressed to yours, hands gripping your thighs hard.Â
âNow.â
He stepped back just long enough to pull you roughly to the edge of the desk. Then he dropped to his knees.
Ariâs beard scraped electric along the soft inside of your thigh. His tongue, fuck, that tongue, slid through you, broad and slow, tasting you like you were his favorite fucking dessert.
You clawed at his desk, then his hair, riding the sharp edge between needy and greedy. Your voice was a high, broken whisper.
âRight there. Stay right fucking thereâŠâ
He hummed, vibration rolling through your clit, and you felt him smile against you. The hand that wasnât pinning your hips grabbed your ass, kneading it, each throb syncing with the slick slide of his tongue pushing deeper, lapping you open again and again.
You came apart on the tenth flick. No warning, just white-out behind your eyes, thighs clamping around his ears while you whisper-chanted his name. Your whole body shook through it, pulsing around nothing, greedy for more even while you gasped for air. You were a live wire snapping in his hands, aftershocks rolling through you hard. You finally unclenched your thighs from around his head and dragged him up by his shirt collar.
Your voice was wrecked, barely a rasp.Â
âGet up here. Need your mouth on mine so I can taste exactly what you just did to me.â
Ari stopped, breath shuddering out against your cunt, then lifted his head slowly, deliberately, like he was pulling himself back from the edge by force of will. His hands stayed firm on your thighs as he rose, bringing you close to him until you were chest to chest again, your balance tipped forward into his hold.
He kissed you slowly like he was sealing a promise. Then, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm, steadying you both.
You bit your lip to keep from begging.
He felt it anyway.
He crowded your space without rushing, thighs braced between yours, foreheads nearly touching. You could feel the restraint in him now, barely contained, as his thumb traced a grounding line along your jaw, tilting your face up.
âEasy,â he whispered, voice rough but steady. âLook at me.â
You did.
He fisted himself and swiped his head through your slick folds as your calves locked at his waist, drawing him exactly where you needed him. Wanted him.
Then, he entered you slowly, inch by hot thick inch.
Every roll of his hips was devastating, building pressure, slowing it, then building again. It was almost mean. You whimpered.
âLook at me,â he breathed.
You did.
âSay it.â
âYou are mine, Ari Levinson,â you mouthed against his lips.
He shuddered. âAgain.â
âMine.â
His quiet groan vibrated through both of you. His hands slid between you, tracing tight circles on your clit, turning restraint into narcotic bliss. At the brink, he stilled, pressing his lips to your ear.
âIâll never forget that sound you made,â he whispered. âIâll spend my life earning it.â
Then he started pumping again, the sound of skin on wet skin music to your ears. He pushed you over the edge, catching your silent cry in the hollow of his throat. He followed, his body shaking with the effort of staying quiet, breath hot against your collarbone.
When the wave ebbed, he wound both arms around you, your forehead tucked into his shoulder, the loosened tie trailing down your spine like a ribbon on a finished gift. You stroked his hair, steadying him, and yourself.
The only sounds were his heartbeat, your soft exhales, and Cleoâs tiny sigh, deep in sleep.
â--
The weeks stacked up in milestones. When Cleo was sixteen weeks old, she graduated from co-sleeping.
At 11:45, she zonked out in the new birch-wood crib. At 2:17, you and Ari tiptoed back into her room on the hush of socks and anxiety.
You sat down together on the nursery rug, side by side, counting her breaths.
âInsane,â you whispered.
âCertifiable,â he agreed, passing you a lukewarm mug of chamomile.
Neither of you moved until the sun edged gold through the blackout curtains.
â
At twenty weeks, Cleo started eating solid food. You knew it was time when she started biting you.
She flailed her arms and smashed the plate against the high-chair tray, streaking vivid orange war paint across her cheeks.
Ari beamed behind the camera.
âSheâs exploring texture!â
âSheâs Jackson Pollock,â you said, wiping carrot from your forehead.
Cleo offered you a carrot-slicked fist. You accepted.
The critic approved.
â----
It was Cleoâs first holiday season, and she was six months old. Exactly.
You threw a half-birthday party at your place for her and her little âclique,â as you and your friends had started calling them, the Barnes and Rogers clan. Your apartment smelled like fir and cinnamon, and something Ari had put in the oven that he swore, again, was not burning.
It was loud. Glittery. Perfect.
Cleo sat like royalty in the center of the living room, ringed by mountains of torn wrapping paper, crushed bows, and discarded gift bags. She wore a red velvet romper with puffed sleeves, her curls barely tamed beneath a bow headband sheâd already tried to eat twice. Ariâs watch gleamed on her tiny arm, absurd and precious, like something sheâd claimed by birthright.
Her first crown jewel.
Every time she made a new noise, a coo, a chirp, a babble, Ari nodded thoughtfully and responded with complete seriousness.
âThatâs a strong point.â
âAbsolutely, sweetheart, I agree.â
He didnât use baby talk. He wasnât pretending.
And neither were you.
When Cleo waved a glittery ribbon like a scepter and babbled at length, you nodded solemnly from across the couch.
âThatâs revolutionary,â you said.
Across the room, Luca Sebastian Barnes, two and a half years old and fueled entirely by peppermint bark and chaos, reenacted The Wild Robot using two candy canes and a crumpled gift bag.
âAuntie Muse,â he called, tugging on your hand with sticky fingers, âMami said no candy, but Papa said itâs okay if itâs the green kind, so I just need scissors. Please.â
His mother didnât blink from her encampment at Buckyâs shoulder. You stared at her, and then her almost-three-year-old who had just asked you for a dangerous weapon.
âHe got into the glitter glue this morning and redecorated the toilet,â Frumoasa said dryly.
âMirelaâs hair was next,â Bucky added from the armchair, grinning as he adjusted their three-month-old daughter in his arms. Mirela slept straight through the chaos, her curls blissfully glitter-free. Frumoasa had been nodding on his shoulder, exhausted and half gone, and Bucky looked like he was in heaven.
âFirst Christmas,â he murmured, gazing down at their daughter with that soft, stunned expression heâd never quite lost since Luca was born. âAnd she wonât even remember it.â
âSheâll remember me,â Luca piped up.
âShe better,â Bucky said, ruffling his sonâs curls. âYou were very loud about her arrival.â
Luca had already delivered a five-minute soliloquy about the injustice of raisins in cookies earlier and was now demanding more actual cookies from Bucky with a very clear Romanian. Papa, am spus nu fursecurile cu ovÄz.(Papa, I said not the oat ones).
He stomped one socked foot on the wood floor for emphasis. Frumoasa didnât even flinch.
âHeâs yours today.â
Bucky shook his head like it was a hostage negotiation.Â
âYou said you wanted to raise him bilingual, you deal with the sass.â
The front door opened. Steve and Peach arrived fashionably late because Kit, their ten-month-old, had very strong opinions about car seats and winter hats.
Little Kit was built like a little tank, round and smug in his little fair isle sweater, and had two favorite words, which he rotated between with great purpose.
