Hello there everyone! My name is Alexis but I usually go by Lexi! I figured I would give a proper introduction to all of you especially if I’m going to try and make friends on here!! ☺️
About Me;
I am a twenty-six (Taurus ♉️) year old female who is a full time mama to the two cutest little girls and a bonus little boy. I love making new friends, spending time with my loved ones, baking, coloring, roleplaying, playing video games, and getting out of my comfort zone! My favorite food is Italian or Indian and my favorite drink is Dr. Pepper or Strawberry Limeade from Sonic! My favorite colors are black, black cherry red, and dark green.
Fandom(s);
Marvel; Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier/White Wolf), Steve Rogers (Captain America), Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow), Wanda Maximoff (Scarlett Witch), Erik Lehnsherr (Magneto), James Howlett (Wolverine), Sam Wilson (Captain America/Falcon), Frank Castle (The Punisher) .
Top Gun/Top Gun Maverick; Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, Tom “Iceman” Kazansky, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, Jake “Hangman” Seresin, Robert “Bob” Floyd, Natasha “Phoenix” Trace.
Grey’s Anatomy; Alex Karev, Lexie Grey, Jackson Avery, Mark Sloan, Derek Shepherd, Addison Montgomery, Callie Torres.
Twilight; Edward Cullen, Carslile Cullen, Jasper Hale, Rosalie Hale, Seth Clearwater, Paul Lahote.
Sons of Anarchy; Jax Teller, Juice Ortiz, Opie Winston.
Harry Potter; Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley, Fred Weasley, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, Pansy Parkinson.
The Vampire Diaries;
Elijah Mikaelson, Klaus Mikaelson, Stefan Salvatore, Damon Salvatore.
Supernatural;
Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester.
Gossip Girl; Carter Baizen, Nate Archibald.
Star Wars; Din Djarin, Anakin Skywalker, Kylo Ren (Ben Solo).
Celebrity; Sebastian Stan, Henry Cavill, Chris Evans, Jason Momoa, Charlie Hunnam, Tom Felton, Anthony Mackie, Michael B. Jordan, Tom Hiddleston, Aaron Taylor Johnson, Hayden Christensen, Pedro Pascal, Val Kilmer, Miles Teller, Mila Kunis, Glen Powell, Elizabeth Olsen, Scarlett Johansson, Jeremy Renner, Tom Ellis, Ben Barnes, Heath Ledger, Adam Driver, Channing Tatum, Heath Ledger, Gal Gadot, and Lewis Pullman; only to name a few. 😏🤣
Don’t Ever Be Afraid To Reach Out!! 🥰 Have a beautiful day today!!
pairing | drifter!bucky x fem!reader x drifter!steve
word count | 23.3k words (sorry yall, save this for bed)
summary | two drifters take refuge on a sun-blistered louisiana farm, but the real heat comes from the farmer’s enigmatic daughter who draws them in with slow, honey-thick temptation.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), Explicit Sexual Content, porn w plot (and i really think the plot is good), farmers!daughter!reader, multiple smut scenes (yeah i went overboard), southern gothic vibes, lots of erotica, sexual tension, STUCKY ANGST,mutual pining (heavy denial), lots of unprotected sex, piv, oral (m&f!receiving), secret sex, lying, seduction, threesome (m/m/f), sensory overload, horny!reader (unapologetically), reader is a freak, love triangle (and best believe this is a triangle with all three ends), voyeurism (self righteous steve), double penetration, first time stucky (reader is their main cheerleader), shameless!reader, manipulative!reader, knows exactly what she's doing, enjoys instigating and stirring the pot, steve rogers is repressed and in denial, bucky barnes has a dirty mouth and is easily jealous, pride vs desire, lotsssss of religious imagery, sin vs purity imagery, they all need therapy but instead they have sex, (there's probably more i should add, but i dont remember)
a/n | this has been sitting in ellipses for the last month, finally im free! jumping on the stucky train, and i have no shame abt it. and i really tried to edit and cut, but everything is important to the plot
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
MASTERLIST
divider by @omi-resources
The two-tone ’78 Chevy sat wheezing on the shoulder, its hood punched open like a yawn in the late-afternoon heat. Beyond the ribbon of cracked asphalt, cane fields lay flat and humming, cicadas sawing at the silence. Bucky leaned both forearms on the grill, hair sticking to the sweat on his neck, and offered a lopsided grin that only made things worse.
“Relax, Stevie. Tank’s empty, not the end of the world.”
Steve slammed the driver’s door harder than he meant to; the truck shuddered like it might expire altogether. “Not the end of the world? We’re forty miles from a town anyone’s heard of, it’s a hundred degrees, we got eight dollars between us, and you didn’t think to check the gauge?”
Bucky shrugged, easy as a breeze. “Gauge is busted, remember? Besides, you were the one drivin’ last—”
“Because you were too busy sweet-talking that waitress to keep your eyes on the road.”
“Tyra?” Bucky’s smile widened. “She gave us pie for free.”
“Great. Maybe we can burn it for fuel.” Steve dragged a hand through his hair and squinted up the road; nothing but heat rippling off the tarmac. “We need a plan.”
“We got one,” Bucky said, straightening. He rapped the hood twice, like patting a tired mule. “We walk. Someone around here’s gotta sell gas. Maybe even trade a couple hours’ work for a full can.”
“Or they’ll run us off with an axe.” Steve’s voice softened despite himself; frustration never stuck to Bucky for long. “This was supposed to be different, Buck. Thought we’d find steady work in New Orleans—”
“And we did, for a minute. Things change.” Bucky’s gaze drifted past Steve to the hazy edge where pasture met cypress and moss. “Look, the road forks up ahead—left’s more fields, right’s water. Bayou country. People out here always need strong backs.” He slung their one duffel over his shoulder. “C’mon. Sun’s not gettin’ any kinder.”
Steve glanced at the truck and sighed. “You really think we’ll ‘figure it out’?”
“We always do.” Bucky’s grin turned conspiratorial, the one that had gotten them into brawls and out of worse. “Besides, you love savin’ my ass. Gives you purpose.”
“One of these days,” Steve muttered, though a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth, “your luck’s gonna run out.”
“Then I’ll borrow yours.” Bucky tipped an imaginary hat and started down the asphalt, boots crunching gravel. After a beat, Steve fell in beside him.
The sun slid lower, painting the sky blood-orange. Somewhere to the east, a smear of water reflected the light. The air smelled of cane juice and distant brackish rot.
Eventually dusk bled over the cane fields in long bruised stripes, the sky turning molasses-thick and purple. For close to an hour, the only sounds had been boot soles on gravel and Bucky’s running commentary; little jokes about gator crossings, predictions of cold beer “just past the next bend,” memories of music drifting out of French Quarter bars.
He talked as if words could keep the darkness from settling on their shoulders.
Steve let most of it wash past. Sweat glued the back of his shirt to his spine; the sun had scalded the bridge of his nose raw. Every mile without a plan felt heavier than the duffel bumping against his hip. When Bucky announced, for the fourth time, that “things always work out,” Steve only answered with a quiet grunt and kept walking.
Then the road took a shallow dip and opened onto a low rise of pasture, and there it was—a farmhouse half-hidden behind live oaks, porch lights already flickering on like fireflies. Off to the right, a tin-roofed barn crouched at the edge of a bayou inlet, its stilts mirrored in dark water. Smoke drifted from a chimney in a lazy ribbon; somewhere close, a cow lowed.
Bucky stopped dead and threw out an arm as if presenting a miracle. “Told you, pal. Luck’s a lady tonight.”
Steve studied the place; fencing mended in patches, tractor parked beneath a tarp, rows of tomatoes staked with twine. Not prosperous, but lived-in, cared for. “Or it’s someone’s home, and we’re about to get run off for trespassing.”
“Won’t know ’til we ask.” Bucky’s grin caught the last shred of light, turning his eyes almost silver. “Guy like you knocks on a door, says ‘Sir, evening, we’re lookin’ for some shelter for the night,’ who’s gonna say no?”
“Plenty of people,” Steve muttered, but the fight had drained out of his voice. He glanced back the way they’d come, miles of empty asphalt slowly disappearing into night, and exhaled. “All right. We try.”
They left the road, boots whispering through knee-high grass that smelled of sun-baked sugarcane and river mud. A chorus of frogs started up, rhythmic and lewd, as if cheering them on. When they reached the split-rail fence, Bucky vaulted it in one easy swing; Steve followed, slower, feeling the rail creak beneath his weight.
Closer now, Steve noticed the details Bucky’s optimism had missed; shutters needing paint, porch boards warping at the ends, the faint uneven beat of a generator somewhere out back. A place run by sweat and necessity, not spare cash.
Bucky rolled his shoulders like a man warming up for a dance. “Let me talk first. I’ll soften ’em up.”
Steve’s mouth twitched. “And if sweet talk doesn’t cover room and board?”
“Then you flex those big-boy muscles and show ’em we’re worth feeding.” He winked.
Steve looked past him to the porch. A screen door stood ajar, warm lamplight spilling through, and inside he caught a glimpse of movement—someone crossing a threshold.
“Yeah,” Steve said finally. “Could be worse.”
Behind them the sun sank, and the bayou lapped soft against the stilts, as if tasting something new in the twilight air.
The screen door slapped once against its frame and stayed half-open, lamplight spilling across warped porch boards. A man stepped out. A raw-boned figure in dungarees and a sweat-stained work shirt, the brim of his straw hat casting his face in shadow. The pump shotgun balanced in the crook of his arm said everything his tight mouth didn’t.
Bucky lifted one hand, palm out, easy smile already in place. “Evenin’, sir. Hate to trouble you—”
“You’re already doin’ it,” the man cut in, voice dry as crushed shell. His eyes flicked from Bucky’s scuffed boots to the duffel on Steve’s shoulder, then back. “Road’s that way if you’re passin’ through.”
Bucky chuckled like they were all sharing a joke. “Wish we were. Truck ran dry few miles back. Just lookin’ for a spot of ground to lay our heads, maybe point us toward gas come mornin’.”
Mr. Moreau, Steve caught the stitched name on a feed-store cap hooked to a nail by the door, didn’t blink. “Folks who show up empty always want more’n a night’s sleep.”
“Not us,” Bucky said, still smooth but softer now, reading the room. “Couple hours on a cot, we’re golden.”
Steve stepped forward, wiping his palm on his jeans before offering it. “Sir, we don’t expect charity. We grew up working yards and warehouses in Brooklyn. Let us put in a day’s labour; repair fence, muck stalls, whatever needs doing, in exchange for a meal and a corner of your barn. Tomorrow we’ll walk to town, buy fuel, and be gone.”
The old man studied Steve’s hand like it might bite. Up close Steve could see the lines etched deep around his mouth, the cautious flare of his nostrils, the calculation behind the suspicion. When he finally spoke, he addressed Steve, not Bucky.
“You fix fence?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Know your way around a baler?”
“Can learn quick.”
Moreau’s gaze shifted to Bucky. “And you?”
Bucky’s grin turned boyish. “I swing a hammer straight and don’t complain about blisters.”
A long moment of silence stretched, filled only by the bayou’s night chorus and the low thrum of a diesel generator. Then Moreau nodded once, sharp. “Barn’s there.” He jerked his chin past a line of pecan trees toward the weather-silvered structure on stilts. “You’ll sleep in the loft—floor’s solid. I’ll send my girl with sheets, pillows and supper.”
He paused, shotgun still resting easy but present. “Sunup, you start mending the northeast fence line where the posts lean. No smoking, no liquor, no wandering past the pens after dark. Gators like the warm water.”
Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Bucky tipped two fingers from his brow. “Much obliged, Mr. Moreau.”
Steve offered his hand again; Mr. Moreau finally considered the gesture, then shook once. It was firm and testing. “Careful, bayou’s mean at night, and I ain’t friendlier.”
They watched him retreat across the porch, boards groaning under deliberate steps. Inside, a screen door banged and lamplight shifted, framing a second silhouette for half a heartbeat, before it disappeared deeper into the house.
As they crossed the yard the porch lights dimmed, leaving only moon-slivered clouds and the distant lantern glow of the barn.
Bucky exhaled a satisfied breath. “See? Luck.”
Steve shot him a side-eye that was half exhaustion, but reluctant amusement won out. “Your kind of luck usually gets me shot at.”
“Guy didn’t even chamber a round. We’re fine,” Bucky said, swinging the duffel like a lunch pail. “C’mon, punk. We got hay to fluff before the linens arrive. Wouldn’t want the lady of the house thinking we’re ungrateful.”
They crossed the yard toward the barn as cicadas struck up their night chorus, and behind them the bayou breathed thick water-scent into the dark.
The barn’s lower doors groaned shut behind them, sealing in the smell of hay dust, old saddle soap, and the faint sweetness of cane. A thick ladder hugged one beam; Bucky scrambled up first, boots thudding on the rungs. When he pushed through the loft hatch he let out a low whistle that echoed off the rafters.
“Well, hell—thought we’d be beddin’ down with the cows.”
Steve followed, palms rough against the rails. The space wasn’t the raw hayloft he’d pictured. Slanted cedar walls glowed amber in the lamplight, and a faded striped couch sat center stage, its cushions sun-soft. A trunk doubled as a coffee table; books leaned drunkenly on handmade shelves beside a beaten-brass telescope aimed through a cut-out window toward the purpling sky.
Bucky flopped onto the couch, springs sighing. “Damn. Better than half the motels we’ve stayed in.” He stretched, hands locked behind his head, boots still on. “Called it—Barnes luck.”
Steve shot him a look. “Boots off. Don’t wreck the place five minutes in.”
“Boots are fine.” Bucky toed one heel against the other anyway, dropping them beside the trunk. Then he tipped his head back, scanning rafters strung with paper stars and a single model airplane dangling by fishing line. “Knew Moreau wasn’t as mean as he let on.”
“Or this belongs to his daughter, and he’ll tan you for putting your filthy socks on her couch.” Steve drifted to the telescope, brushing a thumb over its brass barrel.
In the corner sat a small writing desk cluttered with jars of dried flowers, a stub of vanilla candle, and a horsehair brush still catching the lamplight in its bristles. Feminine touches, but nothing frilly enough to feel staged.
He glanced at Bucky, who had already settled deeper, arms splayed like a victorious cat. “We’ve got one night of goodwill, Buck. Tomorrow we work till our backs snap, and then we’re still broke. Gas isn’t growin’ in that south field.”
Bucky closed one eye, pretending to sight something on the ceiling. “You worry too loud. We fix the fence, maybe fix the truck while we’re at it—they toss us a few extra dollars, or a jerry can. Folks out here respect elbow grease.”
“Respect doesn’t fuel an engine.”
“Neither does frettin’. You’ll give yourself ulcers before thirty.” He rolled to his side, propping his head on a bent elbow. “Come on, take a seat. Feel this cushion. It’s practically luxury.”
Steve ignored the invitation and set his eye to the telescope. Through dusty glass he caught a sliver of bayou, water black and mirror still, framed by cypress knees. Fireflies sparked like stray embers above the reeds. Something about the view stirred a bone-deep ache for order he couldn’t name.
Behind him Bucky huffed. “You’re really gonna stand there brooding? You’ll ruin my mood, Rogers.”
“You have a mood?”
“Best mood this side of the South, if you’d let it breathe.” The couch creaked again; Bucky’s feet thumped the floor. “Fine. I’ll do a full inspection. Make sure no ghosts under the bed.” He padded toward a curtained alcove where a narrow mattress crouched beneath more quilts.
Steve lowered the telescope. “Careful.”
“Relax, I’m just checking.” Bucky flipped back the curtain, paused, then called over his shoulder, softer, “There’s a vase of fresh magnolias in here, Steve.”
Steve nodded once. “All the more reason to treat this place right.” He dragged fingers through hair damp with sweat and twilight humidity. “Tomorrow, we fence. After that, we find a way to buy gas.”
Bucky chuckled, but it came out tired. “Tomorrow, we survive. Tonight, we sleep on feather cushions like kings.”
A scrape sounded below, the barn’s side door opening. Lantern light bobbed on the ladder rungs. Steve stepped forward, heart ticking faster despite himself, as he caught the soft shuffle of feet heading toward the loft.
“Guess Mr. Moreau’s ‘girl’ brought supper,” Bucky murmured, straightening his shirt, suddenly attentive.
Steve’s pulse thudded, nerves tight for reasons he couldn’t quite blame on hunger. He smoothed his face into politeness.
“Remember,” he muttered, “boots off the furniture. And be respectful.”
Bucky grinned, eyes flicking to the ladder hatch where a warm glow now haloed the first edge of a tray. “No promises, pal.”
Boot-steps creaked up the ladder—slow, sure.You appeared in the hatch with twilight at your back, balancing a tin tray loaded with two enamel plates, a fat mason jar of water beaded with condensation, pillows and neatly folded sheets tucked beneath one arm.
“Evenin’, boys.”
Bucky was on his feet before the last syllable hit the rafters, grin flashing like he’d been rehearsing it. “Evenin’.” He slid a hand under the tray, thumb brushing the outside of your wrist as he relieved you of the weight. “Smells incredible. You must be the angel Mr Moreau mentioned. I’m James Bucky Barnes, and the tall, worried lookin’ fella is Steve Rogers.”
You arched a brow, amused, “Angel, huh?” The word tasted ironic coming from you, syrupy drawl cut with something sharper. “More like delivery girl. Pillow-fairy if you’re polite.”
You set the pillows on the couch arm, smoothed the patterned sheet across the cushions. Up close, sweat-shine on their skin smelled of road dust and cut cane.
Steve cleared his throat, polite even with his sleeves rolled and collar limp. “Thank you for supper… and the linens, ma’am. This your cookin’?”
“Jambalaya,” you hummed, rolling the word slow. “Daddy says it keeps visitors honest—pepper’ll burn lies off a tongue. Hope you’re hungry.”
Bucky inhaled over the plate, eyes closing like a man at church. “Starvin’, darlin’.” Then, glancing around the loft, “Guess this is your spot? Kinda figured we’d be burrowin’ into hay bales.”
Your shrug said maybe tomorrow. “Daddy doesn’t usually let strangers sleep on his land, much less up here.” You perched on the trunk, unbothered by their looming height. “Guess he saw somethin’ useful in you.”
Steve straightened, earnest. “We appreciate it. If you’d rather we sleep downstairs—”
“Relax, Captain Courtesy,” Bucky cut in, throwing him a side-eye. “We’ll keep our boots off the sofa, promise.” To you, softer, “You’re welcome to sit a spell, if you’re not busy. Share a plate. Tell us the house rules.”
The offer hung there with the dust motes, cicadas whirring through the slats, night air thick with sweetgrass and something darker underneath. You let it linger, watching how Steve’s jaw flexed when Bucky talked, how Bucky’s fingertips tapped the tray like he had more to say with them.