âNO!â he barked when Peach tried to wipe his face.
âCleo,â he added sweetly when your daughter gurgled from Ariâs lap.
Ari sat her back down on the floor as he went to help Steve put their bags and coats in the bedroom.
The next moment, Kit broke free from Peach like heâd been launched from a cannon, toddled straight toward Cleo, and plopped down beside her as if gravity itself had decided it.
âCleo,â he said clearly.
She blinked once. Then squealed like heâd just offered her the moon.
âOh boy,â Peach muttered, unwinding her scarf.
âI think heâs in love,â Steve said, coming back into the living room, far too smug like his son.
Ari arched a brow. âHeâd better paint her a masterpiece.â
Kit responded by flinging a handful of wrapping paper into the air and shouting, âNO!â
He reached for Cleo again. She reached back. The mutual obsession was becoming a plotline.
âSheâs got a fan club,â you murmured to Ari.
âShe is the whole museum,â he whispered back.
â
Camera flashes popped. Someone turned up Mariah Carey. Your mom passed out warm cookies. Ariâs father tried, and failed, to get Luca to repeat anything in Yiddish. Ariâs mother lit the candles. Steve and Bucky ended up arm-wrestling over the last bourbon ball, and Peach smacked them both with a candy cane without pausing her bite of shortbread.
And then it happened.
Your daughter, cheeks flushed, eyes bright from overstimulation, turned toward Ari.
And as clearly as if sheâd been practicing for weeks, she said:
âDada.â
The room froze.
Ari froze.
Your heart stopped.
She said it again. Louder.
âDada!â
Ari dropped to his knees like sheâd just knighted him.
âThatâs it,â he whispered, stunned. âCancel the rest of the year.â
You clapped a hand over your mouth, your grin aching.
âShe said my name,â he said, dazed. âShe knows me.â
âSheâs known you since she grew ears,â you said softly, brushing your fingers over his cheek. âSheâs always been yours.â
Everyone clapped. Luca clapped the loudest. Kit clapped because everyone else was clapping. Mirela stirred in her sling and whimpered, and FrumoasÄ, barely awake, leaned over Buckyâs lap to pat her daughterâs back.
Cleo crawled straight into Ariâs lap, still gripping a crushed paper bow, and curled into his chest with a contented sigh. Ari wrapped his arms around her like he was holding the whole world.
He was undone.
âSheâs never saying another word,â he whispered against her curls. âDada is the final vocabulary.â
You laughed and bent to kiss the top of her soft head.
âGood luck with that,â you murmured. âSheâs your daughter. Sheâs going to have opinions.â
âAnd Iâll listen to every single one,â Ari said, quiet and fierce, arms tight around his tiny CEO and the sparkling ribbon scepter she wielded like a monarch.
â-
Later, the lights were low. The tree glowed softly. The chaos finally quieted. Cleo slept. The guests went home.
It was just the two of you on the couch, barefoot, blanketed, wrapped in peace.
Ari tucked you beneath his arm, your legs stretched across his lap, the echo of the party still humming in your bones. You stayed quiet for a long time, watching the tree lights blink slowly, like the heartbeat of the home youâd built together.
You were half asleep when he shifted.
âI forgot something,â he murmured.
He reached beneath the tree, not for a box, not for anything wrapped or glittered, but for a slim, flat folio bound with linen thread.
âThis is your real gift,â he said softly.
When you opened it, you forgot how to breathe.
It wasnât a book.
It was an archive. A story.
Muse, For Always.
Inside were sketches, charcoal, ink, watercolor, graphite smudged by memory. All of you. Moments. Ari had drawn you since the night you met. Since the first gallery. Since the first morning in his shirt. Since your wedding night. Since pregnancy. Since motherhood.
And then, your daughter.
Every stage. Every memory. Held in his hands.
The final page was unfinished: the three of you asleep together on the floor, tangled in limbs and blankets and love.
My girls.
The art I was born to make.
You cried instantly.
âThis is better than any gallery,â he said thickly. âYou and her, youâre the only masterpiece Iâll ever need.â
You kissed him then.
You had never felt more loved.
And somewhere down the hall, your daughter sighed in her sleep, content, safe, and home.
Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Principal!Reader
Word Count: 5K
Summary: Bucky almost mucks it up. But you finally give in. Hard.
A/N: Firefighter!Bucky is back, and cleared for active duty in every sense đ This one's been building since Part 1. Thanks as always to @navybrat817 for the encouragement and @nissaimmortal for the undying love and the brainworm that fueled the smut. This part comes after Hearts on Fire and Stay. Let me know if you're still with me by reblogging, commenting and otherwise engaging.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. SMUT. Not Betaâd all errors my own. Established relationship. Medical clearance. Angst. Teasing, size kink, First time penetration. Dom!Bucky. Oral (f receiving), teasing, shower sex, possessiveness, praise kink, dirty talk, creampie, softness, and filth.
I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! đ
I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
--------
Thursday was supposed to be a drill.
Routine. Procedural. The kind of thing that shouldnât raise your pulse.
But when an old breaker sparked and the west wing exhaled a stream of hot dust, you knew it couldâve been worse.
Still, you didnât flinch. The kids did what you trained them to do. Teachers shepherded. Aides counted heads. You wore your steady face, issuing calm directives into the radio.
And then the fire engine turned the corner.
Bucky stepped down from the rig, helmet under one arm, and no sling. He looked whole again. Commanding.
That familiar tug in your chest twisted, love tangled with pride.
He scanned the crowd. The building. The smoke. Then you. His jaw flexed. His voice cut through the noise.
âWeâre shutting this section down.â
You lifted your chin.
âWe need those rooms. Thatâs 200 hundred students displaced.â
âNot if itâs a wiring fault,â he snapped, already on the radio. âToday.â
The tone stung. Not because he was wrong, but because usually that voice made you shiver for entirely different reasons.
You kept your spine straight.
âDo what you need, Lieutenant.â
He hesitated. Just long enough to soften. âHeyâŠâ
You didnât look at him.
âIâll handle the classrooms.â
By dismissal, the building was safe and your exhaustion was bone-deep. You texted him three words before turning your phone facedown.
You: Friday is off.
You didnât add because I need to breathe.
He answered after a minute of you watching the bubbles in your chat.
Lt. McHottie â€ïžâđ„ Okay.
Then, a second line.
Lt. McHottie â€ïžâđ„ Saturday isnât. You promised your kids the engine company at the Fall Fun Run. Iâll see you there.
You didnât reply. You didnât have to. He always kept his word.
â--
Saturday, the sky was bright and way too cheerful for your mood.
You wore your school tee and a brave smile. Kids swarmed. Photos happened.
A seventh-grader handed you a string bracelet and said, âFor luck, Principal,â like she didnât know she was handing you peace.
Bucky kept his distance like a pro. He jogged with the fast pack, walked the last lap with a kid and an inhaler, and crouched beside the rig showing toddlers the air tank.
When you took the mic to thank volunteers, he stood at the edge of the crowd, arms folded. The pride on his face was visible from space.