Finally you leaned back on your palms, eyes flicking from one to the other. “House rule’s simple; earn your keep. Fence line’s a mess, cows need milkin’, and Daddy hates slackers.” A slow smile uncurled. “But I might come up later, see if the telescope’s still pointed true.”
Bucky’s grin sharpened. “We’ll set it for the moon.”
You rose, brushing hay dust from your jeans. “Eat while it’s hot. I’ll fetch y’all at first light.” At the hatch you paused, tilting your head just enough that lamp-glow kissed the line of your neck. “Sweet dreams, city boys.”
Boot-steps receded, leaving the scent of spices and warm wood in your wake. Bucky let out a low whistle, passing Steve a plate. “Tell me again why you thought today was a bad day.”
Steve didn’t answer. He just watched the ladder, heart knocking once, twice—like somebody’d tapped a match to kindling he’d forgotten was there.
The wire rasped through worn leather gloves as Steve cinched a new section taut against the post.
Morning heat hadn’t hit full force yet; the light was soft, hazy, dust motes floating like lazy sparks each time the staple met wood. Across from him, Bucky should’ve been driving the next nail, but his hammer paused halfway, blue eyes angled toward the paddock.
You were out by the dairy pen, skirt hem stopping at mid-thigh, knees braced to the churn of a milk pail. Every now and then you tipped the tin to pour a pale ribbon into the waiting bucket, the motion flexing your thighs.
Bucky’s lips pulled into a slow grin. “Tell me that view doesn’t make fence-mending a religious experience.”
“Eyes on the post,” Steve muttered, tamping the staple flat. “We finish the south line before the sun’s overhead.”
“M’hands are workin’, my eyes are multitaskin’.” Bucky leaned, deliberately stretching the thick cotton of his vest. “Can you blame me? Those legs could power a tractor.”
Steve followed the angle of Bucky’s gaze despite himself—caught the way morning light traced the curve of your calf, the slip of skin above a worn boot. He cleared his throat and yanked the next length of wire. “Point is, don’t stare. It’s rude. And we told Mr Moreau we’d act right.”
“Act right?” Bucky’s laugh was a slow roll, low enough only Steve heard. “Saint Rogers over here pretending he didn’t spend the last five minutes studying her ass like it’s a map to salvation.”
Steve’s jaw ticked. “I was making sure she wasn’t lifting more than she should.”
“She’s strong. Didn’t you see her lop that bale? Girl could throw you through the barn door if she tried.” Bucky’s hammer finally met the post—thunk, thunk—driving the nail, though his gaze drifted again to the milking stall. “Bet she smells like vanilla and brown sugar up close.”
“For God’s sake—”
“You’re the one sniffing the air like a bloodhound.” Bucky shot him a sideways grin. “Relax your righteous feathers, punk. We fix the fence, we earn lunch, maybe catch her eye after chores. No harm in looking.”
Steve said nothing, but his ears burned hotter than the sun. The fence gave a satisfied hum under tension. Beyond it, you straightened, wiping the back of your wrist over your brow before hoisting the sloshing bucket to your hip. The movement pulled your skirt higher; both men went still, identical pulses jumping in their throats.
You glanced over, caught them, and offered a small smile before turning toward the barn.
Bucky’s voice dropped, sincere in spite of the teasing. “That smile’s an invitation, pal.”
Steve set his hammer on the top rail, exhaling hard. “It’s a warning.”
“Same thing, if you read it right.” Bucky twirled the hammer once, then thunked it into his belt. “Come on, we finish quick, we wash up, maybe wander by the paddock—”
Steve lifted the next coil of wire, but a reluctant curve tugged his mouth. “Finish quick and it better be neat. If her dad sees a sloppy fence, we’re gone before sunset.”
Bucky nailed the last staple with a flourish, dusted his palms, and followed Steve down the line.
The sun hung lazy-low, just warm enough to slick skin but not yet cruel. Fence posts were set, woodchips scattered like confetti around the chopping stump where Steve swung the maul in steady, clean arcs. A few yards off, Bucky rolled hay bales into neat ranks, muscles jumping under sweat-dark cotton.
Bootheels tapped along the packed lane. You appeared with a mason jar in each hand, glass sweating so hard it dripped onto your bare thighs. The hem of your skirt rode high; your cropped tank left a sliver of midriff glowing. You stopped at the paddock rail, hips cocked, watching them work like it was your own private picture show.
“Y’all look parched.”
Bucky straightened first, forearm wiping grit from his brow. One lazy grin and he was sauntering over to you. “Angel, you’re a vision.”
“Uh-huh.” You handed a glass to Steve, eyes glittering. “Don’t spill it.”
Steve set the maul aside, palms broad and pink from the handle. He accepted the lemonade with a murmured thanks—voice gone rough in a way that wasn’t from thirst alone. “Smells like lemons and cane sugar. You make it yourself?”
“Fresh this mornin’. Daddy swears by it.” You sipped from Bucky’s jar, lips glistening, then handed it to him. His gaze tracked the curve of your mouth like a compass needle. “Saw you two knockin’ that fence line out fast. Figured a reward was fair.”
Bucky tipped the drink, throat working. “Could use more rewards just like this.” His eyes drifted down, unapologetic. “Gotta say, the scenery makes hard labour downright spiritual.”
Steve cleared his throat, shooting Bucky a side-long glance that begged for decorum. He turned to you instead. “Is it just you and Mr. Moreau runnin’ all of this?”
“Daddy’s got three hands from town come by Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays.” You shrugged, playful. “So he was mighty generous lettin’ you bunk the loft—already plenty of help around here.”
“Generous man,” Bucky echoed, elbow nudging Steve. “Maybe we earn a longer stay. Few more fences need mendin’? Any chores need extra muscle?”
Steve flicked him a warning, but you only smiled, amused at the jockeying. “We’ll see what Daddy thinks.”
Bucky leaned on the rail, voice dropping. “What about what you think?”
“I think city boys burn quick in bayou heat,” you teased, running a finger along the condensation of Steve’s jar. “But if you don’t mind a little sweat, maybe stick around. Could be fun.”
You tapped the rim of Steve’s glass, then Bucky’s. “Finish up. Lunch at the house in twenty. Don’t keep me waitin’.”
With that you turned, skirt swishing just enough to make both men swallow. The backs of your thighs glowed in the noon light as you sauntered toward the barn, humming something slow and sweet.
Bucky watched every step. “One more day, Stevie. Let’s charm the old man, top off the tank, see where the night goes.”
Steve drained the lemonade, eyes still on your retreating sway. “We charm him by working, Buck. And by keeping our mouths clean.”
“Hands might not stay that way, though,” Bucky muttered, rolling his shoulders before grabbing another bale.
Steve hefted the maul again, but there was a new looseness in the set of his jaw, in the way he glanced toward the barn door you’d slipped through.
The dining room smelled of fried catfish and sweet corn fritters—hot oil, cracked pepper, a shimmer of cayenne that clung to the air like summer sweat. Cedar-plank walls held the noon light soft and amber; a battered ceiling fan turned slow overhead, pushing the warm scent around.
At the rough-hewn table sat Mr. Moreau, back straight, elbows planted wide like fence-posts. His gaze pinned both men while your small radio whispered an old Fats Domino tune from the sideboard.
You settled first, bare calf crossing over knee, skirt riding high so a ribbon of thigh caught the fan breeze. No fuss, no apology, just a lazy slide into the chair to the left of the old man. Bucky and Steve perched side by side on the long bench, shoulders too broad for the narrow space.
Mr. Moreau cleared his throat. “So.”
Bucky flashed an easy grin. “Sir, we wanted to thank you for lunch—and for the loft last night. Fence is tight, wood’s stacked, goats’re lookin’ downright smug. Thought maybe we could hang on a bit. Give you a few more solid days’ work.”
Steve nodded, posture crisp. “We don’t expect pay. Just room, board, maybe a little gas when all’s done.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed, slow as an eclipse. “Men who drift in askin’ favours are usually runnin’ from somethin’.”
Bucky’s grin softened, but didn’t falter. “Only thing we’re runnin’ from is bad luck and an empty tank.” He lifted a fried fillet in salute. “Figured we’d trade sweat for supper till fortune turns.”
Mr. Moreau grunted, slicing into cornbread. “Luck’s earned, not begged.”
Across the table, you leaned your chin into one hand, nails tracing idle circles on the lacquer. “Daddy.” The single word mild and amused. “Fence never looked that straight. Saved you two of the town boys this morning.”
Bucky shot you a grateful wink. Steve took a careful sip of sweet tea—eyes flicking from the old man to the curve of your mouth as you licked a crumb of batter from your bottom lip.
“Could use them on the west pasture, too,” you added, voice syrup-slow. “Boards are rotten through. And your back’s been talkin’.”
The old man’s jaw ticked, like admitting pain was heresy. “Mmph.”
You shrugged, turning your attention to the drifters. “Reckon they stay through the weekend, that job’s done.”
Bucky’s boot nudged Steve’s knee under the table. He straightened. “We’ll have that pasture tight by Sunday. After that, we’ll roll on, no trouble.”
Mr. Moreau studied them, then you. “Ain’t your habit takin’ strays, girl.”
You tucked a damp piece of hair behind your ear. “Maybe they’re useful strays.”
Bucky coughed a laugh; Steve nudged him this time—behave. But you’d already hooked a foot beneath Bucky’s boot-lace, giving it a slow teasing drag. His breath caught, just a fraction, before he masked it with another bite of fish.
Steve felt the shift, the invisible pull of your attention, and he flushed hotter than cayenne pepper. You shifted again, thigh brushing his denim under the table’s edge, bare skin against coarse cotton for half a heartbeat, then you broke contact, like a cat pretending no mischief at all.
Mr. Moreau missed all of it, “My daughter’s comfort counts first.”
Bucky leaned forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping to a respectful drawl. “Sir, we’d sooner limp to Baton Rouge barefoot than disrespect your home or your daughter.”
You tipped your glass, amber iced tea shining against your mouth. “Told you they got manners, Daddy.”
Steve cleared his throat, earnest. “Mr. Moreau, we may have never grown up around farms… but work here feels right. Let us finish what we started.”
Silence stretched, thick as cane syrup. A fly buzzed the rim of the pepper sauce; the fan creaked overhead. Your toes traced a line up the inside seam of Bucky’s jeans, making him swallow hard. Steve’s knee jostled under your hand, and his fork stalled halfway to his mouth.
Finally Mr. Moreau set down his cornbread. “Two more days. West pasture, chicken-wire pen, then you go. I’ll spare a gallon for your tank—no more.”
“See it done proper.” He pushed back from the table, chair legs scraping. “I got hogs to check.” Then he turned to Steve, stern but not unkind, “You strike me as a man who knows straight from crooked. Keep him,”—a nod at Bucky—“on the square.”
“Yes, sir.”
The old man left through the side door, screen slapping shut. The room exhaled, something easier curling in the hot air.
Bucky looked at you, mischief lighting every line of him. “Appreciate the save, darlin’. Didn’t think we’d pass inspection.”
You rose, gathering plates, the hem of your skirt lifting as you reached across Steve’s shoulder—letting him feel the soft brush of your hip before you eased away. “Didn’t do it for free. Fence straight Sunday means I pick my payment.”
Steve tried for steady. “And what payment is that?”
You stacked dishes on the sideboard, glancing back over your shoulder. “Surprise me.” Then, softer, to Bucky, “And y’all behave. Daddy’s got a rifle on the porch.”
Bucky’s grin widened. “Lucky for us I’m faster than buckshot.”
“We’ll see.” You disappeared through the kitchen arch, leaving the faint scent of honeysuckle lotion in your wake.
Bucky exhaled a slow whistle. “Think she likes us.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “She’s teasing, Buck.”
“Teasing’s just foreplay writ large.” He elbowed Steve, leaning in. “Did you feel her on your leg? Damn near thought my heart’d stop.”
Steve pushed his chair out, cheeks flushed. “Focus, please.”
Sun-bleached boards thudded under their boots as they stepped off the porch. The cicadas had switched to their slow, drowsy rhythm—a back-of-the-throat drone.
Steve kept his voice low but firm. “We’ve got a good thing here, Buck. Two days’ work, a gallon for the Chevy, and a place that doesn’t smell like diesel. Don’t screw it up.”
Bucky shot him a sideways look, half-smile already fading. “Why’s it always ‘don’t screw it up,’ Stevie? Maybe let a man enjoy the view.”
“We promised Mr Moreau we’d behave,” Steve’s glare held steady. “You act like you’ve never seen a pretty girl before.”
“I promised to respect his house. Didn’t promise to walk around blind.” Bucky kicked a pebble off the path, hands sliding into his back pockets. “Besides, she’s not just ‘a pretty girl.’ She’s—” He paused, searching for the right weight of the word. “—a woman. Curves like a prayer and a mouth that could talk the devil into church.”
Steve stopped, jaw tight. “You’re thinking with your dick.”
“Guilty as charged.” Bucky’s grin flickered, then fell when Steve didn’t soften. “Come on, I’m not gonna leap on her in broad daylight. I can look.”
“Looking becomes touching, and touching gets us tossed back on the road.” Steve’s shoulders slumped with the day’s work, but the edge in his voice stayed sharp. “I’m tired, Buck. One calm weekend—that’s all I’m asking.”
Bucky dragged a hand through sweat-stiff hair, irritation creeping in. “You ever get tired of being the saint? Ever just… feel something and want it?”
“I’m not dead.” Steve’s gaze drifted back toward the house where you were in, then snapped back. “I just know consequences.”
Silence yawned between them, warm and weighty. A dragonfly skated past, wings catching the sunlight.
Finally Bucky exhaled, palms up in surrender. “Fine. No dirty business. Cross my heart. Happy?”
“I’ll be happy when we’re rolling down the highway with a full tank.” Steve started walking again. “Fence first. Daydreams later.”
Bucky fell in beside him, muttering, “Still gonna daydream,” but the bite had gone out of his voice. He cast one last glance at the house, wondering if you were watching from a window, then squared his shoulders and matched Steve’s pace.
Night pressed soft against the loft, all damp cricket-song and the slow pump of the bayou. Bucky slept hard—one arm flung over his face, snore sawing in and out like a loose screen door. Steve lay staring at the beams, sweat cooling on his chest, counting every creak of the rafters until the numbers tangled.
Finally he slid upright, feet finding the quilt-cool boards. Maybe a glance through the telescope would bleed off the restlessness. Just stargazing, nothing more.
The brass tube stood ready at the cut-out window, still flecked with dust from the afternoon. Steve angled it toward the water first—silver ripple, cypress knees shining. Pretty, but the hush didn’t fill him. The lens drifted past the dark smear of the barn roof, climbed to the house on the slight rise. One window glowed warm at the top floor—the only light left awake.
Curiosity, he told himself. He dialed the focus with thumb and forefinger, glass settling on the open curtains.
You moved into frame like a slow exhale, backlit amber. Bare shoulders, skin glinting where the lamp touched. A thin bra—lace maybe, pale against the line of your ribs. Matching panties sat low on your hips, soft fabric hugging the curve he’d pretended not to follow all day.
Steve’s breath stalled. He should pivot away, point the scope at the moon. Instead he watched, heartbeat thudding dull over the swamp’s night chorus.
You worked lotion over your body, hands moving over your chest, throat lengthening with each drag. Heat pooled low in Steve’s stomach, spreading tight. His underwear grew snug; he shifted, ashamed and hungry all at once.
Then your hands slid behind your back. A tiny hitch of shoulders, a flick—straps loosened, the bra easing forward before you peeled it off, slow as a secret. Breasts cupped the lamplight, perfect weight swaying when you dropped the scrap of lace onto a chair.
Steve’s palm tightened on the telescope barrel. He wanted to look away, give you privacy, keep the promise he’d made to himself and to Bucky, but he couldn’t. Not while you turned, adjusting the lamp wick, the soft underside of your breast catching the glow. His breath fogged the eyepiece; he wiped it with a trembling thumb and stared harder, pulse hammering through every inch of him.
Below, Bucky’s snore cut off, shifted, resumed. Steve froze, spine prickling, but the other man didn’t stir. Only the wind moved, pushing thick bayou air over Steve’s damp skin, over the ache pressing urgent inside his shorts.
In the window you stretched, arms above your head, nipples tightening against the night chill. A small satisfied sigh seemed to carry across the dark, Steve almost felt it on his tongue.
“God,” he whispered, a prayer or a curse, he wasn’t sure.
You turned then, facing the glass fully, eyes half-lidded, unaware of the distant drifter watching like a sinner. Steve’s heartbeat slammed. One more second, he promised himself, just one—
A floorboard groaned behind him. He jerked away from the telescope, heat flushing his face even in the dark. Bucky muttered, rolled, settled again. Steve pressed knuckles to his mouth, breathing through the thunder in his chest.
He lay back down but sleep didn’t come. The image of you; smooth skin, bare and unhurried, glowed behind his eyes, bright as the wildfire heat pooling low, refusing to let him go.
A pulse of want rolled through Steve so sharp it bordered on pain. He imagined stepping into that warm-lit room, sliding behind you, palms cupping the soft weight he could only see now in glass and reflections—thumbs circling your nipples until your breath stuttered.
He could almost feel the heat of your skin against his tongue, taste salt and honeysuckle lotion as he mouthed the tip and heard you sigh his name. The thought hit low and thick, tugging at him until his boxer briefs felt two sizes too small.
He tried to drag the vision back to something polite, tried to picture himself knocking on the door, asking if you needed help with chores, but the reel kept slipping; his hands spreading over your hips, his mouth trailing down to suck at the lush underside fo your breast where the lamplight painted shadows.
He wanted to trace every curve, let you arch beneath the weight of his body, feel you shiver when his tongue flicked over pebbled skin. The wanting rode him hard, ruthless, until he clenched his fists against the quilt and swallowed a groan, knowing the taste of you would haunt his tongue long after dawn.
Crickets sang louder, the bayou hummed, and Steve counted the beats until dawn, pulse trapped in the fist of his own wanting.
The next day the sun was high but merciful, tucked behind a gauzy veil of clouds. Steve worked the auger alone, shoulders bunching with every crank. He’d barely spoken since dawn, jaw tight enough to creak.
Across the pasture, you crossed the grass with a slow swing in your hips, skirt flirting just above your knees. Bucky spotted you first; the post-hole digger hit the dirt with a muffled thud. His grin arrived a heartbeat later.
“Afternoon, darlin’. Come to supervise?”
You stopped beside him, fingers trailing the rail he’d just set. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Your friend over there”—you nodded toward Steve—“can hardly look me in the eye without blushin’.”
Bucky followed your gaze. Steve never looked up, but his strokes came faster, as if he felt the attention. “That’s Stevie for ya. Spends half his life polishing a halo no one asked him to wear.”
“And you?” Your tone dropped silk-low. “What do you polish, hotshot?”
“Depends who’s askin’.” He leaned on the fence, sweat darkening the vee of his T-shirt. “If he’s the saint, guess that makes me the sinner.”
You hummed approval, thumb idly circling the rough grain near his wrist. “Sinner’s a big word.”
“Earned it.” His gaze dragged the length of your legs, unapologetic. “Figure sin’s just pleasure folks’re too scared to call by its proper name.”
“That right?” You shifted closer, the scent of hay and skin mingling. “Tell me a sin, then. One you’d commit if no one was watchin’.”
Bucky’s smile dipped wicked. “Start with a kiss, slow and sweet, right where that pulse flickers.” He trailed a knuckle just shy of the soft hollow beneath your ear. “Maybe taste that sheen of sweat on your throat—follow it down, see where it gathers.”
Your breath caught, but you kept your poise, folding arms under your breasts so they lifted, tempting. “Bold talk for a man on probation.”
“Two days’ probation.” His eyes sparkled. “Could make ’em holy or make ’em worth repentin’.”
You glanced back at Steve; he’d stopped, one hand braced on the auger, head dipped like a man praying for composure. A smirk curved your mouth. “Your boy looks ready to burst.”
“My boy’s got eyes.” Bucky lowered his voice. “Bet he’s thinkin’ the same dirty things. Just afraid to name ’em.” He leaned in until his lips almost grazed your ear. “Maybe we should show him sin ain’t so scary.”
Heat spiraled low in your belly at the promise. You slid a fingertip over the tops of Bucky’s work gloves, tracing the crease where leather met skin. “Maybe I like watching men wrestle temptation. Makes the reward sweeter when they finally give in.”
“Careful, angel. I’m a simple man once the rules come off.”
“So take ’em off,” you whispered, stepping back with a tease-slow smile. “When the work’s done.”
Your gaze drifted past the fenceline, toward the shimmer of water where the bayou curved like a dark ribbon through cane and cypress. Bucky’s eyes followed, hungry for whatever had your attention—even hungrier when they slid back to him.
“Pretty out there at night,” you murmured, thumb idly tracing the crease of his glove again. “Moon hangs low, fireflies float so thick it looks like somebody scattered diamonds over the water.”
“Sounds downright romantic,” he said, voice roughening on the word. His fingers twitched as if they’d rather close around your waist than the post-hole digger. “You a fan of romantic things, sweetheart?”
“Mm-hmm. When they’re done right.” You stepped just close enough that your skirt brushed his thigh, letting him feel the heat that lived in the inches between your thighs. “Question is—do you like romance, or are you all talk and no follow-through?”
“Oh, I follow through.” His grin tilted wicked. “Give me a porch swing, bit of night air, someone worth sittin’ close to? I’m a poet.”
“A poet?” You teased, but the word sparked a pleasant thrum low in your belly.
“Maybe more a—” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lowered, lingered at the neckline of your tank. “—hands-on storyteller.”
“Then maybe I’ll tell Daddy I’m takin’ the skiff after supper.” Your voice stayed soft, but the promise in it was as thick as the noon heat. “Could show you that view once your better half’s asleep.”
His breath hitched. “And what view would that be?”
“The one where moonlight paints the bayou silver…” Your fingers ghosted up the inside of his bare forearm. “…and nobody’s around to see if I dip my toes into the water.”
He swallowed hard. “Could be dangerous out there.”
“Only if you scare easy.” Your lips curved. “You strike me as the kind that doesn’t.”
“Saint back there might beg to differ,” he said, jerking his chin toward Steve, who was still hammering like salvation depended on it.
“He’s busy saving souls. I’m busy tempting sinners.” You stepped back, leaving the faintest drag of your nails along his wrist before the distance sealed. “Finish your posts, handsome. Meet me by the dock after dark. We’ll see if romance fits you.”
Bucky’s voice was just a rasp now. “Yes, ma’am.”
You turned toward the barn, hips swaying like slow jazz. Behind you, the clink of wire and rasp of shovel sounded suddenly frantic—as if the devil himself told him every nail he sets is one minute closer to sin.
Across the pasture, Steve finally looked up, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes. He watched Bucky watching you and couldn’t quite name the tightness curling in his gut; couldn’t decide if it was jealousy, dread, or something hotter than either.
The loft was heavy with darkness—rafters lost in shadow, only a ribbon of moonlight sneaking through the cut-out window. Steve rolled onto his back, blinked, and blinked again. The couch beside him should’ve been groaning under Bucky’s long sprawl, but the cushions sat empty, quilt folded neat as a flag.
“Damn it, Buck,” he muttered.
Boots in hand, he eased to the ladder, the barn’s hush broken only by the soft drip of night dew through the roof tin. Outside, the world glimmered silver—pasture brushed in moon-pale grass, house lights long since snuffed. Steve angled toward the porch first, nothing. He circled the truck, checked the tool shed, found only his own irritation sharpening.
Last option, water.
He followed the narrow path that cut between cane rows, the air warm and wet against his skin. Crickets chirred in lazy chirr-chirrs; now and then a bullfrog belched from some hidden hollow. The bayou opened ahead, black water reflecting slices of stars.
That’s when he heard it—soft at first, a breathy hum sliding into a low, bitten-off moan. Another, higher, drenched in pleasure and muffled by sleepy dark. Steve stopped dead. The sound floated from the dock where the skiff rocked, a rhythm that was distinctly human, distinctly intimate.
He swallowed, pulse thumping in his throat. A rustle followed, then a hushed male laugh—Bucky’s, unmistakable, husky with mischief. Another sigh answered him, velvet-sweet. Steve’s cheeks flamed; every warning he’d given rattled back in his skull.
He stepped closer, shoes silent on damp earth, but stayed behind the screen of cypress trunks. The voices blurred but the tone was clear—slow, wet kisses; a whispered “you like that, darlin’” that tightened his gut. Wood knocked softly, a back hitting the dock, maybe, then a tremor of breathy laughter, yours, sliding straight beneath Steve’s skin.
Steve’s boots sank into the soft mud as he edged forward, the cypress shadows cloaking him like a guilty secret. The air hung heavy, laced with the musky tang of the bayou and something sharper—sweat, skin, raw need.
His heart hammered against his ribs, each step pulling him deeper into the forbidden pull of those sounds; the slick glide of bodies, the creak of the dock under shifting weight, your gasps weaving through Bucky’s low, filthy murmurs.
He parted the low-hanging branches, breath held tight, and there it was—laid bare under the fractured moonlight. The old wooden dock stretched out over the inky water, a threadbare blanket rumpled beneath you, your body arched and exposed in stark naked glory.
Legs splayed wide, knees hooked over Bucky’s hips, you lay on your back, skin flushed and glistening, breasts heaving with every ragged inhale. Bucky loomed above you, just as bare, his muscled frame glistening with effort, driving into you with relentless force—like a piston hammering home, hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm that made the skiff bob gently against the pilings.
“Goddamn, angel, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” Bucky rasped, voice gravel-rough and dripping with heat, his arm braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider.
He plunged deep, cock thick and veined, disappearing into your slick folds with each savage thrust, the wet squelch of your cunt taking him echoing softly over the water.
You encouraged him, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that made him hiss and buck harder.
“Yeah, just like that… fuck me deeper, honey, don’t stop,” you moaned, voice husky and demanding, hips rolling up to meet him, chasing the friction that had your toes curling against the blanket.
Steve’s gut twisted, a vicious knot of jealousy coiling tight. That smug son of a bitch—breaking their word, claiming you right here where anyone could stumble on it.
Part of him wanted to storm the dock, drag Bucky off you, demand answers—Why you? Why him? Why not…?
But his feet stayed rooted, eyes glued to the obscene union where Bucky’s cock stretched you wide, emerging slick and shining with your arousal before slamming back in, balls slapping heavy against your ass.
He couldn’t tear away. Watched, transfixed, as Bucky’s ass clenched with every drive—muscles bunching tight, flexing under the moonlight as he powered forward, burying himself to the hilt.
Your pussy lips clung to him on the outstroke, puffy and soaked, the connection a filthy, mesmerizing sight that sent heat surging through Steve’s veins. Jealousy warred with the fire building low in his belly, his cock swelling hard and insistent against his pants, throbbing with a need that shamed him even as it gripped him tighter.
Bucky leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips, while his hand slid between your bodies to circle your clit, making you arch and cry out into his mouth.
“Come on, pretty girl, squeeze me—milk this cock like you own it,” he grunted against your lips, pace turning frantic, the dock groaning under the onslaught.
You bucked beneath him, moans spilling free, body trembling on the edge, and Steve’s hand drifted unconsciously to his zipper, palm pressing against the rigid length straining there, breath coming in shallow pants as arousal drowned the anger, leaving only the pounding urge to watch you shatter.
His resolve cracked like dry earth under the relentless pull of what was unfolding before him. His hand trembled as it fumbled with his belt, the zipper rasping down too loud in the humid night, but the bayou swallowed the sound.
Shame burned hot in his chest, a sick twist of disgust at his own weakness—spying like some pervert, palming his aching cock free into the cool air. It sprang out, thick and heavy, veins pulsing with the blood roaring through him, pre-cum already beading at the tip as he wrapped his fingers around the shaft, stroking slow at first, then matching the brutal rhythm Bucky set.
Bucky shifted, his thrusts deepening, hips grinding forward with a force that buried him balls-deep, your slick walls clenching around his length in greedy pulls. Steve’s eyes locked on the way your body yielded, pussy stretched taut around Bucky’s girth, juices coating him shiny and wet with every withdraw.
He pumped his fist tighter, breath hitching, hating how the sight made his balls draw up, how the jealousy gnawed deeper when Bucky dipped his head to your chest.
Bucky’s mouth latched onto one breast, sucking hard on the swollen nipple, tongue lashing the peak while his teeth grazed just enough to make you whimper.
Your back bowed off the blanket, fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there, and Steve’s gut clenched like a fist—fuck, he wished that was him, his lips sealing over that pebbled flesh, tasting the salt of your skin, drawing those desperate sounds from your throat.
“Harder, handsome—suck ’em like you mean it,” you gasped, voice raw and pleading, and Steve’s strokes quickened, imagining those words spilling for him, your body writhing under his weight instead.
He leaned against the cypress trunk for support, the rough bark biting into his palm as he jerked himself off in frantic pulls, the wet schlick of his hand mirroring the obscene slap of Bucky’s hips against yours. Every encouragement you tossed out—“Yes, just like that, fill me up”—twisted the knife of envy, but he devoured them, pretending you meant him, that your heat was clenching around his cock, not Bucky’s.
Then it hit—you shattered with a loud, keening moan that sliced through the night, body convulsing as your orgasm ripped through you. Steve watched your pussy spasm, milking Bucky’s shaft in rhythmic squeezes, walls fluttering visibly around him.
Bucky groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating from his chest as he felt it, your release soaking him further.
“Fuck—yeah, cum all over me, sweet thing,” he grunted, pace turning savage, hips pistoning faster, chasing his own edge with short, brutal drives that made your tits bounce and the dock shudder.
Steve’s vision blurred, the coil in his gut snapping as he stared at the frenzy—your nails digging into Bucky’s shoulders, his ass flexing with each punishing thrust, cock slamming home through your climax.
It was too much; his balls tightened, and he came with a stifled grunt, hot spurts erupting over his fist, splattering the mud at his feet. Ecstasy flooded him in white-hot waves, cock twitching in his grip, but as the peak crested, shame crashed down like a Louisiana storm—disgust churning in his veins, sticky and vile, for getting off to his best friend fucking, to you choosing Bucky’s roughness over whatever Steve might have offered.
Bucky kept going, mouth claiming yours in a sloppy, devouring kiss, tongues tangling as he rode out the aftershocks, hips still rolling deep.
Steve’s hand shook as he tucked himself away, cum-smeared fingers fumbling the zipper up, heart pounding with the need to vanish before the guilt swallowed him whole.
He backed away silent as a ghost, retreating into the cane rows, the sounds of your shared breaths fading behind him, leaving only the bitter ache of what he’d seen, and what he’d done, in the humid dark.
Morning sweated slowly into afternoon, the sun floating white-hot behind a gauze of haze. Down in the west pasture the fence line rattled beneath the steady thunk of a post-hole digger, but today its rhythm belonged to only one pair of hands.
Steve drove the iron blades into the soil again and again—shirt plastered to his back, jaw set so tight the tendon jumped. Every few minutes he straightened, wiped the grit from his palms, and turned the next section of wire without so much as a glance toward the barn.
Bucky tried talking first thing, an easy joke about cane toads croaking love songs, but Steve answered with a curt nod and buried himself in work. Now, hours later, Bucky was done pretending it didn’t sting. He stalked up the fenceline, boots crunching weeds, sweat glistening on his forearms.
“Alright, punk, what crawled up your ass?”
No answer. Steve slammed another staple home, muscles flexing under sunburned skin.
“Come on, Rogers. Usually I can’t shut you up about alignments and load-bearing angles. Now you’re growlin’ like a kicked dog.”
The hammer paused mid-swing. Steve’s eyes cut sideways, bruised with sleeplessness. “I’m working.”
“Yeah, and ignoring me like I shot your horse.”
“You’d have to own a gun first,” Steve muttered, turning away.
The hammer came down hard, bending the staple sideways. Steve cursed under his breath, pried it out, tried again. Bucky leaned on a fencepost, arms folded.
“You gonna keep this up all day?” he asked, softer now. “Or tell me what I did.”
Steve’s shoulders heaved once, twice. Finally he tossed the hammer into the grass and faced him. “I saw you.”
Bucky blinked. “Saw me what?”
“Last night.” The words grated out like gravel. “By the bayou. With her.”
Silence sucked the air from between them. A cicada screeched somewhere overhead; the wind died.
Bucky’s mouth opened, shut, then set in a thin line. “You spying on me now?”
“I came looking because your dumb ass snuck off.” Steve’s voice cracked with heat—not anger alone, but something raw beneath it. “We agreed, Buck. No screwin’ around with Mr Moreau’s girl.”
“She’s not a girl, Steve. She’s a woman. And she made the first move.”
Steve barked a humorless laugh. “So that clears your conscience? She offered, you took, and the rest of us be damned?”
Bucky pushed off the post, expression hardening. “Don’t pretend it’s about conscience. It’s about you bein’ jealous I got there first.”
Steve flinched as if struck. “You think this is a competition?”
“Isn’t it?” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’m tired of tip-toeing around you so you can pretend you’re above wanting her.”
A flush crawled up Steve’s neck. “This isn’t about me. It’s about respect—”
“It’s about you not knowing what to do with what you feel,” Bucky shot back. “So you call me reckless to make yourself feel righteous.”
Steve’s fists clenched. “Reckless? You call sneaking out to fuck the farmer’s daughter on the dock responsible? You risked us getting thrown off the property.”
“Worth it,” Bucky said, and the word was all challenge, “I’m not ashamed of wanting her. She sure as hell wasn’t ashamed of wanting me.”
Steve’s breath hitched; the memory flashed—moonlight on skin, your voice breaking open. Shame burned inside him like lye. “We’re guests here,” he managed. “We owe Mr Moreau respect.”
“I didn’t touch her where he could see.”
“That’s not the point.” Steve turned away, picking up the wire as if work could armour him. “You never think past the next thrill. And I’m always the one patching whatever you tear up.”
“So patch this,” Bucky said, jaw tight. “Or admit the real reason you’re mad is because you wanted to be where I was.”
Colour surged up Steve’s throat. He took a half-step back, fists clenching, then exhaled hard. “You don’t know what I want.”
“You think I can’t see it? You stare at her like she’s Sunday salvation—then play saint when she looks back.” Bucky shook his head, frustration edging his tone. “I’m not sorry, Steve.”
Steve’s gaze flicked toward the house, shutters still closed and curtains fluttering soft. His jaw worked. “If you cared half as much about respect as you do about getting off—”
“Respect?” Bucky scoffed. “I asked her what she wanted. She said yes—loud enough the gators could hear.”
Steve’s eyes flashed, hurt bleeding through. “You don’t get it.”
“What I get is a partner who can’t decide if he’s my brother or my warden.” Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “If you wanted her, you should’ve said so.”
Steve spun, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat words tangled unsaid—about loyalty, about how long he’d followed Bucky into trouble and how this, somehow, hurt worse than any fight in a back alley. Instead he grabbed the digger, drove it into the ground with a grunt.
“Go inside,” he muttered. “I’ll finish the line.”
Bucky took a step, but not back. His voice dropped to a thread. “You gonna tell her you watched?”
The tool froze mid-lift. Steve’s gaze snapped up, raw panic flickering before he masked it. “Don’t.”
Bucky’s anger faltered, replaced by something like wonder. “Jesus, you did more than watch, didn’t you?”
Steve’s face went white, then red. The digger slipped; he caught it, palms stinging. “Shut up.”
Bucky exhaled, disbelief softening into a rueful smile. “Saint Rogers,” he murmured. “Guess halos tarnish after all.”
Steve’s eyes glinted, hurt and humiliated. He dropped the tool, stepped past Bucky, shoulders stiff. “I’m done talking.”
“Steve—”
But Steve was already striding toward the cane rows, boots kicking dust, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. The sky boiled with late-day clouds, thunder rumbling somewhere distant. Bucky watched him go, chest tight with something that wasn’t victory at all.
The stall smelled of clean straw and warm horsehide, lantern light pooling soft over the cedar boards. Steve stood at the far end, shirt stuck to him, shoulders working a curry brush over the sorrel mare’s flank. The rhythm was steady, measured—every stroke a word he couldn’t speak.
You eased between the stalls, plate balanced on your palm, hips brushing the half-open doors as you passed. “Skipped lunch,” you said, “Figured a man could use somethin’ besides self-reproach for fuel.”
He turned, blue eyes wary until they landed on the sandwich, then gentled. “Ma’am, you didn’t have to—”
“Didn’t ask if I had to.” You held the plate until he took it, fingers grazing his knuckles, a quick spark you pretended not to notice. “Eat before you faint and scare my horses.”
Steve managed a crooked smile, sank onto an overturned feed bucket. The first bite broke the tension in his shoulders; you leaned against the stall door, arms folding under your breasts, watching him chew like it was the most interesting thing in Louisiana.
“You work too hard,” you said after a moment. “Makes me nervous—like I’ve gone and offended you.”
His gaze flicked up, guilt flashing. “You haven’t. I’m… just wired tight today.”
“Wired tight.” You tasted the words, slow. “Could loosen you, if you’d let me.”
He focused on the sandwich, and cleared his voice, despite colour creeping up his throat. “Wasn’t raised to pester a lady while I’m a guest under her roof.”
You hummed, unconvinced. “Feels more like you’re dodgin’ than mindin’ manners. You won’t hardly look at me unless I corner you.”
Steve set the plate on his thigh, thumb worrying the edge. “I—” He paused, swallowed. “You make it hard to keep my thoughts straight.”
“That so?” You pushed off the door, closed the distance until your boots touched his. Fingers slipped beneath the collar of his damp T-shirt, brushing the salty line of his neck. His breath caught hard.