Afterward, the guys from the house begged you to swing by OâMalleyâs. Jake raised a brow that said go be a person, and so you did.
â-
Bucky found you in the parking lot, leaning against the rig, eyes softer now.
âHey,â he said. âYou gonna talk to me, or just keep pretending Iâm a volunteer?â
You met his gaze.
âYou want honesty?â
âIâll take anything youâll give me.â
You exhaled.Â
âThursday scared me. Not the drill. The switch. The way you shut everything else out.â
âThatâs how I keep people alive.â
âI know.â Your voice wobbled.Â
âBut when you look right through me like that, itâs hard to remember Iâm not part of the smoke youâre trying to clear.â
His jaw clenched. Then eased.
âI canât turn it off. Not on scene. But Iâll try harder to find you after.â
âYou shouldnât have to try that hard to see me.â
âI do see you.â
You wanted to believe it. You did believe it. Just not enough to show it yet. So you nodded once, clutching your clipboard like a shield.
âWeâll talk later.â
He watched you for a beat too long before nodding back.
âYes, maâam.â
You turned away before you could do something stupid, like reach for him. Behind you, kids were laughing, volunteers were packing up, and Bucky was calling something to his crew.
And you were standing there, steady and professional. And aching for a man you loved but couldnât quite reach.
â--
The engine pulled out first, sirens off, waving to the last kids lingering near the sidewalk. You made sure the trash was bagged, the tables folded, and your clipboard tucked away before heading to your car.
OâMalleyâs was already mostly full, school staff and a few of the guys from the house crowded around a high-top near the back. You waved hello to Sy, Ari, and Steve and looked around for Bucky.Â
You spotted him, tucked into a booth by the jukebox, nursing a beer, backlit by the yellow glow of an old Guinness sign. Heâd changed out of his department tee, now in a henley that pulled tight across his chest, scars just visible at the collar.
You squared your shoulders, then made your way over.
He looked up as you slid into the booth across from him. and for a minute, neither of you spoke.
âI didnât mean to shut you out.â
You looked at him, and he looked tired. Not from the day, but from the two days before it.
âI know,â you said calmly.
Bucky exhaled, jaw tight.Â
âIt wasnât about you. It never is, on scene.â
âI didnât need it to be about me.â You paused. âI just needed to not feel invisible.â
That made him flinch.
âI thought giving you space was better than pushing.â
âIt wouldâve been,â you said quietly, âif it hadnât already felt like you disappeared.â
He flinched again, thinking about how heâd flaked after your rehab. You werenât trying to be cruel. But he needed to hear it.
He nodded, slowly, like he deserved it.Â
âI get like that when tensions are high. Focused. Sharp. Itâs the only way I know how to keep people safe.â
You didnât answer.
âI didnât see you Thursday,â he said. âAnd I hate that. But⊠that same switch? Thatâs how I pulled you out of that fire in April. I didnât flinch then either.â
You stared down at your glass.
âI know that,â you said, throat tight. âIâm not asking you to stop being the man who saved me.â
âThen what are you asking?â
You met his eyes.Â
âJust⊠find your way back to me when itâs over. Let me know I still matter after.â
He didnât blink. âYou do. You always have.â
That made something ache. Because it was true. And because it still hurt anyway.
âOkay.â
A long beat passed.
Then you added, softly, âI missed you.â
That was the thing that broke him, not the anger, not the argument, but the softness after. His mouth lifted just slightly, real and unguarded.
âI missed you too, Principal.â
You tried to hide your smile behind your glass. You failed.
The worst had been said. The edges softened. And now his eyes wouldnât stop tracking your mouth. You took a slow sip of your drink just to ground yourself. His gaze followed the motion.
âYou always look like that when you miss me?â he asked, voice roughened by restraint.
You blinked. âLike what?â
âFlushed. Focused. Like youâre trying real hard not to remember my mouth on you last time.â
You nearly laughed, but it caught in your throat. Because he wasnât wrong.
âYouâre impossible,â you murmured.
He leaned in, not enough to touch, but close enough to feel.
âAnd youâre still here.â
Your pulse skipped.
âIâm still mad,â you said.
âI know.â
âAnd I still meant what I said.â
âI know that too.â
An electric silence bloomed.
âI meant what I said too,â he whispered.
âWhich part?â
âThat I see you. And that I missed you. Two nights felt like eternity. I spent the time training for an inevitability."
A beat passed. Then you tilted your head.
âTraining for an inevitability, huh?â
He grinned, sheepish.
âLifting weights.â His gaze skimmed your body. âThinking about you.â
âAnd?â
His voice dropped an octave. âThinking about you.â
You flushed, took a slow sip of your drink, and said nothing.
But you didnât leave the booth.
You stayed until the beers were gone, the bar started clearing out, and Jake wandered over with a smirk that said I knew youâd talk to him.
You rolled your eyes and turned back to Bucky, who was watching you. You knew that look on him and you were determined not to melt.
Then he said quietly, âYou coming home with me?â
The confidence was definitely a mood. You didnât answer at first. Just took in the way he looked like he wanted to devour you.
Then you nodded.
âYes.â
He stood slowly, offered his hand, and you let him pull you to your feet.
You didnât say goodbye to the others. They didnât need one.
When the door swung closed behind you, you barely made it to the truck before he pressed you gently against the passenger side, one hand braced beside your head, the other resting at your waist.
His lips hovered near yours, just enough to feel the breath in between, asking you to make the first move. You closed the space between you.
His kiss wasnât rushed, it was heat wrapped in apology.Â
By the time he pulled back, you were breathless, and your hands were tangled in the hem of his henley. Every nerve in your body was buzzing.
âCome on,â he rasped. âBefore I forget how to behave in public.â
â--
His hand never left yours on the walk to his door.
You stepped inside, the surroundings familiar and warm from the weekends you spent there, and tried not to make it mean more than it did.
âWant some coffee?â you asked, voice lighter than you felt. âI think I still have that caramel creamer you hate stashed here somewhere.â
He kicked off his boots by the door and leaned his shoulder against the wall, watching you. Still wrecking you just by existing.
âSure,â he said. âCoffee sounds good.â
You made it all the way to the kitchen, pulled two mugs from the cabinet, going through the motions like muscle memory.
âOr,â you added, opening the fridge, âwe could queue up something dumb. Trash reality. Catch up on Married at First Sight like real adults avoiding conflict.â
When you turned around, he was there, close. His hand reached past you, flipping the switch on the coffee machine. The soft click felt louder than it shouldâve.
âYou really wanna watch TV, sweetheart?â he asked softly.
You swallowed.
âI mean⊠itâs late. And weâre still figuring things out.â
âMm.â His hand skimmed your hip. âAnd how long are you planning on figuring?â
You didnât answer. Couldnât. Not when his fingers curled just enough to remind your body what it felt like to be taken apart under his hands.
âBecause Iâve had two days,â he murmured, lips brushing your temple, âof doing absolutely nothing but picturing you like this. In my house. Soft, and stubborn. Too pretty to fight with.â
You braced a hand on the counter.