“You ain’t doin’ anything wrong, sugar,” you whispered, letting your nails trace a half-moon before sliding away. “Least not with me.”
The mare huffed behind Steve, but neither of you moved. Your palm skimmed the line of his shoulder, slow and coaxing, to where the muscles knotted beneath damp cotton. “Tell me what’s eating you, pretty boy,” you murmured, thumb easing up the column of his throat to the sharp square of his jaw.
Steve’s lashes flickered. He tried to keep his eyes on the half-eaten sandwich, but the gentleness in your touch tugged his gaze up—and once he met your stare, whatever dam he’d built cracked. “I— last night,” he rasped, voice scraping raw. “I went looking for Bucky. I saw you two… by the bayou.”
Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I stayed. Watched. Should’ve turned around, but I—”
The confession spilled in a tumble of guilt and want. “I hated how jealous I felt. Hated that I couldn’t stop.”
“Oh, baby.” The words were a hush, almost a lullaby. You slid your fingers into the short hair at his nape and guided his head forward until his brow rested against the fine cotton of your shirt just above your navel. He inhaled, sun-warmed linen and honeysuckle, and shuddered.
“You didn’t do wrong by me,” you whispered, stroking the back of his neck. “Feelings aren’t sins.”
Steve’s hands hovered, uncertain, then settled at the backs of your thighs, big and tentative. You stroked his hair once more, let the silence breathe. Outside, the afternoon cicadas blurred into a single shimmering note.
“You can want something without tearing the roof down,” you said, voice low. “All that goodness in you doesn’t disappear ‘cause your body woke up.”
He nodded against you, and the movement, the trust in it, pulled a soft ache in your chest. You tilted his chin, thumb brushing the stubble-rough corner of his mouth. “Look at me, Steve.”
He did, eyes ocean-deep and storm-tossed at once. Your pulse skipped. “Let me show you it’s all right,” you breathed.
You bent, brushing your lips to his—a feather’s kiss, barely there. Steve’s exhale trembled, lashes falling shut as though the simplest touch was sacred. You tasted salt and sun and something sweeter before you lifted away a sliver. His eyes opened, dark with wanting, but he waited, polite even here, and that patience lit a spark low in your belly.
So you kissed him again, surer this time. The soft drag of mouths lingered, then opened; tongues met in a slow glide that tasted like a promise. Steve’s grip tightened at your thighs, thumbs sweeping small circles against your skin as though mapping sacred ground. You inched forward a fraction, pressing him back onto the overturned feed bucket; the move stole a breathy groan from him, swallowed into the kiss.
The stables seemed to narrow around you—lantern glow pooling honey-thick, dust motes floating like sparks in the slanted light. Somewhere a horse stamped, but the world had fallen to heat, straw, and the soft slick slide of lips.
You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth. “Still feel like you’ve done wrong?”
His eyes opened; blue storm clearing to summer sky. He shook his head, a dazed smile ghosting. “Feel like I’m still figuring out what right feels like,” he murmured.
Your thumb traced the edge of his lower lip, swollen now, beautifully kiss-bitten. “Right’s easy,” you said. “It’s what makes you breathe easier, not harder.”
Steve’s gaze dipped to your mouth, then to the stretch of skin exposed where your shirt rode up. Courage flickered. One big hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the curve just beneath your hemline—a question more than a claim. You answered with a slow nod, lowering your weight a breath closer until his knuckles pressed warm between your ribs.
You slid the half-eaten sandwich and tin plate to the floor with one careless sweep, then eased a knee onto Steve’s lap, settling astride him. The overturned feed bucket creaked; Steve’s hands darted automatically to steady your hips, then froze as if he touched fire.
“Wait—” His voice was a husky scrape. “What about Bucky?”
You leaned in, thumbs brushing the fine blond stubble at his jaw. “Bucky’s not here, sugar.” Your hips sank a fraction, finding the thick shape straining beneath his work jeans. A tremor ripped through him; his eyelids fluttered.
“I can feel how bad you want it,” you murmured, amusement curling in the words like smoke. “Been feelin’ it since I met you. You think I didn’t notice?”
Heat bloomed crimson along Steve’s cheekbones. “I— I keep tryin’ to be respectful.”
“You are.” You cradled his face between your palms. It was steady and reassuring. “Respect doesn’t mean pretendin’ you don’t ache.”
His fingers finally unclenched, sliding up your thighs, rough thumbs stroking slow circles that raised gooseflesh. You rocked once, lazy and testing, and the low sound that spilled from his throat made the lantern sway on its hook.
“I want you too,” you confessed, voice just above a breath. “Want to hear you forget every polite word you know.”
Steve swallowed hard. “That might… take some coaxin’.”
You smiled, nose brushing his. “Lucky I have time.”
Storm-cloud light flickered through the high slats; somewhere beyond the stables a first fat drop of rain hit the tin roof with a hollow ping. You tilted his head back, claiming his mouth again—slow at first, letting him taste the yes in every slide of your tongue. His hands gripped your waist now, anchoring you as though the whole building could spin away.
“Tell me,” you whispered against his lips, “does this feel wrong?”
“No,” he exhaled, breath shivering through the single syllable.
“Then let it feel right.” Your fingers threaded into his hair, guiding him to the soft hollow of your throat. He pressed his mouth there, and the sharp sigh he let out bloomed heat low in your belly.
Rain pattered harder, drumming steady on the roof—cover for any sound you might choose to make. You rolled your hips once more; Steve answered instinctively with a slow lift of his own. The friction dragged a gasp from you both, tangled in the humid air.
You ground against him harder, hips circling with deliberate pressure, the denim barrier between you doing nothing to dull the rigid heat of his cock pressing up into your core. Steve’s mouth yielded under yours, the kiss turning rough—tongues clashing wet and urgent, his lips bruised from the depth of it. He looked utterly lost in it, eyes half-lidded and glassy, like a man three shots deep into whiskey, chasing the burn of your flavor.
Your teeth nipped his lower lip, drawing a ragged inhale from him as you murmured against the corner of his mouth, “That’s it. Touch me, honey. Feel how wet you’re makin’ me already.”
His palms hesitated for a split second, then surged upward, callused fingers digging into the swell of your ass, kneading the flesh through your skirt with a grip that bordered on desperate.
“Good boy,” you breathed, nipping his earlobe before sucking it between your teeth, the vibration of your praise humming into his skin, “pull me down harder. Make me ride that thick length of yours.”
Emboldened, Steve’s hands clenched tighter, yanking you flush against him with a low groan that rumbled from his chest. The force of it slammed your clit right over his bulge, friction sparking white-hot through your veins, your pussy throbbing with the need to be filled.
He bucked up to meet your rhythm, the overturned bucket groaning under the strain as you rutted rougher, denim grinding cotton in slick, heated drags that had slickness soaking through your panties.
Steve’s breaths came in hot pants against your neck, his confidence blooming like the storm outside—fingers spreading wide to cup your cheeks fully, thumbs pressing into the cleft, urging you to grind faster, deeper.
“God, you feel so good,” he rasped, voice thick and broken, finally shedding that polite shell as his hips rolled up hard, chasing the pressure building between you both.
The storm raged fiercer, rain lashing the roof like a thousand frantic fingers, drowning out the world beyond these weathered walls. Impatience clawed through you, a hot coil tightening low in your gut—you needed more than this teasing grind, needed him bare and buried deep.
With a frustrated sound against his lips, you lifted your hips just enough to break the contact, the sudden absence making your clit ache from the loss of friction.
Steve chased it instinctively, a desperate buck of his hips upward, his bulge straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.
“Easy, baby,” you soothed, voice a husky purr as you pressed a palm to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath sweat-damp cotton. “I got you… gonna take care of that ache right now.” His eyes were wild, pupils blown dark with lust, but he stilled under your touch, breath ragged and waiting.
Your fingers fumbled hastily at his belt buckle, the metal clinking sharp in the humid air before you yanked the zipper down with a swift tug. Steve’s mouth never left your skin, latching onto the pulse point at your throat with hot, open-mouthed sucks that sent shivers racing down your spine—teeth grazing just enough to sting, tongue lapping greedily like he was starving for your taste.
His hands, bold now in their roaming, shoved up under your shirt, palms rough and seeking as they cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your hardening nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He squeezed , rolling the peaks until you arched into him with a sharp gasp, the dual assault of his mouth and hands making your cunt clench with raw need.
Diving into the open fly of his jeans, your hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around the thick, velvety length of his cock. God, he was huge. Hot and heavy in your grip, the foreskin sliding smooth over the swollen head as you gave him a testing stroke.
Excitement surged through you, a fresh gush of wetness soaking your panties. “Fuck, Steve,” you breathed, as you pumped him slowly, feeling the way he throbbed and leaked pre-cum against your palm.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his blue eyes hazy and uncertain, searching your face for that green light—like a man on the edge, waiting for permission to shatter.
You smiled, thumbing over the flushed tip to smear his slickness down the shaft. “I love uncut men,” you murmured, low and filthy, watching heat flood his cheeks even as his cock twitched harder in your fist.
“Makes ’em feel so damn good… sensitive and real. Yours is perfect, honey. Thick and ready to stretch me wide.” Confident, you stroked him firmer, twisting your wrist at the base where veins pulsed hot under your fingers, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.
You released him just long enough to hike up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist to expose the damp lace clinging to your thighs. Hooking your fingers into the crotch of your panties, you shoved them aside roughly, the cool air kissing your slick folds for a heartbeat before you positioned yourself above him.
His cock stood rigid, flushed and glistening from your touch, the head nudging insistently at your entrance as you hovered there, teasing the tip through your wetness—letting the anticipation build until his hands gripped your hips like iron, urging you down with a plea in his eyes.
Slowly you sank down onto his cock, the thick head parting your slick folds and stretching you inch by agonizing inch. A sharp hiss escaped your lips at the burn of it—uncut skin gliding smooth against your inner walls, every ridge and vein dragging delicious friction as you took him deeper.
You watched him like a predator savoring prey, drinking in the way his jaw clenched, brows furrowing in overwhelmed bliss, those blue eyes fluttering half-shut before snapping back to yours. The power of it surged through you, your pussy clenching around him just to feel him twitch inside, the sight of his restraint cracking making your clit throb with wicked satisfaction.
“That’s it,” you murmured, voice a sultry rasp laced with filth, leaning in close enough for your breath to ghost his ear. “Feel how wet I am for you? Squeezin’ this fat cock like it belongs in me. Tell me how it feels—c’mon, baby, use those words.”
Your hips settled fully, grinding in a lazy circle to seat him to the hilt, his balls pressed snug against your ass, but you held still for a beat, teasing him with the velvet grip of your heat. The rain might as well have been a memory; all you heard was his ragged breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies joined.
Slowly, you started to move—lifting just enough to let half his length slide free before easing back down, the drag pulling a low moan from your throat.
“Take what you want, sugar,” you encouraged, nails digging into his shoulders for leverage, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Grab my ass, my tits—fuck me like you’ve been dreamin’ about. I ain’t fragile; I want it rough, want you to ruin me with this thing.”
He answered in groans at first, deep and guttural, vibrating through his chest as his hips jerked up to meet your descent. “God... so tight,” he murmured, the words tumbling out low and broken, like they were dragged from some hidden place.
“Feels... too good... can’t—” Another thrust from below cut him off, his cock spearing deeper, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His hands roamed hungrily now, one sliding down to grip your thigh, the other tangling in your hair to pull you into a messy kiss, his tongue thrusting in time with his subtle bucks.
The pace quickened as impatience won out; you bounced a little harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down to soak his jeans. Steve’s control frayed further; he shoved your tank top down with a rough yank, the fabric bunching at your waist and dragging your bra along with it.
Your breasts spilled free, heavy and bouncing with each rise, nipples peaked and begging for attention in the humid air. He stared for a split second, awe flickering in his lust-glazed eyes, before his hands were on them—palms cupping the soft weight, thumbs flicking over the sensitive tips.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, voice sweet and polite even in the haze, like a gentleman undone. “These... perfect. So full, so soft—wanna taste ’em, if that’s alright.”
The contrast hit you like lightning, his polite words amid the filth of what you were doing, making your core clench tighter around him. You arched into his touch, moaning as he leaned up to latch onto one nipple, sucking hard while you bounced faster, the dual sensations coiling that heat low and fierce.
The rhythm turned frantic as you picked up speed, hips slamming down harder onto Steve’s cock. Your ass slapped against his thighs, the wet smack mingling with the creak of hay beneath you and the thunder rumbling outside. He thrust up to meet you now, powerful bucks from below that jolted through your core, his body finally surrendering to the instinct you’d been coaxing out.
You reveled in it, a smile splitting your face as you caught him still fixated on your tits—bouncing wildly with each bounce, nipples grazing his chest when you leaned forward, flushed and heaving from the effort.
“Yeah, that’s it baby,” you murmured, voice breathy, threading your fingers through his hair to tug his head back just enough to force his eyes to yours.
“Fuck me back like you mean it—tell me, Stevie, you like poundin’ into me? Like how my pussy milks this cock?” Your words were a filthy prod, urging him past the groans into something more, wanting to hear that polite facade shatter completely.
He groaned louder, the sound raw and desperate, but he managed words this time, spilling them between gritted teeth as his mouth returned to your breast—sucking the peak hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting.
“Love it... shit, love how you take me,” he rasped, voice muffled against your skin, one hand squeezing your ass to pull you down firmer.
“These tits drivin’ me crazy, so damn perfect, bouncin’ like that. And you... tight, hot, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.” The sweetness laced his filth, his blue eyes locking on yours mid-thrust. It fueled you, that mix of gentlemanly sweetness and primal drive, making your walls flutter around his length as you rode him relentlessly.
Eventually, you reached between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen clit amid the slick mess where you joined. You rubbed in firm circles, the pressure building fast under your touch, chasing that edge while his cock stretched you full.
“Keep talkin’, sugar,” you gasped, bouncing even more furiously, the pace turning punishing, your juices soaking his balls with every slap. “Tell me what you like about me—my tight little cunt? How I ride you like I own this cock?”
Steve’s response was a guttural curse, his free hand joining yours briefly to press your fingers harder against your clit, like he couldn’t help but take over even there.
“Everything... your fire, the way you squeeze me—god,” he murmured, thrusting up with a force that nearly unseated you, his cock throbbing inside.
The words tipped you over; your orgasm crashed through like lightning, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses around him, milking his shaft as waves of pleasure ripped cries from your throat. You shuddered through it, grinding down to ride out the bliss, clit pulsing under your touch while your body trembled atop him.
He followed seconds later, the vice of your release undoing him completely. “Shit—cummin’...”
Steve groaned, hips snapping up one last time, burying himself to the root as he erupted. Hot spurts flooded you, his cock jerking with each pulse, filling your spasming heat until it leaked out around him, mixing with your own wetness.
His hands gripped your hips bruisingly, holding you in place as he rode the high, face buried in the crook of your neck, breaths ragged against your skin. The stables seemed to spin for a moment, the rain’s roar returning as your pulses slowed, bodies slick and spent in the humid aftermath.
Steve stayed where he was, like he didn’t quite trust his own limbs yet—face pressed into the warm softness of your chest, breath still uneven against your skin. His hands hadn’t moved either, still anchored at your hips like if he let go too fast you might disappear on him.
You smoothed your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, easing him down from that sharp edge he’d been riding. “Easy, baby… breathe,” you murmured, voice soft, coaxing. “That’s it.”
He let out a shaky exhale, shoulders finally dropping a fraction. The tension in him didn’t vanish, but it softened, melted under your touch instead of snapping tight like it had all morning.
“I didn’t—” he started, then stopped, words catching somewhere between guilt and something softer. “I didn’t think I’d… be like that.”
You tipped his chin just enough to look at him, thumb brushing the flush still high on his cheek. “Like what?” you asked gently.
“Needy,” he admitted, quiet. “Rough. Thought I was better at keepin’ things… under control.”
You huffed a quiet little laugh, not mocking, just warm. “Control’s overrated.” Your hand drifted down his arm, tracing the muscle there, feeling the last little tremors still working through him. “Ain’t nothing wrong with wanting somebody. Ain’t nothing wrong with taking what’s given, either.”
His eyes searched yours, still unsure. “Even… like this?”
“Especially like this.” You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re a man, Steve. You feel things. You want things. That don’t make you bad.”
He swallowed, something easing in his expression, though a crease of doubt lingered. “Doesn’t feel like the way I was raised.”
“Maybe the way you were raised ain’t the only way to live.” Your fingers slid back into his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, coaxing another quiet exhale from him. “You keep tryin’ to fit yourself into something too tight. No wonder you’re all wound up.”
His grip on your hips loosened, hands shifting instead to rest like he was finally allowing himself to just be there with you instead of bracing for what came next.
“You didn’t look like you thought it was wrong,” you added, a teasing lilt slipping back into your tone, eyes flicking to his mouth. “Not when you took me like a rowdy bull.”
A faint, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “No… guess I didn’t.”
“There you go.” You nudged his nose with yours, playful now. “Honest for once.”
He let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh, the sound low and a little disbelieving, like he wasn’t used to feeling this light after something that intense.
Outside, the rain had started to ease—softening from a roar to a steady patter. Inside the stall, the air stayed thick and warm, the kind that made it easy to linger. Steve shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to your back, resting there more confidently now.
“Thank you,” he said, quieter this time.
You tilted your head, studying him for a beat, then smiled. “Don’t start getting all polite on me again,” you warned lightly. “We just fixed that problem.”
That earned a small huff from him, the ghost of his usual composure returning, but looser now, less rigid. Your fingers traced idly along his shoulder again, slow, absentminded, like you had all the time in the world.
“Better?” you asked, softer.
Steve nodded, eyes lingering on your face—then dipping, just briefly, before coming back up. There was still heat there, still want, but now it sat easier on him. Less like something to fight. More like something he was starting to understand.
“Yeah,” he said. “Better.”
Rain sheeted against the loft’s tin roof hard enough to rattle the rafters, a steady percussion that should’ve lulled tired muscles to sleep.
Instead, Steve lay flat on the thin mattress pulled beside the couch, eyes fixed on the low slope of the ceiling where moon-gray water stains mapped the wood. The darkness felt thick, scented with damp hay and the copper tang of dying storm, but it was the silence between the two men that really pressed on his ribs.
Across the narrow space Bucky shifted, springs creaking under the old couch cushions. Not asleep. Steve could tell from the rhythm of his breathing; too shallow.
They’d worked the afternoon in tense near-silence, traded a few practical words over supper, then climbed to the loft when Mr. Moreau doused the lanterns downstairs. Since then… nothing.
Steve’s guilt gnawed as loud as the rain. All the righteous bullshit he’d thrown at Bucky that morning felt paper-thin now, ripped by the memory of your thighs bracketing his hips, the slick pull of your body around him. He’d sinned in the very place he’d condemned… maybe deeper. Bucky had broken a promise, sure, but Steve had broken it twice. First by watching, then by taking.
If he spoke first, will it sound like confession or a challenge? He imagined Bucky’s face if he admitted what happened in the stables—those bright blue eyes narrowing, that crooked grin folding into something sharp and hurt. Bucky was reckless, yes, but he was proud; jealousy cut him close to the bone. Steve couldn’t blame him. He felt the same knife when he’d watched Bucky with you, a sick cocktail of envy and desire he still tasted on the back of his tongue.
A board popped in the loft floor; Steve flinched. Bucky exhaled, a quick huff that could’ve been a sigh… or a laugh, it was hard to tell.
“Storm’s loud tonight,” Bucky muttered into the dark.
Steve swallowed. “Yeah.”
Another beat. Rain drummed harder, then softened in waves. Steve could picture the bayou swelling, black water rising under the dock where everything had changed. He tried not to think about how your moans had sounded layered over the water, how his own had answered hours later in a dusty stable.
“You finish that west line tomorrow,” Bucky said finally, voice low, almost casual. “We’ll have Moreau paid up.”
“Almost done,” Steve answered. He wet his lips, searching for something, anything really, to ease the weight in the room. The apology caught behind his teeth.
Bucky shifted again, the couch springs squealed. “Punk, you gonna stew all night?”
Steve closed his eyes. I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to lie either.
Outside, lightning flashed white through the high window slats, illuminating dust motes and the curve of the telescope aimed at dripping darkness. The quick burst etched Bucky’s silhouette; hands behind his head, stare fixed on the rafters, then vanished.
Steve drew a breath, let it out slow. “We should get some sleep,” he managed. “Finish early.”
Bucky’s chuckle was soft, humorless. “Sure.” A pause. “Night, Stevie.”
“Night, Buck.”
The rain settled into a gentle hiss, but sleep stayed distant. Steve lay listening to the space between heartbeats, wondering how long secrets could hang in rafters before they dripped down like stormwater, soaking everything beneath.
Dawn slipped through the loft slats in gauzy stripes, lighting dust motes and the tired curve of two backs turned on one another. Steve sat on the edge of his mattress, boots half-laced, guilt thrumming like an ache in his teeth. Across the aisle, Bucky tugged yesterday’s shirt over his head, humming nothing in particular, almost normal again after a night of storm-soaked silence.
Steve cleared his throat. “Mornin’, Buck.”
Bucky flicked him a sideways grin. “Look who’s talkin’ to me.”
Steve managed a huff of a laugh, tension easing a notch. “Didn’t mean to be a bear yesterday.”
“Figured you were just hungry.” Bucky stretched, joints popping. “Or constipated.”
“Yeah. Something like that.” Steve stood, wiped his palms on his thighs. “Listen—there’s somethin’ I gotta say before we head out.”
Bucky’s brows lifted, but the grin stayed. “Alright, preacher. Floor’s yours.”
For a heartbeat Steve couldn’t find air; the loft felt too small for the words. He ran a hand through his hair, stared at the warped floorboard between them. “Yesterday… after the rain started… I was in the stables.” He forced his gaze up, blue meeting blue. “She came by to give me some lunch and— and things got… outta hand.”
The smile died on Bucky’s mouth, shoulders stiffening under crumpled cotton. “Outta hand how?”
Steve swallowed. “We— I—” The confession lodged, then fell. “I slept with her.”
Silence crashed heavier than the storm. Bucky’s jaw ticked once, twice… his eyes flared a darker shade. “You mean right after you tore me a new one for fucking her?”
Steve winced. “Yeah.”
Bucky laughed. It was short, sharp and no humour in it. “That’s rich, Stevie. Real righteous.”
“I know it’s hypocritical,” Steve said, voice clipped. “But it happened.”
“‘Just respect Mr. Moreau,’” Bucky mocked, pitching his voice higher. “‘We’re guests, Buck.’ Then you go and fuck his daughter in the hay like a damn barn animal.”
“Wasn’t like that.” Heat licked up Steve’s neck. “It wasn’t planned. We—talked, and—”
“And you forgot all about your sermon.” Bucky crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “Tell me, did you watch yourself grunt and moan the way you watched me?”
Steve’s cheeks flamed. “Don’t make this dirtier than it is.”
“Dirtier? Brother, the mud’s already up to our knees.” Bucky stepped closer, anger bright and brittle. “You wouldn’t even let me feel good of what I had with her. Now you want me to swallow this and play nice?”
“I’m not askin’ for forgiveness.” Steve’s voice rose. “But you deserved the truth.”
“Truth is you’re jealous as hell and didn’t want to admit it,” Bucky shot back. “So you took your turn and still wanna be the saint.”
Steve’s fists clenched. “You think this feels right to me? I don’t think I can even look her father in the eye.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll choke on that guilt.” Bucky pivoted, pacing a tight line, boots thumping. He stopped, spun. “Fine. Let’s skip the guilt. Let’s ask her straight out who she wants. Winner keeps the girl, loser keeps their mouth shut.”
“That’s childish,” Steve snapped.
“Better than self-righteous,” Bucky muttered.
They stared each other down, breath quickening with a frustration edged in something hotter. Outside the loft, a rooster crowed. The tension held, buzzing like a live wire between their chests.
Steve exhaled first, the fight draining to weary honesty. “We can’t turn her into a prize, Buck. That ain’t right, and you know it.”
Bucky’s shoulders sagged, but the jealousy still smouldered in his eyes. “Then what? We keep sneakin’ behind each other until Mr. Moreau shoots one of us?”
“I don’t know.” Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “But we finish that fence today. After that—figure it out with her, together. No more secrets.”
Bucky studied him, jaw working. Finally he nodded stiffly. “Finish the fence,” he echoed. “Then we talk.”
The afternoon never quite decided if it was rain or sleet; it just hurled water sideways until the posts sagged in the muck and both men were soaked to the bone. By the time they slogged back to the barn, the sky looked like a dull bruise and the west line was still three rails short. No one said it, but they were glad for the excuse to quit early.
Up in the loft, Steve kicked off his mud-caked boots and dropped onto the couch, hair plastered to his forehead. Bucky lingered at the hatch, stripping and changing out of his drenched shirt, drops tapping the floorboards. He found a rag, swiped at his face, then tossed the cloth aside.
Tense didn’t begin to cover it. They moved around each other the way soldiers do when the truce is thin—careful, eyes sliding away after the briefest glance. Steve rummaged for dry socks, Bucky fished for a cigarette he never lit. Rain pattered on the roof, steady as a clock.
The ladder creaked.
You appeared with a bundle of quilts over one arm, hair damp, skin glowing from kitchen heat. “Thought y’all could use somethin’ dry,” you said, voice gentle, eyes flicking from Steve’s rigid shoulders to Bucky’s tight jaw.
Neither man answered right off, and the hush sharpened until even the rain felt awkward. You crossed to the couch, shaking out a faded patchwork, the cotton smelling of starch and chamomile. Steve took it with a muttered thanks, knuckles brushing yours; his gaze skittered away before it could catch.
“Fence fight back?” you teased, hoping to coax a smile. It earned only a grunt from Bucky and a shrug from Steve.
You laid another quilt over the couch arm, slower this time—testing the air, feeling the edge in it. “Storm’s supposed to clear by dawn,” you offered, smoothing a corner that didn’t need smoothing. “Plenty of time to finish tomorrow before ya’ll leave.”
Still the silence. Bucky’s cigarette twirled restlessly between his fingers; Steve’s fingers dug into quilt batting like he might wring the tension out of the fabric.
You straightened, eyes narrowing just a touch. “The weather ain’t the only thing foul up here,” you said softly, but there was firmness under the honey. “Y’all gonna tell me what’s crawled between you, or am I supposed to guess?”
Neither answered, but their gazes finally met. It was brief, charged… and you felt the spark skip the space between them like summer lightning.
Bucky broke first, voice rough. “Y’know what this is, sweetheart? A game. You’ve been playin’ us—fuckin’ us both and watchin’ which dog growls louder.”
You propped a hip against the couch arm, arms loose across your chest, unbothered. “Playin’? Honey, I just like good company. Can’t a girl enjoy both flavors without pickin’ a favourite?”
Steve’s tone came gentler but no less raw. “Why, though? If you care for either of us, why throw a match on gasoline?”
“Why not?” You lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug. “World’s big enough for more than one kind of want. I didn’t hear either of you complainin’ at the time.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “’Cause I thought it meant somethin’—til I find out you rode him next like a county fair row-pony.”
You arched a brow. “Meanin’ like you cared about Stevie’s feelin’s when you waited ‘til he was dead asleep to slide into my bayou and make me holler? Glass houses, James.”
The barb hit; he flinched, fingers whitening around the cigarette he still hadn’t lit. Steve opened his mouth, a protest half-formed, and you cut him a sidelong glance. “And you—moral high ground looked real pretty till you let me grind it to dust in the hay. Hypocrite suits you about as tight as those jeans did yesterday.”
Colour scorched Steve’s ears. “I won’t deny it,” he said quietly. “I was jealous. Still am.”
“Same,” Bucky snapped, softer now, wounded pride bleeding through. “Feels like we’re bein’ measured for sport.”
You blew out a breath, voice dropping to something low, coaxing. “I’m measurin’ the way I measure ripe peaches—by taste, not by pit. Didn’t reckon either one of you wanted claim-stakes hammered down.”
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, restless. “Can’t keep splittin the difference. Not without someone gettin’ cut.”
You let a slow breath roll out, smoothing the air like a hand over rumpled sheets.
“Alright—enough chest-thumping,” you murmured, voice a lazy drawl meant to soothe. You pivoted first to Bucky, stepping in just close enough that the lantern light caught the silver flecks in his eyes.
“Y’know what I like about you, Bucky?” Your fingers brushed the inside of his forearm—just a ghost of touch, but it made his shoulders ease a notch. “It’s that wildfire charm. You see somethin’ you want, and you grab it like life’s too short for second thoughts. Had me tremblin’ on that dock, remember? You move like you own the night, and for a minute I believed you did.”
A faint, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still smouldering there.
Then you turned to Steve, reaching to smooth a wet lock from his forehead. “And you? Gentleman on the surface, but lord—the heat underneath once you let it out.” Your hand slid to cup his jaw; Steve leaned into it without meaning to, “You made me feel wanted in every sweet, filthy way a woman craves. Like I was worth every ounce of that control you dropped.”
Their gazes flicked to each other, some of the sharpness dulling with your words.
“You boys’ve been best friends forever, ain’t that right?” you asked, stepping back so you could see them both. “Shared bruises, shared bottles… but you never learned to share a woman?”
Bucky’s brows knitted. “Ain’t exactly the way we were taught.”
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to Bucky, then you. “Not sure how that even works.”
“Works however we want it to,” you said with a shrug. “Could be one night. Could be more. Only rule is nobody’s feelings get shoved in a dark corner.”
They traded another look. This one was longer, uncertainty warring with curiosity. Rain pinged softly on the roof, a gentler rhythm now, like the storm itself was catching its breath.
You smiled. “Me? I’d rather see the two of you side-by-side than at each other’s throats. Twice the fun, half the guilt.”
Silence hovered, but the tension had shifted, no longer a taut wire ready to snap, more a low hum in the rafters. Bucky wet his lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth. Steve exhaled, shoulders softening, as if the idea wasn’t as impossible as it had sounded a minute ago.
Lantern-light flickered across the loft as you stepped between them, storm-tamed curls brushing Steve’s cheek. One hand found the back of his neck, guiding him down; your mouth covered his in a slow, coaxing seal. At first he held himself still, surprised, then his hands rose, steadying at your waist while he answered, tongue sweeping to taste the invitation you offered. The kiss went deep, unhurried, a warm pull that drew a hum from somewhere low in his chest.
Across the narrow space Bucky watched, arms folded but jaw tight, jealousy flashing bright before he masked it. You felt the weight of his stare; when you finally let Steve breathe you kept your gaze on those blue eyes gone hazy, then pivoted without missing a beat.
Your free hand snagged the front of Bucky’s T-shirt, knuckles brushing the hard plane beneath, and you tugged him forward.
“C’mere, hotshot,” you whispered.
He came, like the magnet he’d always been, meeting your mouth with none of Steve’s hesitation. The kiss landed hungry, teeth grazing, his hand sliding to cup the side of your throat. Where Steve’s earlier sweetness lingered, Bucky’s heat sparked bright, and you let both flavors mingle on your tongue a heartbeat longer than strictly fair.
When you broke away the air felt thicker, three sets of breaths stirring the dust motes. Your lips, plush now and tingling, curved into a satisfied smile.
“See?” you murmured, voice lazy as molasses. “Turns out sharing ain’t so hard.”
Steve stood rooted, wide eyes flicking from your mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky’s stare, darker now, drifted to Steve, sharp edge softened by the flush riding both their cheeks. Rain pattered gentle drums on the roof above, the storm’s worst anger spent, leaving only a hush that felt charged rather than tense.
“You pull us in opposite directions long enough,” Bucky said, half-grin creeping back, “might find we land in the same place.”
“Wouldn’t that be a sight,” you answered, giving his shirt a playful tug before smoothing the crumpled cotton flat. You turned, letting your knuckles brush Steve’s knuckles—an invitation to stay right where he was. “The three of us could keep warmer than any blanket in this loft.”
Neither man moved to argue. Steve’s throat bobbed, eyes searching Bucky’s. Bucky’s shoulders shifted, like he was trying on the feel of standing this close without bristling. A tentative thread of curiosity stretched between them stronger than the jealousy that had ruled the morning.
You stepped back just far enough to see them both, palms open. “Fence can wait,” you said. “Weather looks set to keep us indoors.” Outside, thunder rumbled a soft bass note, agreeing.
The air in the loft hung heavy, thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth and the raw edge of anticipation. You stood between them, Bucky and Steve, their breaths syncing in ragged pulls, eyes locked on you like you’d become the only fixed point in the dim lantern glow.
Your fingers hooked under the hem of your damp shirt, the fabric clinging to your skin from the earlier drizzle. You peeled it up slowly letting the cool air kiss your ribs before it whispered over the swell of your breasts still trapped in lace. Their gazes followed every inch, darkening as you tossed the shirt aside onto the couch.
Then came the bra—clips snapping free with a flick, straps sliding down your shoulders. Your breasts spilled out, full and heavy, nipples tightening into stiff peaks under the weight of their stares. Bucky’s tongue darted over his lips, a low sound rumbling in his throat, while Steve’s jaw clenched, his eyes dropping straight to the soft curves, tracing the way they rose with each breath you took.
Not done yet. Your hands moved to the button of your jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged quiet. The zipper rasped down, and you shoved the denim over your hips, hooking your thumbs into your panties and dragging them along for the ride. They pooled at your ankles, and you kicked them free, standing bare before them—skin flushed, thighs slick with the ache building between them.
Bucky’s breath hitched, his cock straining visibly against his jeans, and Steve shifted, a flush creeping up his neck as he drank in the sight of your naked body, every curve and shadow laid out like an offering.
“Who wants to touch first?” you purred, voice husky, letting the words drip like honey over the tension.
It took barely a second—Bucky, of course, moving like he’d been coiled for it. His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, crashing his mouth against yours. His tongue plunged deep, fucking into your throat with a possessive thrust that made your knees weak, tasting of salt and coffee and that unashamed want.
He hauled you flush against him, your bare tits mashing into the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples dragging against the fabric as his free arm banded around your waist, grinding his hard length into your belly through his clothes.
You melted into the kiss, moaning around his invading tongue, but then—hands. Warm, callused palms sliding onto your waist from behind, tentative at first, then firmer as Steve pressed his body against your back. His chest was a solid wall of heat, his cock throbbing hot against the cleft of your ass even through his jeans.
Those hands trailed up, slow and careful, cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted Bucky’s roughness—thumbs brushing the undersides before squeezing soft, kneading the flesh until your nipples ached under the pressure.
A shiver raced down your spine as his mouth found your throat, lips parting to suckle the pulse there, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks straight to your clit.
Bucky didn’t let up, his kiss turning sloppier, wetter, tongue battling yours while Steve’s breaths fanned hot against your neck, his squeezes growing bolder, rolling your breasts in his palms like he couldn’t get enough of the weight, the give.
The kiss with Bucky lingered like a brand, his tongue retreating with a final, teasing swipe that left your lips swollen and slick. You twisted in his grip, turning your head to capture Steve’s mouth instead, and he met you halfway—eager, almost desperate, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that stole your breath.
His tongue delved deep, exploring with a fervor that matched the way his hands still cradled your tits, thumbs circling your hardened nipples until they throbbed under his touch.
Bucky didn’t yield an inch, his mouth shifting to the curve of your neck, hot and insistent, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin as he sucked a mark into place. One of his hands slid down, palming the swell of your ass with a firm squeeze, fingers digging in to guide your hips forward. You ground against him instinctively, feeling the rigid bulge of his cock press into your belly through the denim, thick and insistent, pulsing with every roll of your body.
Steve’s kiss deepened in response, turning rougher, his free hand tangling in your hair to angle your head just right, devouring your mouth like he needed to erase Bucky’s taste.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Bucky rasped against your throat, his voice a gravelly vibration that sent shivers racing down your spine, his breath fanning over the damp spot he’d left behind.
You hummed into Steve’s kiss, the sound vibrating between your pressed lips.
Steve broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, whispering hot against your ear, “You’re perfect... so soft, so sweet,” his affirmations spilling out like confessions, voice thick with awe and need as he nuzzled into your shoulder.
You pushed at their chests, firm but playful, breaking their hold. “I want both of ya’ll to eat my pussy,” you said, eyes flicking between them as you backed toward the small mattress piled with worn blankets on the loft floor.
You sank down onto the makeshift bed, the rough weave scratching your bare skin just enough to heighten the thrill. Spreading your legs wide, you exposed yourself fully—the swollen folds of your cunt glistening with arousal, clit peeking out begging for attention.
Bucky and Steve froze mid-step, their eyes locking onto the sight between your thighs, breaths catching in unison. Bucky’s jaw went slack, that smirk faltering into raw want, while Steve’s flush deepened, his cock tenting his jeans obscenely as he swallowed hard.
Then, like a dam breaking, they lunged,both scrambling forward in a tangle of limbs, shoulders bumping as they vied for position.
“Move over, punk,” Bucky murmured, shoving at Steve’s arm, trying to wedge in closer.
Steve pushed back, his voice a strained mutter, “There’s room—back off a sec.” They bickered like that, half-hearted jabs and elbows, but neither stopped advancing, knees hitting the mattress as they crowded between your open legs.
Their argument dissolved into action, mouths descending on your pussy in a frenzy of heat and hunger. Bucky got there first, his tongue lapping broad and flat up your slit, collecting your wetness with a groan that rumbled against your sensitive flesh. Steve wasn’t far behind, angling in from the side to suckle at your inner thigh before dragging his lips to your clit, enveloping it in wet suction that made your hips buck.