âThis doesnât solve anything.â
âNo,â he agreed, dragging his mouth along the curve of your jaw. âBut it reminds us of what weâre trying to protect.â
Your breath hitched.
âBuckyâŠâ
âIâll wait, if thatâs what you want.â His voice frayed at the edges, but his hand stayed steady on your waist.
âIâll sit right on that couch and watch your reality shows and drink your sweet-ass creamer if thatâs what you need.â
You didnât move.
âBut you gotta be honest with me, Principal. Do you really want space right now? Or do you just want to see if Iâll come take whatâs already mine?â
That unlocked something inside you. Because you did want the coffee. You wanted the show.
But you wanted him more.
You turned slowly, met his eyes, and whispered, âTake it.â
His breath caught. Then he moved.
His hand found the small of your back as he walked you backward toward the bedroom, not rushing, just claiming. Like he already knew youâd break. Like heâd been patient long enough.
By the time your knees hit the mattress, you werenât thinking at all. Just his hands. His voice. Him.
You kicked off your shoes as you watched him peel off his henley.
That alone nearly undid you.
His torso was a map of everything you knew and everything you were still learning, the skin pulled tight in places, marred in others. The long scar around his shoulder on the vibranium side. The burn healing slowly above the other collarbone. The scatter of freckles youâd kissed a dozen times.
âWe donât have to..â you said as you turned away from him on the bed.
âI know,â he said gently, moving behind you. Not touching. Just there. âYou want to pretend weâre still figuring it out.â
âWe are.â
âSure,â he murmured. âBut your voice only does that shake when youâre trying not to cum before I even touch you.â
You squeezed your eyes shut.
âLet me help you forget how strong you think you have to be,â he said, just barely a whisper. âJust for a little while.â
That broke you.
You nodded, and in the next breath, his hands were on you, undeniably possessive. One at your hip, the other dragging up your spine, his fingers slipped beneath your shirt like he was peeling back the last layer of resistance.
âYouâre still trying to be good,â he said, voice low and warm against your ear. âStill holding back.â
âIâm trying to beâŠâ
âProfessional?â he teased gently. âYouâre in my bed, Sweetheart.â
He turned you toward him, eyes sweeping over you like a slow exhale.
âLet me see you,â he said.
You let him.
He lifted your shirt and you raised your arms, surrendering. When your bra joined it on the floor, he didnât groan or swear. He just looked, like he was trying to memorize you.
âI missed this,â he said hoarsely. âMissed you.â
Your voice barely came. âYou had me Tuesday.â
âI didnât have this.â His hands cupped your breasts gently. âDidnât have the opportunity of being inside you.â
Heat rushed to your face. He smiled softly.
âI love how you still get shy for me.â
âIâm notâŠâ you started, but then his thumbs brushed your nipples and you gasped, your argument melting into air.
He kissed you slowly, a careful claiming. His tongue licked into your mouth with purpose, like he had all night and then some. You clutched at him, dizzy from the drag of his mouth and the scrape of stubble and the weight of wanting him this badly.
He pulled back, breathing hard.
âJeans,â he said.
âWhat?â
âTake them off, Sweetheart.â
You stood up and your hands moved on instinct. By the time you stepped out of your clothes, he was already between your thighs, mouth brushing your hipbone.
âYouâre always so good for me,â he murmured. âEven when youâre trying not to be.â
You whimpered as his fingers traced the seam of you, slow and patient, a feather-light pass designed to make you beg. And when his mouth finally replaced his hand, when his tongue found your clit, you gave up pretending.
You werenât professional. You werenât good. You were his.
And you came with his name in your mouth and your thighs shaking around his shoulders and his hands locked around your hips like heâd never let you go.
You were still catching your breath when he crawled up the bed beside you, his mouth glistening, his shoulders wide above you, his eyes trained on your face like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
He kissed the crease where your thigh met your stomach. Then he hovered over you, able to hold the weight of his body bracketed on either side of your ribs, and the head of his cock heavy where it rested just against your entrance.
âIâve been good,â he rasped, forehead pressed to yours. âReal good.â
âI know.â
He kissed you slowly, filthily, tongue curling into your mouth like he owned every sound. Then he rocked forward once, just a tease, his head slipping in, thick and wet and perfect.
Your breath stuttered.
âThe second Doc said I was clearedâŠâ he muttered, dragging his cock just slightly deeper, âyou know what I thought about?â
You arched beneath him, already shaking. âWhat?â
âYour voice. The way you sound when you cum for me.â
He pushed in deeper, a slow, thick stretch that made your legs fall open wider and your heels dig into the mattress.
âAnd this pussy,â he growled, sliding in to the hilt with a groan so low it shook your chest.Â
âI thought about this sweet fucking pussy every goddamn night.â
You cried out, high on him and wrecked, back arching as your body clenched around him.
âToo much?â he asked, still not moving.Â
His restraint was unbearable, your body screamed for more, his cock buried deep, his mouth hot on your neck.
âNot enough,â you whispered.
He swore under his breath. Then he pulled out slowly, and slammed back in hard enough to make the bed frame knock.
You gasped.
âThat better?â he rasped, fucking you deeper, harder, now fully unrestrained. âThat what you need?â
You couldnât answer. You could only moan.
âI shouldâve fucked you the second I could use both hands,â he growled into your skin. âShouldâve filled you up that first night out of the hospital. Couldâve been feeling this pussy flutter around me for weeks.â
His hand slipped between you, thumb dragging tight circles over your clit, forcing your body to meet him stroke for stroke.
âSay it,â he demanded, voice low and fraying. âSay you wanted this.â
âI wanted it,â you gasped. âGodâŠBucky, IâŠneeded it.â
âYeah?â He slammed into you again, the sound obscene. âYou gonna come for me, baby? Show me what Iâve been missing?â
Your thighs trembled. His mouth caught yours again, all teeth and tongue, swallowing every broken sound you made as the orgasm tore through you, hard and shaking and blinding.
He fucked you through it, relentless, his breath breaking as he chased his own edge.
âGonna fill you up,â he groaned. âGonna give you every drop Iâve been holding back.â
âPlease,â you begged âPleaseâŠ.â
That was all it took.
He grunted deep in his chest, slamming into you one last time before his hips stuttered, cock pulsing as he came hard, spilling inside you with a groan that made your stomach flip.
When he collapsed on top of you, shaking, his arms wrapped around you tight, his face buried in your neck.
You didnât speak for a long moment. Then he kissed your shoulder.
âWorth the wait,â he murmured, still breathless.
You smiled, fingers trailing through his damp hair.
âNext time,â you whispered, âdonât piss me off.â
He laughed, hoarse and wrecked.
âYes, maâam.â
â--
You didnât remember drifting off, just his warmth, the thump of his heart against your back, and the comfort of being wrapped in him again.
But at some point, you woke up still naked, still tangled in him, his cock already hard against the curve of your ass, and his hand idly trailing across your stomach. You shifted slightly.
His breath hitched.
âI thought you were asleep,â he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep, low and rough in your ear.
You didnât answer, not with words. You turned in his arms and climbed over him, straddling his hips in the dark.
Buckyâs hands slid automatically to your thighs. His gaze was dazed.
âYou sure?â
You reached between you, lined him up, and sank down with one smooth, slow motion.
He gasped, mouth falling open, eyes fluttering closed as his cock slid deep into you again.
âJesus. Fuck, baby.â
You exhaled sharply, adjusting to the stretch, to the heat, to the feeling of having him so full inside you again.
âI needed this,â you whispered, voice catching.
His hands squeezed your thighs.Â
âYou feelâŠGod, you feel like you were made for me.â
You rolled your hips, watching his breath stutter with every motion. He was trying not to lose it. Not yet. Not under you.
But you werenât going to make it easy.
You leaned over him, palms on his chest, letting your rhythm pick up just enough to make him groan. His hands moved up to your waist, gripping hard, trying to control the pace.
âLet me,â you whispered, rocking harder. âI need toâŠâ
âAnything,â he choked. âFuck! Take what you need, sweetheart. You want it, you got it.â
And you did. You took all of it: the stretch, the pressure, the thick slide of him inside you, riding him deep and slow, like you were burning his name into your spine.
Bucky was losing it beneath you, his head tipped back into the pillows.
âYouâre so tight,â he rasped. âSo fucking wet. This pussyâs got me. Please baby, Iâm not gonna last.â
You bent low, lips at his ear.
âDonât need you to last,â you whispered. âNeed you to come. With me.â
His hands grabbed your hips, and his voice broke when you clenched around him, riding him harder now, wetter, louder, both of you panting, frantic, so close.
You came first, a gasp torn from your throat as your body locked around him.
Bucky followed with a desperate moan, jerking his hips up into you as he came deep, flooding you again, and shaking with the force of it.
You collapsed on his chest, boneless and gasping, his arms wrapped around you like a reflex, like he didnât know how not to hold you. For a long moment, there was only breathing.
Then Bucky rolled you both onto your sides, your thigh slung over his hip, your face buried in the crook of his neck.
He was grinning.
Like an asshole.
âWhat?â you muttered, voice hoarse, skin flushed, limbs heavy.
âNothing,â he said, smug and self-satisfied. âJust thinking.â
You lifted your head. âDangerous.â
He chuckled, thumb brushing the side of your breast, dragging lazily.Â
âThinking about how you ride me like youâre in charge.â
You blinked. âI was in charge.â
His hand squeezed your hip. âOnly âcause I let you be.â
You snorted. âSays the man who was begging five minutes ago.â
âI wasnât begging,â he lied.
âYou said please.â
âI was being polite.â
You laughed, head dropping back to his shoulder. âSure, Lieutenant.â
He kissed your forehead. âYou gonna tease me every time I let you win?â
âObviously.â
You felt him shift, his hips rolling just enough for you to feel the still-slick length of him brush between your thighs. Not fully hard. Not soft either.
âBuckyâŠâ
He just grinned, sleep-heavy and wrecked, eyes soft.
âYou ruined me,â you whispered.
âOnly fair,â he murmured, pressing a kiss just below your jaw.Â
âYou keep showing up in my bed with that mouth, that body, and that fucking attitude.â
You swatted his arm. He caught your wrist and kissed your palm.
The air had changed.
âIâm disgusting,â you said eventually. âSweaty. Probably leaking.â
His smile grew. âHot.â
âBucky.â
âIâm just sayingâŠâ
âIâm taking a shower.â
âGood.â He propped himself up on an elbow. âYou need help getting there?â
âNo,â you said, already throwing off the blanket. âYou need rest. Doctorâs orders.â
You didnât bother putting anything on. Just padded toward the bathroom, naked and aching and trying to be functional.
The water was hot, the steam curling around your shoulders, and for a few precious seconds, you thought you might make it through the shower alone.
Then the door opened. A rush of cooler air hit your skin, followed by the delicious heat of his body pressing in behind you.
âBucky.â
He was already kissing a path along your shoulder.
âI just want to watch.â
You turned your head just enough to catch his smirk. His hair was damp already, curling a little at the ends, eyes hazy from sleep and sex and satisfaction.
âYouâre touching.â
âCan you blame me?â He licked behind your ear. âYouâre glowing.â
âThatâs the water.â
âItâs not.â
His hands slid around your waist, and you leaned back against him instinctively, his chest warm against your spine, cock brushing the curve of your ass, heavy again, but not quite hard.
Yet.
You picked up the soap, lathered slowly, trying to ignore the way he was watching your every move like it was the most erotic thing heâd ever seen.
âKeep doing that,â he said, voice ragged. âThe way your hands move⊠fuck.â
âYou are so easy.â
âAnd you are so mean.â
You turned around, eyes bright with mock innocence, and dragged your soapy hands over his chest.
âYou gonna report me?â
âOnly if you stop.â
You didnât. You took your time. Fingers exploring the slope of his ribs, the scar near his collarbone, his shoulder. Every line youâd kissed. Every mark you knew by heart.
He groaned. âYou know what that does to me.â
âYep.â You smiled. âThatâs why Iâm doing it.â
He caught your wrists, gently, pushing your hands back to your sides.
âYou keep that up,â he warned, âIâm gonna make you cum with your back against this wall and your legs shaking before the water turns cold.â
You blinked. âDid the doctor say you could do all that?â
âIâm barely moving.â
You kissed him then, slow and slick and smiling. His hands found your ass, and your throat, not rough, just claiming.
âIâll let you wash my hair,â he offered, pulling back just enough to grin. âIf you promise not to be such a tease.â
âYou love when I tease you.â
His brow lifted. âI love fucking you stupid.â
You laughed. Loud, bright, real.
âI love you.â
âAnd you know I worship the ground you walk on.â
You stood, the impact of his words running through you like a current.
âFine,â you said, changing the subject and grabbing the shampoo. âBut no more complaints.â
He turned obediently under the spray, water streaming down his back, and you lathered your hands slowly.
âYouâre really gonna let me do this without groping me again?â you asked.
He glanced over his shoulder, grin wide. âNope.â
Your lathered fingers sunk into his soft curls, nails grazing his scalp just enough to make him groan.
âJesus,â he muttered, head tipping forward under the spray. âYou tryna kill me?â
âJust being thorough.â
âYouâre being evil,â he said, eyes still closed, voice thick with bliss. âThe good kind.â
You smiled as you rinsed your hands and reached for the body wash next, slicking it between your palms. Then you pressed your hands to his chest.
âYou sure this is just hygiene?â he asked, mouth quirking.
âVery important to keep your muscles loose,â you said, dragging lower, slower, teasing him with every inch.Â
âDoctorâs orders.â
His breath stuttered when you reached his hips, not quite touching him yet, just smoothing the soap over every inch but the ones he wanted.