They jostled for space, Bucky’s shoulder knocking Steve’s as he delved deeper, tongue fucking into your entrance with sloppy thrusts, while Steve latched onto your nub, flicking it relentlessly with the tip of his tongue.
The dual assault overwhelmed you—Bucky’s mouth devouring your hole, slurping noisily at the gush of arousal leaking out, his stubble scraping your thighs raw; Steve’s lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to pull whimpers from your throat, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.
“Taste so fuckin’ sweet,” Bucky mumbled between licks, the words vibrating into you, while Steve hummed agreement, his tongue circling faster, teeth grazing just enough to teeter on the edge of pain.
Their mouths battled over your dripping cunt like starving men, tongues and lips a chaotic symphony of slick heat that had you mesmerized. You watched through half-lidded eyes, pulse hammering in your ears, the way Bucky’s tongue plunged deep into your hole, fucking in and out with obscene wet sounds, only for Steve to shove in closer, latching onto your clit with a fierce suck that made your toes curl.
Their faces were inches apart, cheeks brushing, breaths mingling hot and ragged, and fuck, the sight of it twisted something filthy in your gut. You imagined it—their tongues slipping free from you, tangling together in a messy, saliva-slick kiss, tasting you on each other, and the thought alone shoved you toward the edge.
“God, yes—right there,” you gasped, hips grinding up into their faces, fingers yanking at their hair to hold them in place.
Bucky groaned low, the vibration humming straight through your core, “You like watchin’ us fight over this pretty pussy, huh?” Steve mumbled something incoherent against your thigh, too lost in the feast to form words, but his tongue flicked faster, relentless.
It hit you like a storm surge, that orgasm sneaking up fast and brutal—your walls clenching on nothing, release gushing out in hot waves that soaked their chins. You cried out, back arching off the mattress, thighs quaking as pleasure ripped through you. Bucky and Steve didn’t pull back; if anything, they dove deeper.
“So damn good,” Steve finally rasped, voice muffled as he licked a stripe up your seam, sharing the taste with a quick, accidental brush of his tongue against Bucky’s.
The intensity bordered on too much, sparks of overstimulation prickling like needles as their mouths kept working, tongues still probing and sucking without mercy. “Wait—fuck, too much,” you panted, hands flying to their heads, trying to shove them away, but your pushes were weak, body still humming from the high.
They lingered a second longer, reluctant, before Bucky’s eyes flashed with that predatory glint. In a blur, he shouldered Steve aside, “My turn, Stevie”—the bigger man stumbling back on his knees, jeans strained tight over his erection.
Bucky didn’t waste a beat, fingers fumbling with his belt, the clink of metal echoing in the loft as he yanked it open. His jeans shoved down just enough, his cock sprang free—thick, veined, the flushed head already leaking pre-cum, curving up with a slight leftward tilt.
He gripped the base, stroking once, twice, before dragging the length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your release. The friction teased your entrance, bumping your clit with each pass, and you bit your lip, doing nothing to stop him—hell, you spread your legs wider, inviting the invasion.
“Yeah, just like that,” Bucky muttered, voice rough as gravel, lining up and sinking in slow, inch by torturous inch, your pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that blurred into bliss.
He bottomed out with a guttural groan, balls slapping against your ass as he started thrusting—deep, claiming strokes that rocked your body against the mattress. “Still so tight... takin’ me so good,” he grunted, hands pinning your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the wet slap of skin filling the air, mingling with the rain’s fury outside.
You took it, moaning with each plunge, walls fluttering around him, but your gaze flicked to Steve, who knelt there looking adrift—lips shiny with your juices, chest heaving, cock throbbing untouched in his pants, a mix of uncertainty and need in his blue eyes.
“Aw, c’mere, sugar,” you cooed softly, voice breathy from Bucky’s relentless pace, reaching out a hand to beckon him closer. He hesitated for a split second, then crawled forward, drawn like a moth to flame.
You pulled him down, crashing your lips to his in a messy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Bucky’s thrusts didn’t falter, each one jolting you into Steve’s mouth, making the kiss deeper, hungrier. “Mmm, don’t look so lost,” you murmured against Steve’s lips, nipping at his bottom one before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I want you in my mouth—wanna taste that big cock of yours while he fucks me.”
Steve’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up his neck, but he nodded, fumbling with his zipper as Bucky chuckled, hips snapping harder. “You heard her, pal. Feed her that dick.”
Steve’s fingers trembled on his zipper, the metallic rasp cutting through the humid air as he finally freed himself—his cock springing out, thick and heavy, the head already flushed and glistening with pre-cum. You watched for a beat, heat pooling fresh in your belly, but then impulse hit like lightning. With a hum, you planted your hands on Bucky’s chest and shoved hard. He blinked up at you, confusion flashing in those blue eyes as his cock slipped free from your clenching heat with a wet pop, leaving you achingly empty for just a second.
“What the—” Bucky started, but you didn’t let him finish, pushing him sideways until he toppled onto his back, jeans still bunched around his thighs, legs splayed. The mattress creaked under his weight, and before he could protest, you swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. His dick slapped against your inner thigh, hot and insistent, as you gripped it at the base and sank down in one fluid motion, taking him balls-deep with a satisfied moan.
“Fuck yeah, angel,” Bucky rasped, hands flying to your waist, thumbs digging into your skin as he bucked up once, testing. “Ride me like one of them horses out in the pasture—hard and wild.” His voice was all gravel and hunger, that smirk creeping back as he watched you take control.
You laughed breathlessly, rolling your hips in a slow grind before lifting up and slamming down, “You’ve got a real dirty mouth on you, handsome,” you teased, picking up the pace, bouncing steadily now, the rough denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your thighs with each drop. The friction added a bite to the bliss, making you hiss through your teeth.
Bucky groaned, head tipping back against the mattress, but his eyes stayed locked on you. “Shit, just like that. Tighter, darlin’, squeeze me.”
Your gaze shifted to Steve, who hovered there, cock in hand, looking equal parts left out and starved. You flashed him a soft, encouraging smile, slowing your rhythm just enough to beckon him with a crook of your finger. “C’mon, honey. I want you right here.”
He swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing, but he shuffled closer on his knees, positioning himself near Bucky’s head, close enough that the scent of his arousal mixed with the musk of sweat and rain-soaked hay.
You leaned forward without missing a beat, your breasts swaying with the motion, and wrapped your lips around the tip of Steve’s cock. He was pretty—long and girthy, the foreskin peeling back as you sucked gently, tongue swirling over the sensitive head to taste the salty bead of pre-cum. “Mmm,” you hummed around him, the vibration pulling a choked gasp from his throat.
Steve’s hand tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you licked a broad stripe up the underside, tracing the thick vein before taking him deeper, cheeks hollowing with the suction.
“God, your mouth... feels so damn good, beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough and genuine, hips twitching forward instinctively.
Bucky’s thrusts didn’t let up—he drove into you from below, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until it pebbled hard under his touch.
“Look at you, takin’ us both like a champ,” he panted, pinching lightly, sending sparks straight to your core.
But then his rhythm faltered for a split second, eyes darting sideways as your head bobbed right next to his face, the wet sounds of your sucking filling his ears. Steve’s cock glistened with your saliva, inches from Bucky’s cheek, and you caught the way Bucky’s gaze lingered, a flicker of something strange and curious in his expression.
“Hey, eyes on me,” you pulled off Steve with a pop, grinning down at Bucky as you clenched around him on purpose, making him curse under his breath. “Or you wanna join in? Taste him too?”
Bucky chuckled hesitantly, squeezing your other breast in retaliation. “Temptin’, but I’m good buried in this pussy for now.” He bucked harder, the scrape of denim biting into your skin again, urging you back to work.
You obliged, moaning around Steve’s length as you took him to the back of your throat, nose brushing the unkept hair at his base. Steve’s free hand braced on Bucky’s shoulder for balance, the accidental touch making both men tense, breaths syncing in the charged air.
“Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Steve warned, fingers tightening in your hair, but you just hummed encouragement, riding Bucky faster.
Bucky’s eyes gaze flicked back up, locking onto the way your lips stretched around Steve’s throbbing dick, slurping and sucking with greedy abandon. Steve’s face was a mask of pure ecstasy; eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in a silent groan, and Bucky couldn’t resist. “Hey, punk, she’s got you leakin’ like a damn faucet.”
Steve’s breath hitched, his hand flexing in your hair, but he shot Bucky a glare through half-lidded eyes. “Shut it, Buck,feels too good to argue.”
You hummed around Steve’s length, the vibration making him buck forward, your free hand cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten as he teetered on the edge.
Bucky hummed, spreading your ass cheeks wider, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to where his cock pistoned in and out. “Nah, saint, you’re blushin’ like a virgin. Gonna blow already?”
“Screw you,” Steve panted, but there was no heat in it, just desperate need as his cock twitched against your tongue. You could feel him swelling, the salty pulse of pre-cum flooding your mouth, he was seconds from exploding.
But you weren’t ready to let him go over yet. With a deliberate pop, you pulled off, your hand still stroking his slick shaft lazily, denying him that final push. Steve’s eyes flew open, pained and pleading, his chest heaving as he stared down at you.
“Please... don’t stop,” he begged, voice cracking, hips jerking futilely into your grip.
You paused your bounces on Bucky, clenching around him to keep him buried deep but holding still, the ache of denial making your thighs quiver. Leaning up slightly, you cupped Steve’s jaw with your free hand, thumb tracing his lower lip as you met his gaze softly. “Shh, pretty boy. I want you to finish inside me… fill me up proper. Not like this.”
Bucky stilled beneath you, his hands loosening on your ass just a fraction, brows knitting in confusion as he glanced between you and Steve. “You kickin’ me out now?”
Steve mirrored the look, his cock bobbing neglected in the air, still rock-hard and dripping. “But... Buck’s already...”
You grinned, sweet and reassuring, “Fellas, I’ve got room for two. Plenty of space in me.”
Your words hung in the humid air like a challenge, that smile still playing on your lips as you picked up the pace, bouncing with renewed vigor, your ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sounds of your pussy devouring him echoing in the dim loft.
Steve shifted behind you, his uncertainty clear in the way his hands trembled slightly on your waist. He was rock-hard, tip leaking and flushed, but his mind raced ahead—assuming you meant something else entirely. With a hesitant nudge, he pressed the head of his cock against your ass, the pressure firm but tentative, like he was testing uncharted waters.
A soft laugh bubbled out of you, light and teasing, cutting through the tension as you twisted your head to glance back at him. “Oh sweetheart, that’s not quite what I had in mind.”
Steve froze, cheeks burning even in the low light, his cock twitching against your skin. “I... thought... shit, sorry. You said—”
Before he could finish fumbling, you reached back with one arm, your fingers wrapping around his thick shaft—hot and pulsing in your palm. You stroked him once, firmly, drawing a sharp hiss from his lips, then guided him downward, angling him right toward your soaked entrance where Bucky was already buried deep.
The tip brushed against your folds, slick with your arousal and Bucky’s pre-cum, nudging insistently at the stretched opening.
Steve’s eyes widened, confusion etching deeper lines on his face as he stared down at the impossible sight. “Wait, but... how the hell—?”
You paused your grinding just enough to lean forward, bracing one hand on Bucky’s chest, nails digging into his skin for leverage. “There’s enough room in this greedy little pussy, honey. Stretch me wide, fill me up until I can’t think straight.”
Your words were a sultry command, eyes fluttering half-shut in anticipation, but you shot Steve a reassuring wink over your shoulder.
Bucky’s head snapped up, his blue eyes meeting Steve’s in a shared look of stunned disbelief. “You serious, darlin’? Both of us... in there? Shit, that’s—”
“Insane,” Steve finished, voice hoarse, but his hips inched forward anyway, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance alongside Bucky’s girth. They exchanged another glance; uncertain, a flicker of worry in Bucky’s eyes and Steve’s furrowed brow. This wasn’t some quick tumble; it was pushing boundaries they’d never imagined.
“Yeah, insane,” Bucky echoed, but his voice dropped an octave, laced with a sliver of excitement as he held still inside you, letting you feel the throb of him. “You sure you can take it, angel?”
“Mm, more than sure,” you murmured, rocking your hips experimentally, which only wedged Steve’s tip a fraction deeper, the dual pressure making your breath catch. “Come on, Stevie—push. I want to feel you both sliding in, rubbing against each other in me.”
Steve swallowed hard, resolve flickering to life in his gaze as he nodded, hands steadying on your hips. “Alright... alright, if that’s what you want, sweetheart.” He started pushing in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch burning sweet and intense as your walls accommodated him.
You breathed in deep, eyes squeezing shut, a shudder rippling through you as you balanced on Bucky’s chest—fingers splaying wide over his pounding heart, grounding yourself in the heat of his skin.
Bucky groaned low, his cock twitching inside you as he felt Steve’s length pressing in against him.
Steve’s breath stuttered, his forehead beading with sweat as he sank deeper, the sensation overwhelming—your pussy clenching around them both, hot and velvety, while Bucky’s cock pulsed right against his own. “It’s—tight as hell. You okay?”
You nodded, biting your lip to stifle a whimper, the fullness bordering on too much but tipping straight into ecstasy. “Keep goin’... just like that. Oh, fuck. Yeah, both of you, right there.”
The stretch was exquisite agony, your body locked in place between them, every nerve ending firing as Bucky and Steve filled you to the brink—two thick cocks wedged deep in your pussy, pulsing hot and insistent against each other through your slick walls.
You could barely shift, let alone move, the overwhelming fullness pinning you like a vice, your thighs quivering from the strain. A hazy fog clouded your mind, cockdrunk and drifting in the haze of sensation, every shallow breath pulling a whimper from your lips.
“F-Fellas,” you gasped, voice slurred with lust, fingers clutching at Bucky’s shoulders for any semblance of control. “I... I can’t—move for me. You gotta fuck me like this.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, a feral glint cutting through the sweat beading on his brow. He nodded once, rough and sure, his hands clamping harder on your hips. “Yeah? You want us to use you, sweet thing? Pound this greedy little hole till she breaks?” His voice was gravel, hips shifting first—tentative at the start, pulling back an inch before slamming upward, the drag of his shaft grinding against Steve’s in the tight confines of your cunt.
Steve mirrored him a beat later, hesitant but hungry, his broad chest heaving as he withdrew slightly, then thrust in—the dual motion sending sparks exploding behind your eyes. “God, it’s... too much,” he groaned, voice cracking on the edge of a moan, his cock sliding against Bucky’s.
They found a rhythm, tentative thrusts syncing into something primal, back and forth like a seesaw of pure heat—Bucky pushing deep as Steve eased out, then reversing, their groans mingling with the wet slap of skin and the creak of the mattress beneath.
You were their plaything now, jolted between them like a ragdoll, body bouncing on the wave of their cocks, the pressure building in your core until it bordered on delirium. Lost in the rhythm, Bucky’s hand snaked up your back, fingers tangling in your hair to yank you down, crashing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss—tongue plunging deep, tasting the salt of your shared sweat, devouring you like he owned every gasp. You melted into it, moaning into his mouth as their cocks speared you harder.
But Steve wasn’t going to be left out anymore. As Bucky released you, Steve’s strong arm hooked around your waist, pulling you upright with a possessive tug, his free hand cupping your jaw to turn your face to him. As he sealed his lips over yours—kissing you slower but no less fierce, tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, drawing out a needy whine as his hips snapped forward, grinding deeper alongside Bucky.
Your mind spun, pleasure dazing you into a stupor, words tumbling out in a breathless haze. “Kiss... kiss each other.”
Bucky faltered for a split second, his blue eyes flicking up to Steve’s, surprise flashing before lust swallowed it whole. “What—darlin’, you—”
You didn’t let him finish, one hand snaking behind Steve’s head, fingers threading through his damp hair and pushing down firmly, guiding him toward Bucky’s waiting mouth. “C’mon, hotshot, kiss your golden boy for me.”
Bucky’s breath hitched, resistance crumbling under the weight of your words and the relentless pump of his hips. They kept moving, cocks buried to the hilt, sliding in tandem as their faces drew closer—lips brushing tentative at first, then crashing together in a passionate lock. Bucky’s tongue darted out, claiming Steve’s mouth with the same hunger he fucked you with, a muffled groan escaping them both as the kiss deepened.
You watched, transfixed, the sight of their mouths fusing; tongues tangling, breaths mingling, pushing you over the edge. The coil in your belly snapped, orgasm ripping through you like lightning, your pussy spasming wildly around them both, walls fluttering and squeezing in rhythmic pulses.
“Fuck—yes, oh god, I’m cumming!” you cried, body arching as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, soaking their cocks in your release.
Their kiss broke on a shared gasp, Bucky pulling back first, eyes wide and wild as he felt the vice-like grip of your climax. “Fuck—baby, you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight,” Bucky grunted, voice strained, his grip bruising your hips as he drove up into the slick chaos of your pussy, feeling the hot flood of your release coat him. “Gonna make me—”
Steve beat him to it, a choked groan tearing from his throat as his body seized. “Oh shit—can’t hold—”
His cock throbbed wildly inside you, swelling against Bucky’s before unleashing thick ropes of cum, pulsing deep and flooding your core. The warmth spread instantly, mixing with your own juices, the sensation of his load spilling out around their joined shafts pushing Bucky right to the brink.
That was it—the wet heat of Steve’s release seeping through your walls, drenching Bucky’s cock in the messy proof of his friend’s orgasm. Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut, a guttural moan ripping free as he slammed home one last time. His shaft jerked violently, erupting in heavy spurts, pumping load after load into you until it overflowed, the combined seed sloshing with every twitch.
They emptied everything, cocks twitching with brutal oversensitivity, veins pulsing against your fluttering insides. You shuddered between them, body limp and quaking, every nerve raw from the overload.
Bucky’s hands roamed your sweat-slick skin—tracing the curve of your spine, cupping your ass, kneading your thighs—as if grounding himself in the aftermath, his breaths coming in harsh pants against your ear. “Easy, angel... we got you,” he murmured, voice hoarse, fingers digging in just enough to soothe the lingering ache.
Steve, still buried deep, pressed his lips to the pulse at your neck, kissing softly at first, then with more urgency, tongue flicking out to taste the salt on your skin. “So good... you feel so good, sweetheart,” he whispered, nuzzling closer, his chest heaving against your back as he fought to steady the tremors racking his frame.
Steve was the first to stir, reluctance clear in the way his hands lingered on your waist. With a careful shift, he eased back, his softening cock slipping free with a lewd, wet pop. The rush hit immediately—a gush of warmth spilling from you, their mingled cum trickling down in thick rivulets, soaking the denim of Bucky’s jeans beneath.
“Ah—sorry,” Steve muttered, flushed and spent, collapsing onto the mattress beside Bucky, his arm draping loosely over his eyes as if to block out the intensity.
You let out a shaky breath, muscles protesting as you lifted yourself off Bucky next, the drag of his cock pulling a sharp whine from your throat. More seed followed, sliding hot and sticky down your thighs, pooling where you’d been joined. Bucky hissed through his teeth, hips bucking involuntarily at the loss.