âSweetheartâŠâ
âMm?â you hummed, feigning innocence as you circled your hands around to his back, gliding over muscle and scar and heat. âSomething wrong?â
âYouâre gonna make me embarrass myself in the shower.â
âYou embarrassed?â
âNot yet,â he said, voice breaking. âBut Iâm getting close.â
You finally wrapped one slick hand around his cock and he swore, his hips twitching once, hard enough that you nearly laughed.
âYouâre hard again already?â you asked, pretending to be surprised.
âYouâre naked and smug,â he growled.
âYou brush your fucking teeth and I get hard. Your voice gets me hard. The sound you make when youâre trying not to come.â
You stroked him once, slow and perfect.
âLike that?â you whispered.
His head hit the tile with a thunk.
âFuck. Donât start.â
âYou started it.â
His hand found your waist, pulling you close, his cock pressing between your thighs now, sliding against your center, teasing where you were already aching again.
You gasped, eyes fluttering shut. âBuckyâŠâ
âJust like that,â he whispered. âSay my name like that and Iâll give you anything.â
You shifted your hips just enough to catch him between your folds, sliding slick against him, not taking him in, just letting the pressure build. And neither of you wanted to stop.
But he did. For a breath.
âTurn around,â he said, voice low and rough.
And you did, slowly, heart pounding, steam curling around you both. You pressed your palms to the tile, anticipation tight in your belly.
Buckyâs hand slid up your spine, a slow drag of wet heat that made you shiver.
âBeautiful,â he murmured behind you.
His other hand slid between your thighs, fingers gliding through your slick folds like he already knew every gasp youâd give him. And he did.
âStill so wet for me,â he said, like a reward. âYou never fucking stop, do you?â
You whimpered. His fingers circled your clit as his mouth pressed to the back of your neck.
âYou want me to fuck you in the shower?â he asked, voice dark and indulgent. âWanna feel this cock slide back inside and take you hard against the wall?â
You nodded, breathless. âPlease, BuckyâŠâ
He groaned, then grabbed your hips, lined himself up, and drove in with one smooth, brutal thrust.
You cried out, palms smacking wet against the tile.
âFuck, yes,â he hissed, bottoming out. âThatâs it. Just like that, baby.â
He gave you a second to adjust, not out of mercy, but because he was the one trembling now, buried deep in the body heâd been dreaming about for weeks.
âYou take me so fucking good,â he gritted out. âEvery time. Like you were made for it.â
You moaned, rocking back into him instinctively, greedy and aching and overwhelmed.
That was all it took.
He started to move, heavy, deep strokes that shoved your breath up into your throat. Your body arched under him, and all you could hear was the slap of wet skin and the filthy praise falling from his lips.
âLook at you,â he groaned, fucking into you harder now. âDripping. Shaking. You gonna come again?â
âI canâtâŠâ
âYes, you can,â he growled, one hand slipping around your waist to stroke your clit rubbing tight and fast.ââGonna feel you squeeze my cock while Iâm buried so fucking deep. Thatâs what I want.â
You sobbed, gasping. âIâŠBucky, IâmâŠâ
âCome,â he snarled, fucking you through it. âGive it to me. I need it. Need you.â
Your whole body locked as the orgasm hit, your knees giving out, your voice breaking, and his arm catching you just in time.
âFuck, fuck..,fuck,â he growled, thrusting once, twice more before he spilled deep inside you again, forehead pressed to your spine.
He didnât pull out, and he didnât let go. He just held you there, soaked and shaking and full of him, both of you breathless and burning and wrecked.
The water kept running.
But nothing washed this away the fact that you were finally his.
Summary: Is it Clark, or Superman between your legs?
Word Count: 355 words
Sexy September Scribbles Day 30: âDonât you dare close those legs.â
A/N: I have loved every second of the #SexySeptemberScribblesChallenge! Thank you so so much @soelstress and @societyfolklore for coming up with it. Since my Clark began during this challenge, I think he should round it out. đ Let me know if you like it by commenting & reblogging.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Oral (f receiving), spread-open kink, overstimulation, praise/command, flustered Clark, pussy drunk Clark, Superman slips through.
I don't have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! đ
I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
------
Clark settled on the floor between your thighs as you sat on the couch. His glasses were on the table, hair already mussed from your hands, and his broad shoulders were braced against your knees.
âGod, youâre perfect,â he murmured, lips brushing the inside of your thigh. âYou always taste so sweet⊠I could stay down here forever.â
The first drag of his tongue made you shudder, thighs twitching in on instinct. His hands shot up fast, palms pressing to the inside of your knees, forcing you wide.
âDonât you dare close those legs.â
The words came out darker than usual, guttural, the kind of tone that made your stomach drop and your cunt clench. For a moment, it didnât sound like Clark, it sounded like Superman, commanding and absolute. The contrast made you shiver.
Your breath caught. âClarkâŠâ
He groaned against you, sealing his mouth over your clit, sucking until you saw stars, then pulling off with a wet plop.
âYouâre gonna let me see it all,â he babbled between licks, voice breaking.
âSo good, so wet for me⊠donât hide from me, sweetheart, donât you dare.â
The pressure built so quickly that it was unbearable; his tongue was ruthless, licking until you were writhing against his face. You tried to twist away, overwhelmed, but his grip only tightened, pinning you wide open.
âStay just like that,â he growled, a rare command. âI want every tremor, every drop. Youâre mine.â
Your orgasm tore through you with a sob, thighs locking around his head. He didnât stop, didnât even slow down, moaning as he dragged another out of you, then another, until you were clawing the couch cushions and begging, half incoherent.
âPlease Clark, please baby, I⊠I canâtâŠâ
But it was like he was in another universe.
When he finally lifted his head, his mouth was slick, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were blazing like youâd handed him the sun. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and smiled, but it wasnât his normal angelic grin.
âGood girl,â Clark panted, staring at your dripping cunt and dragging his thumbs along your trembling thighs.
Summary: Your words come back to haunt you. In the worst (or best) way possible.
Word Count: 364
Sexy September Scribbles Day 29: âOnce we start Iâm not gonna stop."
A/N: This is a new Congressman!Bucky đš
Warnings: Minors DNI. Not Betaâd. Read at your own risk. SMUT! 18+ ONLY. Enemies-to-lovers sparks, power dynamics, and a whole lot of sexual tension. Explicit sexual content. Explicit sex act, references to oral, fingering, light choking, degradation/praise kink, messy desire.Public figures, political themes. Enemies-to-lust vibes.
I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! đ
NOTICE: I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
-------
The bar wasnât crowded enough to explain how you ended up pressed against the wall of its back hallway, but you knew better than to try to use logic for this situation.
âYou think youâre gonna write me into a corner?âÂ
Buckyâs voice was low, bourbon-rough, his tie half undone, and his hand already braced beside your head. His mouth curved into a smirk you recognized too well.Â
âWhat was it you wrote? â...his smile silences harder questions than yours?âÂ
His lips brushed your ear as he laughed darkly.
âFunny. This is the smile that got you on your knees, Sweetheart.â
Heat flared in your cheeks at the memory, kneeling between his spread thighs, mascara running, his voice wrecked as he fucked your mouth until you choked. You hated how your body responded, thighs clenching even now.
You hated more that he wasnât wrong.
âIâm just doing my job, Congressman. And Iâm not going to stop.â
His eyes darkened, seeing right through you. He leaned close, lips grazing your ear.
âIs that right? Let me tell you something. Once we start,â he rasped, âIâm not gonna stop. Not until youâre begging me to. Maybe not even then.âÂ
The involuntary shiver gave you away
âYou ready for that, Sweetheart?â
âIâm ready for anything and everything,â you whispered.
That was all it took. His mouth crashed against yours, teeth scraping, tongue claiming. His vibranium hand wrapped around your throat, not tight, just enough to pin you, while the other shoved your skirt high.
You gasped when his fingers slid beneath silk, and he groaned at the wetness he found.
âYou hate me, huh? Donât buy it,â he muttered, pressing two fingers into your sloppy cunt.
Your hips bucked, nails clawing his suit jacket.
âHate you with all my heart.â
âLiar,â he laughed, fingers curling deep until your knees buckled.
He caught you easily as he kept his rhythm, merciless, like the man you wrote him to be. You moaned into his mouth, the sound swallowed by another bruising kiss. He didnât slow, didnât soften, just drove you higher, like heâd promised.
By the time you broke on his hand, you knew he was right.
Pairing: Art Curator Ari Levinson x Plus Sized Model!Reader (Muse)
Summary: Ari makes sure it takes.
Word Count: 929
Sexy September Scribbles Day 28: âI love when youâre creamy with my cumâ
A/N:I have three days to go and I fear I have lost the plot of the 300 word limit. However, I am proud that I stuck to if for the majority of days. It's not my fault. Ari and Muse decided to milk (he he) the breeding kink in this one. Slap my hand (with that DICK đ ). This is a Muse Fic. Ari and Muse's first time is here. Let me know if you like this one by commenting & reblogging.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Established relationship, Ari is a menace who is also your husband and your baby daddy, Ari is strong, huge and has a big dick, breeding kink, creampie, cum play, degredation kink with begging, praise, oversensitivity, possessiveness, Dom to tender Ari, eternally obessed with Muse.
I don't have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! đ
I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
------
Ari hooked your thighs and lifted you easily when the apartment door shut as laughter caught in your throat. It felt like the first time, only now there was a baby monitor on the dresser and your ring glinting in the hall light.
Cleo was at Ariâs momâs for the first time; you were reckless with the freedom.
He carried you up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, your heels dangling from one hand, your mouth open on his neck. You bit him just to taste the salt of his skin, and he groaned, adjusting his grip to pin you higher against his chest.
âShow-off,â you breathed, even as you clung tighter.
âIncurable,â he rasped, shouldering the bedroom door open. He set you down on the mattress, chain glinting, eyes already dark and hungry.
His palms mapped you like a favorite gallery: thighs, waist, breasts, he was worshipful as he bared you under him.
âMissed this,â he whispered, tongue dragging hot over the soft place beneath your collarbone. âMissed my pussy.â
âLiar,â you teased, hips rocking when his fingers slid through your slick. âYou had me on the counter before we left for SOBâs.â
âThat was an appetizer,â Ari said, curling two fingers inside you, watching your body take them. âThis is the meal.â
He pushed into you slowly, thick stretch delicious, with your gasp sharp against his mouth. He swallowed it, then broke the kiss with a groan, driving in deep until your back arched.
âFuckâŠtight as ever,â he panted, grinding to the hilt. âPretty little cunt just milking me.â
You whimpered, nails raking down his broad chest. âYours. Always yours Ari.â
Something fierce flickered in his eyes, and his rhythm turned ruthless, hips pistoning his big cock inside you. His chain dragged over your sternum, and sweat slicked your breasts as he hit that spot that made you see stars.
âGod, look at you,â Ari rasped, pulling back just enough to see your slick clinging to the base of his cock. You clenched shamelessly around him.
He laughed, wrecked. âFuck, youâre dripping for me. Greedy girl.â
âYour greedy girl,â you gasped, and he snapped his hips harder, his jaw tight.
Your orgasm ripped through and your body clenched down around him as you cried out his name. Ari cursed, bottoming out as his own climax broke, hot spurts flooding you while he groaned into your neck.
He stayed buried to the root, grinding through aftershocks until you were shaking. Then he pulled out slowly, both of you watching as his cum spilled out, warm and thick. His thumb caught the mess.
âFuck, look at you,â Ari snarled, smearing it back into your swollen cunt.Â
âMy sloppy little whore, leaking my cum everywhere. Still not enough. Gonna keep you dripping till youâre bred all over again. My cunt, my baby in you, every fucking drop stays mine.â
The words scorched through you, and you moaned, arching into his hand as you clenched around the press of his thumb.
âGod, Ari⊠say it again,â you begged, eyes glassy with need.
He obliged, âMy sloppy little whore.â
It wasnât enough. You whimpered, clutching at his chain.Â
âAgain. PleaseâŠsay it again.â
His cock was already thickening, twitching against your thigh as he rasped it once more.Â
âSloppy little cockwhore.â
You sobbed, trembling, begging louder now, shameless. He groaned at the sight of you, ruined and desperate, his cock fully hard again.
âGreedy little thing,â Ari snarled, shifting his weight and lining up.
âCanât even wait. Still messy from the first load and youâre begging me to fill you again.â
You gasped when he shoved back into you in one ruthless stroke, the stretch brutal on your oversensitive cunt. He swallowed your scream with his mouth as he pounded into you with new ferocity.
âMine,â he growled against your lips. âMy beautiful little slut. My greedy girl. Taking everything I give you, every drop.â
Your hips canted helplessly into his thrusts, already teetering on the edge again as he fucked you through the wreck of the first round.
âBeg me again,â he demanded, snapping his hips hard enough to make the headboard slam.
âPlease,â you choked out, sobbing against his mouth. âSay it again.â
His grin was wrecked as he ground deep and hissed it into your ear.
âYou are my sloppy little cumwhore. A slut for my cock.â
You shattered around him, crying his name as he filled you a second time, just as thoroughly as the first.
You were still shaking when he finally slowed, his cock twitching as his cum spilled hot and thick inside you again. He didnât pull out this time. One broad hand held you open, thumb stroking circles into your swollen clit until you whimpered and thrashed.Â
âLook at you,â Ari whispered, voice wrecked but reverent.
âMy wife. My love. Gave me our little girl, and youâre still here taking me like this.âÂ
He kissed your temple.Â
âNot just mine to use. Mine in every way that matters. Always. I love you, Muse.â
You melted beneath him, tears stinging your eyes at the shift in his tone, the raw devotion that lived alongside his hunger. He gathered you close, rocking gently through the aftershocks, holding you like you were the most precious thing heâd ever been given.