“Fuckin’ hell—that’s... messy,” he rasped, a low chuckle rumbling out despite the sensitivity, his hand coming up to swipe at the spill on his jeans.
Exhausted, you collapsed between them, body sinking into the rumpled sheets, limbs twitching with aftershocks. Silence fell, broken only by the trio of heaving breaths syncing in the humid loft air, thick with the musk of heat and raw sex, undercut by the distant patter of rain on the roof and the faint, the sweet trace of your honeysuckle lotion clinging to sweat-damp skin.
Then Bucky’s voice cut through the hush, like he was trying to toss a joke over something that felt too big to stare at.
“Well… guess we learned how to share after all.”
You let out a small huff that might’ve been a laugh if you’d had more air in your lungs, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Your body still felt like it was humming—too warm, too wrung-out, like you’d been shaken up and put back together wrong in the best way.
Steve made a sound that could’ve been a chuckle, “S’pose that’s one way to put it,” he murmured.
Above your head, Steve turned his head towards Bucky. That familiar, easy glance they’d shared a thousand times in their lives, the one that always said you good? and yeah, I’m good, the one that had carried them through worse than a Louisiana storm. Only now it didn’t land the same.
Because now “you good?” had more weight.
Steve’s eyes flicked to Bucky’s mouth, just a fraction too long, and something tightened in his chest, warm and confusing. A flash of it, all over again, the wet press of tongues, the wrongness-turned-rightness of it, the way it had sparked through the whole loft like lightning.
The two of them had spent their whole lives calling it brotherhood because that word was safe. Best friends. End of the line. A story you could tell people without watching them look too closely.
But you had made them look too closely.
Bucky broke eye contact first, like he felt the heat of the thought and didn’t want to stand in it, his gaze dropping to you like he needed somewhere safer to look. His hand came up, fingers warm and careful at your throat, thumb resting at your pulse like he could feel your heartbeat still stuttering there. He tilted your face toward him with a gentleness that didn’t match his normal charm at all.
“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmured, and there was no swagger in it, no performance. “One hell of a woman.”
“Not so bad yourself, handsome,” you breathed back, a lazy little smile tugging at your mouth.
He kissed you, slow and lingering, like he was claiming the moment for himself. You let him. Let him have the softness. Let him taste the last traces of you on your own lips without making it a fight.
And you felt Steve’s attention sharpen across your skin.
At first it was just presence. Then it became something else, that ugly twist of jealousy rising in him again, quick and hot, like he’d hated it earlier and still couldn’t stop it now.
Only this time it wasn’t simple.
It wasn’t just Bucky’s kissing you and I’m not.
It was tangled up with the memory of Bucky’s mouth against his, with the fact Steve had felt it… felt how it changed the air, how it changed the shape of his chest when he thought about it too long. It was the unsettling realization that what he wanted wasn’t cleanly separated into categories anymore.
He didn’t want to name that.
So he did what Steve always did when he didn’t want to name something, he acted.
His hand came up, palm warm against your cheek, and he guided your face toward him with a firmness that bordered on petulant—like he couldn’t stand being left out even for a breath anymore.
“Hey,” he muttered, as if the word could justify what he was about to take.
Then he kissed you.
Deeper than Bucky had, because Steve kissed like he was trying to anchor himself, like if he could taste you hard enough, he could drown out every complicated thought trying to rise. His mouth was hot and sure, tongue slipping in with a confidence he hadn’t carried before the stables, before the loft, before you pulled all the polite restraint out of him and taught him what he looked like without it.
You hummed into the kiss, letting it be messy, letting him be greedy.
Bucky watched, jaw tightening, though not angry exactly, not anymore. Just… lit up. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, his pride, his hunger. Like the sight of Steve taking something he wanted did something ugly and thrilling to him at the same time.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes heavy. Your voice came out soft and unhurried like you weren’t about to let either of them pretend this was simple.
“You boys keep lookin’ at each other like you don’t know what you’re seein’,” you murmured, eyes flicking between them. “Ain’t like you didn’t already cross the line.”
Steve’s throat bobbed. His gaze cut away for half a second, reflex and denial, then returned.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “She’s got a point, punk.”
Steve shot him a look. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m not startin’,” Bucky said, almost too calm. “I’m just… takin’ inventory.”
That made Steve’s brow furrow, something wary and pulled-tight in his expression.
You shifted between them, the movement small but enough to draw both their eyes, enough to remind them you were still the center of gravity here, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
Steve felt it in the quiet seconds after, watching you push yourself upright, stretching like a cat that’d just had its fill. The lamp on the little trunk threw a golden wash over you, catching the curve of your shoulder, the soft hollow at your throat, the confidence in the way you didn’t rush to cover yourself.
And in his head, Steve hated how perfectly Bucky’s pet name fit you now. Angel.
He had always thought angels were meant to guide you back toward the straight path. You were the opposite kind. The kind that smiled sweetly and led you off the road on purpose, deeper into the dark, deeper into want, like sin wasn’t something to fear but something to finally stop lying about.
He should’ve hated that.
Instead it felt… like relief.
It felt like coming home to a part of himself he’d kept locked up tight, because being Steve Rogers meant being good, meant being steady, meant being the one who held the line. Out here… on this farm, in this heat, with your hands on him and your mouth on his—he didn’t have to perform holiness. He could just be a man. Hungry, human and wanted.
And Bucky, reckless, charming and always halfway out the door, had been tempted into stillness for once. Steve could see it. Even now, with Bucky sprawled beside him, breathing slower, eyes heavy, there was a calm in him that didn’t usually last longer than a cigarette.
You’d done that. To both of them.
Then you spoke again, and the words hit like cold water.
“Shame you boys’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.”
You said it so goddamn easy. Like you were talking about weather. Like you hadn’t just cracked something open between them that didn’t fit back the same way.
The warmth in the loft went cold.
Steve’s throat tightened. He glanced at Bucky without meaning to, like he needed confirmation he hadn’t imagined the sting. Bucky’s face had gone still, brows drawn together, mouth set in a line that looked almost… hurt. Just that faint pout of a man who didn’t like realizing he’d started wanting something he couldn’t have.
Steve recognized the expression because it was sitting on his own face too.
Leaving had always been the plan. Finish the fence. Get the gas. Roll out. Keep moving. That was Bucky’s rhythm. That was the only rhythm Steve had been able to follow for months without losing him.
But now, hearing you say it out loud, Steve felt something stubborn rise up in him. Possessive in a quiet way. Not of you exactly… though that was in it. Of the whole thing. The strange little pocket of peace this place had offered. The way his shoulders had stopped riding his ears. The way he’d slept deeper here, even on a hayloft mattress.
He could feel that same resistance in Bucky, of all people.
Steve swallowed, voice coming out quieter than he meant. “Who says we have to leave tomorrow?”
“My daddy’s got you on a job. Fence gets finished, you take your gas, you go,” you said. “That was the arrangement.”
Bucky shifted beside you, shoulder tightening. “Arrangements can change,” he muttered, rougher than necessary.
Steve’s eyes snapped to him, surprised by how fast the words came out of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky didn’t meet his gaze. He stared at the sheets instead, jaw working like he was annoyed at himself for saying anything at all.
Steve felt a tug in his chest.
You tilted your head, studying them both. “Y’all don’t like bein’ told when to leave, huh,” you murmured, almost amused. “Thought drifters lived for the road.”
Bucky’s laugh came out flat. “Usually.”
Steve looked at you, really looked, and he didn’t like what he saw. You didn’t look afraid of losing them. You looked like you knew exactly what it did to men to feel wanted, then be reminded it had an end date.
Steve’s voice dropped, honest without meaning to be. “This place… it’s been good for us.”
Bucky’s fingers flexed against the quilt. “Don’t start getting sentimental,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it. Only discomfort.
Steve glanced at him again, then back at you. “If we asked, again, would your father consider letting us stay a few more days?”
The question hung in the air, heavier than the rain outside. Bucky finally looked up, and for a second their eyes met again.
You let the silence sit just long enough for it to sting. The lamp warmed your skin into gold again, turning you soft around the edges, almost holy if a person didn’t look too closely. But Steve knew better now. Bucky did too.
Two grown men were lying on either side of you like you were the altar and they were the ones who’d come to kneel.
Your mouth curved. “I’ll talk to Daddy,” you said, voice lazy, sweet as iced tea. “If he’s in a good mood.”
Bucky’s brows lifted, hope and irritation tangled. “And what puts him in a good mood?”
You hummed, rolling a shoulder in a shrug that made Steve’s throat go dry. “Could be the fence looks right. Could be he slept decent. Could be the Lord whispers in his ear.” Your eyes flicked to Steve. “Could be the sun decides to shine.”
Steve felt his chest tighten on a rough breath. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grit his teeth.
“Mm-hmm.” You let your lashes lower. “Seems y’all are good at waitin’ when you want somethin’ bad enough.”
Steve had been stuck his whole life being the good one, the noble one, and you’d given him freedom not to be. Bucky had waited his whole life for something to matter enough to make him stay. And now here they were, both acting like it was anything but your hand on the leash.
You didn’t even have to tug it.
You simply settled back down between them, shoulder brushing Steve’s arm, thigh sliding against Bucky’s, casual contact that made both men go quiet. You fit there too easily, like you belonged in the seam between them.
You lay between them like a secret, like a blessing, like a sin dressed up in honeysuckle and honeyed words.
Angel, Steve thought again—then corrected himself. No. Not an angel. A temptation that looked like one.
Your hand drifted lazily up Steve’s chest, fingers splaying over his heartbeat as if counting it. Your other hand found Bucky’s wrist on your waist, thumb stroking once, absentminded.
You sighed, content, as if the question of tomorrow didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that tonight was still yours.
“If the morning’s kind,” you murmured, voice soft as prayer, “maybe I’ll keep you boys a little longer.”
And you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t promise, didn’t explain, didn’t give them the comfort of certainty. You just settled deeper between them, warm and wicked and impossibly at ease, like the devil himself could’ve learned a thing or two from you about patience.
And outside, rain kept whispering its steady sermon against the roof.
a/n | hope ya'll enjoyed my freakiness, tell me what you think, also im thing abt starting a fresh new taglist, so let me know. and i had to a lotttt of research, so i hope my potrayal of New Orleans, Louisianna is the tiniest bit accurate. the title is based on the movie Wild Things, obviously this fic has no relation, except for the very heated sex and erotica
also the barn loft was based on my man, Clark Kent's favourite spot
✦summary: You know Steve doesn't see you like that. You know because you asked him, and he said no. So it's not really fair, that he'd reject you and keep making you love him after, is it. ✦
✦warnings/tags: steve rogers x female!reader, modern!au, no use of y/n, pining, rejection (at the start, off page, and steve's a liar about it), no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, some plot to get to all that porn, feral level smut, (dry humping, teasing, making steve lose control, fingering, light spanking, praise kink, manhandling, big dick steve, squriting, p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, soft!dom steve), soft!steveoutside of smut✦
✦wc: 10.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one hit ME too hard bc i based it on real life too much. oops. all the better for the horny ig. Enjoy!✦
You’re not looking for him in the crowd. And if anyone says you are, they’re a big, fat liar.
Active scanning is not looking. It’s a part of the job, to see who’s here. What kind of interviews you’re going to be able to get, who’s already closing in on who, who’s snuggled up and gossiping and might not notice you eavesdropping. If you’re smart about this—and you always are—you’re going to walk away from tonight with a comment from Secretary Ross, Pepper Potts, or even an Avenger themselves.
But not him.
You have no interest in walking away with a comment from him.
“They’re here.” Your coworker Stacy bumps your shoulders, her eyes wide and fixed across the room. “Holy shit, they’re actually here-“
“It’s their fundraiser.” You mutter, keeping your attention on a senator bumbling about near the drinks. “It would be crazy if they weren’t here.”
“Yeah, but- It’s all of them. I’ve never seen all of them-“
“Yes, you have.”
Stacy glares at you. “Well, not so close.”
You glance over, pointedly only looking at their feet. “They’re not that close.”
“I could touch one.” Stacy breathes, and you snort.
“You should go try that.”
That earns you another glare, and a smack on the arm. And you deserve it, but you just laugh and look back to your target. The tipsy, red-eyed senator who’s going to have a few more drinks, and tells you all about that bill congress is trying to pass about the Enhanced. You’ve read it three times, and it’s a disgusting invasion of privacy, but those documents were off the record. If you can get a Senator, talking about how he wants to force all superheroes to either be sterilized or record their sex lives-
Stacy pinches your arm, and you squeak so loudly it echoes off the domed, ballroom ceiling. Some attention darts in your direction, but everyone quickly loses interest when they realize it’s nothing all that interesting. Your face is burning as you smooth your dress, and it doesn’t stop burning. It feels like someone is tending to the hot embarrassment, fluttering in your tummy and restless in your fingers. Like someone is looking right through you, monitoring you, watching you-
“He’s looking at you.” Stacy hisses in your ear, buzzing with so much excitement you’re sure she’s about to turn into glitter and explode like fireworks, and you’re going to throttle her.
“He is now, because you,” you shove her shoulder. It doesn’t do anything to stamp out her thrill at your worst nightmare. “Fucking made him notice-“
“No, he was looking before-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Yes, he was-“
“No, he wasn’t-“
“Who wasn’t what.”
You freeze, and Stacy looks over your head with a fawning, dazed expression. You’re going to kill her. You’re going to cut her up into tiny pieces and burn them all in separate furnaces, and then you’re going to steal her dog and make it forget all about her, and marry her husband and make her cute little kid your Cinderella as bloodline punishment-
“Hi, Mr. Captain Sir.” She giggles, looking back down to you with a wide-eyed it’s him expression.
I’m going to kill you. You mouth. She doesn’t seem all that bothered by the threat.
“Uh- Hi. You don’t have to-“ You hear him shift on his feet behind you. “Steve is alright.”
You can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, trying to look smaller. More humble and approachable, when he’s a modern walking Hercules. A better version, who doesn’t kill his wife and kids. Who gets you drinks and tries to be your friend and is so stupidly polite and kind and you hate him, you hate him so much-
He says your name. You plaster on the widest, most plastic and sickly sweet smile you can manage. You want him to feel like you’re a bit of plastic that’s stuck between his teeth. To give up talking to you, because it’s not fair.
Steve’s just as handsome as the last time you saw him. And the time before that. And the time before that. If anything, he’s more handsome. You don’t know how he does it, changing absolutely nothing about his appearance and looking hotter every time you get eyes on him. His hair is styled the same as always, but it looks so soft. You could run your fingers through it and it would probably feel like a cloud. His stupid, sharp jawline is slack as you glare up at him, and he’s so tall it makes you dizzy, and he’s fixing you with that puppy look that makes you feel like you’re important to him.
And you’re not. You know you’re not.
You went down that road once. You tried to be important to him, and he said no. And he’s Steve, so he was sweet and perfectly kind about it, and still wanted to be your friend, and you’d thought you were already over it so you’d said yes.
You thought you could just be his friend. He hadn’t made anything weird. Neither of you had ever even brought up your failed attempt to ask him out again. And at the time, you’d thought you were over it.
But Steve is Steve. And he’s got some titanic hold over your heart that’s left finger marks dug in through the landscape. There’s a depression over the cavity of your chest, and your ribs have molded to fit it, and now it’s far too late to go back. You only know how to have feelings for him. You’ve tried to get over it. To ignore it. To forcibly re-mold your love into something platonic, or clawed your way through some relationships in the hope they’d help you move on.
They don’t. They won’t. Nothing can.
The big stupid boy-scout standing over you owns you completely, and you can’t even tell him without making it a problem.
Your new strategy had been to ignore him. Stacy ruined that.
She thinks he secretly has feelings for you. You tune her out every time she starts to crow and preach about it, because you know your heart is going to take it as gospel and not parody, and you can’t afford false faith. All you have is what’s grounded between your fingers.
Steve’s right here. He’s smiling at you, all pretty and nice, and you have to smile back or else it will make him feel bad. He’s got a drink in his massive hand for you. You’ve had a million wet dreams about that hand around your throat or cupping your pussy.
You’re aching thinking about it. In an ideal world, this would be the part where you ran without looking back.
In an ideal world, you’d be standing on his arm right now, instead of all stiff and weird in front of him.
You need to get a fucking grip.
“Hi.” You say, and it’s sounds lame and idiotic and pathetic-
Steve’s face splits into a big, happy smile. “Hi. How’s the night going for you, do you have your victim picked out?”
You scowl. “It’s not- They’re not victims-“
“You treat them like they’re victims.” His grin widens. “Sometimes I feel like I should be saving them.”
“They’re all fine. It’s not like I’m drugging them or something.”
Steve’s brows raise. “That makes me think you are drugging them.”
“Nuh uh.” You stick out your tongue, and he laughs under his breath.
“One day you’re gonna say something that actually gets you in trouble, you know.” He holds out the drink he brought you.
It’s your favorite. It’s always your favorite.
You told him what your favorite drink was, the very first time you attended one of these parties. He’s never forgotten since, and it makes you love and hate him all the more.
“I don’t think I will.” You mumble, both trying and desperately failing not to brush his fingers. His skin is warm. He’s warm. He’s like a walking furnace, and you’d like to just bury your face in his pecs and breathe him in and-
“Kid, you already have.”
Steve looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. His eyes are sparkling, and in the background you think Natasha Romanoff is circling like a shark, trying to get his attention, but if he notices he pretends he doesn’t. He just looks at you and calls you kid, and the word plummets like a cold stone into your gut.
Kid. That’s all you are to him. Kid.
“But if I got in trouble, you’d save me.” You take a long sip of your drink, and you like to torture yourself.
With his presence. His closeness.
How fast he nods. How certainly he answers.
“’Course I would. Already saving you by pretending I don’t see you getting all those Senators drunk.”
You laugh softly, but the sound hurts. When you look over your shoulder, Stacy’s abandoned you for the food table. You catch her eye, and she shoots you an excited thumbs up. She probably thinks this is going great.
“Are you feeling alright?” Steve says suddenly, and he sounds like he really, really cares. “You been looking kind of sick- Not that you look bad- You look good, uh- Really good, but-“
“I’m fine.” You turn back to Steve, and you wonder if he can see it.
The pain, leaking down like a toxin from your eyes. Everything kind of blurry. You’d throw up, if you didn’t think he’d take care of you after.
“Everything’s fine.”
Steve’s lips twitch. You’re not sure he believes you.
But it doesn’t really matter anyway. You’re not his to get an answer out of. He decided that.
And you’re just doing exactly what Steve wants, all the time.
“You do look nice.” He mumbles, taking a sip of his own drink, as if it could even do anything to him.
You smile, and there it is again. The shameful, unrelenting heat in your stomach. “Thanks.”
I dressed up for you.
“I think he’s in looove with you.” Stacy says, spinning around in her chair. You flip her off, not looking up from your computer.