The baby monitor on the dresser stayed quiet, the city hummed beyond the window, and Ariâs hand never left your belly, as if reminding you of every promise heâd ever made since the first night he carried you up the stairs, and every one heâd keep.
Summary: When you move, Nick moves. Just like that.
Word count: 320 wds
Pairing: Bodyguard!Nick Fowler x Pop Star!Reader
Sexy September Scribbles Day 27: âJust like thatâ
A/N: This fic was inspired by the movie The Bodyguard starring Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner, IYKYK. This is a companion piece to Run To You,
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. No smut, just Angst, idiots in love?, rough sex, Nick dancing. The feels are real, reader is so gone for Nick and vice versa, but again, they are idiots.
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The studio was darkened and the sound of your ballad filled the empty space. Rehearsal had ended hours ago, but you still needed a dance partner to work on the ballad. Everyone else was gone. Everyone but him.
He was always there. Your shadow. Moving when and where you did.
Nick sighed when you asked. He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled his sleeves up, forearms taut and veined.
âFive minutes,â he muttered.
You grinned, taking his hand and placing it at your waist as you stood in front of him.Â
âThatâs all I need.â
The sultry music swelled, and you pressed back on him. His palm tightened instinctively.
âMove with me,â you coaxed, rolling your hips to guide him.
His jaw flexed, stubborn as always. âThis isnâtâŠâ
âJust like that,â you whispered, cutting him off, dragging your body over his as the rhythm pulsed.
Nick tried to hold himself together, but when you turned in his arms and slid your hand up his chest, the fight was over. He gripped you tighter as he moved with you, every shift harder, hungrier, until the dance became something else entirely.
âYou think this is funny?âÂ
His voice was rough at your ear, but his body betrayed him as his cock pressed against you, straining against his slacks.
âNot funny,â you breathed, locking eyes with him. âPerfect.â
That broke him. He bent, mouth crashing to yours, swallowing the gasp he dragged from your throat. His tongue slid past your lips, greedy and hot, while his hands roamed lower, slipping inside your sweats and squeezing your ass until you rocked against him. The mirror caught everything, your parted lips, his hulking frame bent over you, and the way your hips ground together in time with the music.
âJust like that,â you murmured against his lips, smiling when he groaned into your mouth.
Summary: Clark has been thinking about you all day long.
Word Count: 326 wds
Sept 26: âSo wet, you mustâve been waiting for this.â
A/N: Two days in a row. I am a folding chair. But, hey. Let me know if you like it like that.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Explicit sexual content, handjob/frottage, begging if you squint, praise/v. slight degradation kink, wetness kink. Dirty boy Clark.
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I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself
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He kissed you like he hadnât seen you in years, even though heâd just walked in the door. It was the kind of kiss that stole your balance, that left you pressed to the wall as he panted into your mouth with his glasses crooked and his hands already up your shirt.
You arched into him, desperate for more, but when you reached between you, your fingers froze. His slacks were damp and clinging to him. You pressed harder and felt the heat and the slick of him.Â
Clark groaned, forehead thudding against yours, his breath ragged.
âClark,â you whispered, your hand sliding over the wet spot. His cock twitched under your palm.
âYouâre soaked.â
Color burned high on his cheeks. He tried to hide it with a shaky laugh, but then a whimper escaped.
âSo wet,â you teased, unbuttoning his fly and sliding your hand fully into his boxers. The cotton was drenched, sticky with the pre-cum that was spilling from him. You wrapped your fingers around him, slicking easily down his length. âYou mustâve been waiting for this.â
His hips jerked helplessly into your hand.Â
âAll day,â he admitted hoarsely.
âCouldnât stopâŠfuckâŠcouldnât stop thinking about you.â
You stroked him slowly, savoring the way his lashes fluttered, the way his body trembled as he leaked for you. The reversal was intoxicating: Clark undone, wet and needy, gasping out your name like he couldnât survive without your touch.
When you tightened your grip and twisted your wrist just right, his composure shattered. His back arched, mouth open on a strangled groan as he spilled hot into your hand, soaking what little fabric was left between you.
You kissed him through it, swallowing every sound, every tremor, until he sagged against you.
âLook at you,â you teased, licking your palm clean. âSo wet for me you couldnât even wait.â
You laughed, only for the sound to break into a squeal when your world tilted as Clark hefted you over his shoulder and headed for the shower.
Sexy September Scribbles day 25: âYouâre taking me so wellâ
A/N: It must be the hypno glasses. I can't stop.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Explicit sexual content, dissociation, sizeee kink, praise kink, rough sex, fingering/grinding, creampie implication, biting/marking, mentions of first-time memory.
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I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.
-------
Clark had been rambling about Perry, something about a meeting, and youâd only half-listened until he said it: âHe took that well.â
The words hit like a trigger, and suddenly you werenât in the kitchen anymore. You were back in his bed on that first night.
His hands had actually trembled when he touched you, and he was careful at first, almost shy. When you begged him not to hold back, his lips had crashed into yours. His heavy body pinned you to the mattress as he slid inside slowly, so girthy that you thought youâd split in two.
That was when his voice dropped into that guttural register for the first time.
Youâre taking me so well.
The praise made you arch into him, which made him groan like heâd never felt anything so good in his life. Heâd kissed you like a starving man after that, thrusting deeper, and learning every broken sound you made until he had them memorized.
âSweetheart?âÂ
Clarkâs voice pulled you back. He was watching you now, brows knit, concern softening his features.Â
âYou okay?â
You couldnât answer. Not when your cunt was already wet for him. Not when your heart was pounding like it had that first time. He read it in your face anyway.
âCâmere,â he whispered.
One tug and you were in his lap, straddling him on the chair. His mouth was on yours before you could breathe, glasses askew, teeth grazing your lip.
Clarkâs hands gripped your ass and hauled you closer, grinding you down over the hard line of him. You whimpered, rolling your hips, and he cursed under his breath as he shoved his sweats down.
The blunt, thick head of his cock pressed against you, impossibly wide. He didnât tease; he never could with you. One steady push and he was inside, stretching you open until you broke with a gasp. The burn was so delicious.
âClarkâŠâ
âShh.â His mouth pressed to your ear, voice already ragged. âTaking me so good, sweetheart. Here. Now. So damn good.â
His hands cupped your hips, guiding you into a rhythm where very thrust bottomed out deep and your breasts bounced against his chest. His thighs tensed beneath you, muscles straining as he met every roll of your body with one of his own.
You clung to him, panting against his mouth, the friction so perfect it made your vision blur. He fucked up into you harder, voice breaking as he buried himself again and again.
âLike you were made for me. Every time. So fucking perfect.â Clark groaned, teeth scraping your throat.Â
The praise made you cum, your body seizing around him as the world blurred white-hot. Clark groaned into your mouth, rutting deep until his rhythm broke and he spilled inside you while his hands locked you down on his cock.
He held you through it, forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling and gasping. When the aftershocks finally ebbed, he kissed you again, slowly.
âEvery moment with you is perfect,â he whispered, voice hoarse but tender, as if he wanted the words to sink all the way into your bones.