“Is the printer out of paper still?”
“I don’t know, you print everything for me.” She pokes your chair with her foot. “Pay attention to me, I said Steve’s in love with you-“
“No, he’s not.”
“Yes, he is.”
“No, he’s not-“
“Yes, he is-“
“Is this the same thing you were fighting about last time?” Steve’s voice comes from over your shoulder, and you freeze. “Or is that just… How you two talk.”
Stacy looks awfully fucking pleased with herself for a dead woman. “It’s the same fight as last time.”
“Oh.” He pauses. You can hear his concern, and it makes you want to vomit. “Is everything okay?”
“Mhm.” Stacy beams. “Hi, Steve.”
You glance up, and Steve looks properly bemused and adorable about her whole demeanor. It makes you want to hold his face and kiss the tiny, pouting frown off his lips. You smack yourself internally. Get it together.
“Hi, Stacy.”
She almost glows. “You remember my name?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at you. “I try to remember most people’s names.”
Stacy swoons. “Of course you do.”
Steve blinks, and you clear your throat.
“What are you doing here?”
“Uh-“ He rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small smile. “Lunch, remember? We planned it last week.”
Oh. You did do that. “I told you to wait outside, my boss is going to try to interview you-“
“Oh, she already did.” He laughs. “But I’m here for you, not a front page.”
You flush, and Stacy giggles like she’s watching TV.
“So…” Steve shrugs. “Lunch?”
Right. Lunch.
“How’d you even get in the building.” You grumble, grabbing your jacket as you stand. He shrugs sheepishly.
“I took a photo with the guards.”
“Steve, I told you to stop doing that-“
“It made them really happy, okay? And I went through all the metal detectors, same as everyone else-“
“I know, but you hate taking the photos, you can tell them no.”
Steve frowns. “It’s not that big an inconvenience for me-“
“But you hate it.”
“I don’t hate it-“
“Steven Rogers.”
You glare at him, arms crossed over your chest. Steve sighs, slumping like a scolded child.
“I don’t love them.” He mumbles, and you nod.
“Next time, tell them no.”
“But then I can’t come upstairs.”
You shrug, starting at the door, your shoulder bumping against his. “You can text me. Like you’re supposed to-“
“Or I can just do the photos-“
“No-“
“Bye, guys.” Stacy calls from behind you, and you look her with wide eyes. You’d forgotten she was there.
“Um… Bye.” You wave awkwardly, and she grins.
He’s here for you. She mouths, and you roll your eyes.
No hope. It just makes everything else harder.
If Steve wanted you, he’d say something. And you’re a big girl. You can handle just being his friend, because he won’t leave you alone long enough for you to properly avoid him. You can handle it.
His hand finds your lower back, when he opens the door for you. You almost trip over your feet from the dizzying touch.
You can’t handle this at all.
The most annoying part about having undying feelings for Steve Rogers is that it’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. Golden Boy Number One. Mr. Perfect Specimen.
You’re in love with the little blond boy with abs and a dopey smile and sweet blue eyes. You’re obsessed with Mr. Muscles. You lose sleep over the guy who looks like he could crush you in a headlock then kiss you to sleep after.
Incredibly original. Groundbreaking, even. The love of your life is the masculine celebrity who’s respectful and kind. Never before heard of stuff. You’re really shattering glass ceilings with that one.
You want to shoot yourself in the face.
It’s impossible to avoid even thinking about him, when he’s everywhere. You go out to the corner store, and he’s on the little TV mounted in the corner. Avengers brand yogurts line the grocery store, and you glare at Strawberries and Cream and Justice until your head hurts. He told you about that. He was pretty proud of how all the proceeds were going to charities.
“It’s a stupid name, though.” You’d said, and he’d shrugged.
“Tony says the name doesn’t matter, as long as it’s got our faces on it. Apparently that’s what people are buying for.”
He’d frowned at that, and you’d given him an affectionate smile. He hates the glory of all of this. You know he does, and you’d told him gently you’re sure people will also buy for charity.
You’d been lying through your teeth, though. When you grab the yogurt and shamefully shove it into your basket, it’s not for cancer research or orphans or to save the bees. It’s because Steve’s face is smiling at you from the plastic, and you’re no better than the fangirls who get all doe-eyed over his every breath.
Not that you’re much better about that, either.
“I could give you an interview.” Steve offers on day, when you’d been complaining to him about slow news. “It can be about whatever you want-“
“I don’t want your pity journalism, Steven.”
He frowns. “It’s not pity. I’m trying to help you.”
You shrug, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “Well, I can’t accept your help.”
“Why not-“
“It’s unethical.”
“I… don’t think that’s true-“
“Well, I didn’t earn it.”
“You don’t have to earn it.” He says, all earnest and sweet and kind, and you want to die. “You work hard, I know you work hard, and if this can help you- Here, we can do it right now-“
“I don’t have questions ready.” You cut in quickly. Flatly.
Steve just shrugs. “Make some up. I know you can.”
You wish he’d stop believing in you. It makes your heart flutter.
“I have nothing I want to ask you.” You mumble hopelessly, and he frowns.
“I don’t believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you always have something to ask me. To ask anyone.”
You flush, turning to the side to avoid his gaze. “Maybe I just know everything about you,” you mutter, and he snorts.
“No. You don’t.”
That gets your attention. You snap your head in his direction, and he smiles at you. Like he already knows he won.
“There she is-“
“Shut up.” You lean across the table, and his smile widens. “What don’t I know about you.”
“A lot.”
“Like what-“
“You have to ask me to find out.”
You narrow your eyes. He keeps fucking smiling.
“You suck.” You grumble.
He shrugs. “I know you think that.”
You’re both leaning across the table. If you reached up, just an inch, you’d be able to trace the line of his nose. He’s so handsome. It’s unfair, and you can feel a smile tugging at your lips in response to his.
“I’m going to punch you in the face-“
“I’d like to see you try, kid.”
Kid.
You lean back, ice water feeling like it was poured through your veins. Steve notices the shift. He frowns, but you don’t give him the chance to question it. You just push on.
“I need a napkin.” You mutter., leaning back into your seat. “To write questions.”
“Yeah. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll go get that for you.”
Of course he will.
And when he’s talking to the waitress—paper and a pen in his hand—she twirls her hair and giggles. Same as you would, if you got to know him where he didn’t know you. Where he might just find you pretty, and give you a chance, because you were friends first and you think that’s where you all went wrong.
This all might’ve been easier, if he really was just a celebrity crush. If you loved him because he was Captain America and not Steve. Your Steve. Who brings you back two pens in case you don’t like the first, and shares his food with you while you gloss through the interview—feeling little detached from your own body, like he’s a million miles away—and touches your lower back again when you finally leave lunch.
You might’ve gotten to touch him more, if he didn’t mean something to you.
But you wouldn’t trade knowing him for the world.
And that just makes it all hurt even more.
Steve’s been trying to get you out with his team for years. You’ve said no, over and over and over. You don’t need to feel even more mortal than you already are. Don’t need the reminder that he probably rejected you because you’re not even a quarter of what he and his friends are.
Not that you think Steve would think you’re any less because you’re not enhanced. You know he wouldn’t.
Consciously.
But that doesn’t change the reality of it. He wouldn’t want you, when he’s surrounded by other Gods, like he himself, far more worthy of his attention. You can be mean and sharp, but you don’t have the cool, collected, deadly beauty of Black Window. And you’ve heard the rumors about them.
You’ve heard all the rumors. About Steve with everyone, because people like to talk. There isn’t a pair of people on the Avengers that the public hasn’t theorized about secretly dating.
And you know none of it’s true. Steve’s told you himself.
But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, when you think about him with someone else more worthy. Someone he wants.
Which is why you didn’t want to do this. And Steve had always respected that—because he’s perfect, and he respects everything—so you’d thought you’d never have to. He asks. You say no. He doesn’t push it, or demand to know why. He waits months before asking again, and you know he only does that because he thinks you’re just too busy to go out the other times. That you’re saying no because you simply don’t have the energy, and not because the idea makes you feel itchy. And you don’t want to tell him. You like that he asks you. It makes you feel important.
But you still kept saying no.
Until Stacy overheard him ask you, and said yes for you. And Steve beamed, and you couldn’t stand to burst the delicate little bubble of his joy, and now you’re here.
Huddled in the corner of a bar with the fucking Avengers all around you. Hawkeye and Thor are throwing darts in the corner. Hulk, Black Widow, and Falcon are playing pool. The Vision is eating onion rings, and everything feels like a very, very bizarre dream.
Steve hasn’t left your side since you got here. It’s been the only anchor you have. You’d been able to hide in his shadow and duck under his arm, avoiding pressing questions and conversations you don’t really want to have. It’s not too weird for him to bring a civilian friend, at least. None of them have commented on it, besides throwing you passing looks. Steve mentioned that they all do it, from time to time.
But you’re the only one here right now. And if you could, you’d sew your hand into Steve’s so he couldn’t leave you alone.
And that’s always a little true. You want that all the time.
More than usual right now. But all the time.
“I’m going to get drinks.” He mutters, and you grab his bicep like a scared child.
“Wait- I’ll come with you-“
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He grins down at you, patting your head like you’re a dog or something. “You don’t have to stand up.”
You want to shout at him that this isn’t about him being a gentleman, it’s about him not leaving your sight. But you’re weak. And pathetic. So you just nod, and Steve smiles at you before walking away.
You try to hide in the shadows, avoiding any attention. It doesn’t work.
“You’re the journalist.” A cool, lazy voice cuts through the air, and you look up to find Tony Stark standing over your table.
“I’m a journalist-“
“No. You’re Roger’s journalist.” Stark drawls, sliding into the booth. You stiffen, but don’t dare to move away.
That’ll make it seem even more obvious, when Steve comes back and you don’t inch away from him.
“I understand what he’s been going on about.” Stark continues, looking you up and down slowly. “Didn’t know they made them like you anymore.”
Your eyes narrow. “Like me?”
“Mhm.” Stark smirks, and you raise your chin.
“What am I like, Mr. Stark?”
He chuckles, leaning back. “Little spitfire, aren’t you-“
“Only to people who deserve it.”
That makes him laugh louder. Everything feels more and more like a fever dream by the second.
You look out to the bar, trying to find Steve. Internally begging him to come back. He’s by the bar, your drink already in his hand. It’s the same one you always get. He’s holding it close to his chest, like it’s something priceless.
There’s a woman standing next to him. Just another random girl, in a tiny dress with some pretty good makeup, giggling and batting her lashes at him.
And Steve’s entertaining her. smiling at her.
The same way he smiles at you.
You don’t want to be here. You didn’t want to be here. You don’t want to see how it’s not even the Avengers that he’d want more than you, it’s everyone else. She’s getting the same attention you try to drown yourself in, but you’re not the one who might go home with him. His grin is a little tighter with her, because he’s probably restrained and trying to play his cards right. She looks like she’s talking sweet, and he’d probably want that more than you, poking and mocking him all the time. He’s a God. He’ll say he’s not but he is, and what kind of god would want to be worshipped by someone who shows love with insults and eye rolls.
There’s a tight feeling, around your throat like rope. Your eyes are burning, and the world is blurring, and you don’t want to see this. You can’t see this.
You tried to be his friend. You really tried.
But you can’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stark asks, and you look over to find him watching with a strange expression.
“Nothing.” You clear your throat, fumbling for your bag. “I just- Remembered something. That I have to go do.”
You glance over to Steve again. He’s laughing at something she’s saying without shaking his head and tipping his head back, without looking away from her. Like he does with you.
“Right now.” You mumble. “I have to go do it right now.”
Stark hums, tapping his fingers on the table. “Right now, huh.”
“Yep.” You stand up, and he gives you an almost amused look.
“What is it? If it’s so urgent.”
“Stuff.” You snip.
Stark chuckles, shaking his head. “Jesus, he’s batting in a whole other sport with you.”
“What the fuck does that mean-“
“Nothing.” Stark smirks again. Like he knows something. “Go on. I’ll tell Cap you had stuff.”
You scan over his relaxed features, and he just keeps grinning, lazy and unworried. You could get an answer out of him, if you tried.
But you look up, back to Steve. And he’s grabbing his own drink from the bar. Still chatting with the girl. If he brings her back to the table, you’re going to vomit.
You have to go now.
“Thanks.” You mutter, giving Stark a tight grin. “Have a good night.”
And Stark laughs, as you turn away.
“Oh. I’m sure I will.”
You avoid Steve for a week.
Properly avoid him.
He calls ten times, just the night you leave the bar. He texts almost every hour for the days after that, and you mute him. If you look at the messages, you’re going to respond to them. If you respond to them, he’ll convincing you to talk to him. If you talk to him, or see him, or even stand near him, you’re never going to get over him.
You’re going cold turkey on him, like he’s a drug.
To you, he is. And you need to get clean. You need to move on.
Steve doesn’t come into the building to steal you for lunch, but he calls you every day. Your fingers fidget, still trying to pick up the phone.
You don’t know how you manage not to, but you do. When you ask the guards downstairs, they say he’s walked through the door and walked back out five times. You force yourself not to think about it, and somehow manage to do that too. And you’re going to be able to do this. You’re finally going to move on.
Moving on means moving. Not staying in the same little pit, waiting for his sun to change its path and shine on you. You have to climb out, and find a new place to be. Someone new to want.
You’ve done this part before. The whole dance of downloading the apps and going on the dates and telling yourself you want them, even though they aren’t Steve. But this time is going to be different. If you tell yourself that enough, it will feel more and more true.
There’s a guy you’ve been chatting with all week, and he seems sweet. He compliments you, and he was polite when you met for coffee, and he’s far from bad to look at. And it’s not like you’re going to marry him. You just need someone to be close to you that isn’t Steve.
And maybe this guy—you can’t really remember his name, but you’ll learn it—is blond haired and blue eyes and broadly built. Maybe you swiped through photo after photo, looking for a phantom of him, but that’s nobody business expect yours, and your pillow’s. It knows better than anyone that there’s only one way you can fake it.
Which is exactly what this game is. Faking it until you make it. Until you’re over Steve, and there’s never any temptation to look back.
You dress up, telling your brain you’re going on a date with Steve himself so you put in all the effort. Another thing that’s nobody’s business. You’re doing what you need to, and it’s going to get you over him. You’ve got lashes and glossy lips and heels that are going to hurt in the morning, and this guy doesn’t seem strong enough to carry you like Steve would, but that’s where you need to shut your brain up. There’s not going to be anyone who’s like Steve. This guy looks like him enough to get you out the door, but it’s not him, and that’s okay. That’s good. It’s going to help you move on. You’ve got your jacket, and your purse, and you’re going to do this and move on-
You yank the door open, and freeze.
Steve stares at you, hands his pockets, mouth hanging open.
This is usually the part where one of you says hi, but you can’t remember how to speak. He’s here. Why is he here. He’s been giving you space, because he’s amazing and polite, and it had been so much easier to pretend it was just because he didn’t care when he wasn’t right in front of you. Looking like you’d just punched him in the face, all pale with sagging shoulders and sad, dull eyes. As if he’s lost sleep.
He scans over you. Over your revealing outfit and makeover. His throat bobs, and you could swear he slouches further. When he meets your gaze, he doesn’t smile. It makes you want to cry.
“Steve-“
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He mutters, the words thick and low. “And- I’m not here to fight about it. I didn’t think you were going to open the door, I didn’t- I wasn’t going to bother you. Just- Never mind.”
You blink. “I- What are you-“
“You got a date?” He nods to your outfit, and something in his pockets shift. He’s fisting his hands.
“Um-“ You glance to his pockets again, then back to his weighted gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
“With whom.”
Shit. You still can’t remember. “Someone I met on an app. Steve, what are you-“
“On an app.” He echoes, the words sounding hollow. He chuckles under his breath. “You know, Stark made me try those once.”
You swallow. You don’t want to hear about his dating life. “How did that go.”
“Bad. And I tried, I just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and you think you can feel his stare burrowing into your heart, shaping it even further in his name.
This is exactly what you were trying to avoid. Seeing him makes you love him more, think about him more, need him more. He’s got a gravity over you, and he doesn’t know it, and why is he here.
“Is he nice.”
Steve’s voice is low. Pained. You don’t understand the question.
“Who?”
“Your date.” He grunts. “Is he nice to you.”
“Oh.” You forgot about that part. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
Neither of you speak for a second. Steve stares at you so hard our head spins, and you can’t look him in the eyes.
“What did I do?”
His voice breaks suddenly, and you feel the crack in your ribs. It yanks your gaze up, and you’ve never seen him so sad. Frustrated and annoyed, sure. Tense, all the time. But never just… Sad. Defeated. Like even he isn’t sure what to do. It feels wrong. Like the world is bleeding together and caving over itself.
“You didn’t do anything-“
“I must have.” He scans over your features, his own so openly aching. “You’ve never been mad at me before, and- Now you’re-“
He waves to your outfit, and you frown.
“It’s just a date-“
“Just a date.” He mutters under his breath, and your mouth falls open.
“I’m allowed to date, Steven-“
“I know you are!” His voice raises for a second, but he quickly pushes it back down. “I- I know, but that’s not- Why are you avoiding me?”
He’s pleading. It’s almost bleeding out of his voice, staining all over you, and you wrap an arm around your stomach like you can stop yourself from bleeding back. This isn’t fair. Steve’s not stupid. He can’t have just forgotten your mistake of expressing your feelings, he’s not nearly oblivious to be unable to put two and two together, and he certainly can’t be dense enough to not tie together that you’re avoiding him, and going on a date. You don’t go on dates. You’re usually too busy trying to steal some love from his shadow.
Yet here he is. Looking at you like he really doesn’t understand. Being so nice about it, when it’s clearly been bothering him. No demanding to understand. No shouting about how hurt he was. Just pleading.
Because he’s golden and perfect. All respectful, like you’re just another lady to him.
Like you’re not worth enough for him to fight a little dirtier for.
A lump is pressing up your throat. It’s a battle to hold his gaze.
“Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” Steve rubs his face, working his jaw. “I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what I did-“
“Steve-“
“And I’ll fix it, whatever I did, I’ll fix it-“
“You can’t fix it!” You shout.
He stumbles back like you slapped him, and tears burn at your eyes.
“You- You can’t fix it, Steve.” You whisper, staring down at his shoes. “Just- Stop.”
“Stop what?” He rasps. “I- I know I messed something up, but-“
“Stop being so nice to me.”
He’s silent for a moment. You don’t even know how to justify that one. It sounds pathetic to your ears.
“I... I’d rather not.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“Then please leave me alone.” The words hurt, but you push them out like an apple lodged in your throat. “I- I tried, okay? I really tried, but I can’t.”
“Can’t-“
“Can’t be your friend.” You whisper. The tears burn on your cheeks. “I can’t be your friend, Steve, it’s too hard. I- I-“
You sniff, and Steve rasps your name. You have to shake your head. He can’t talk right now. It’s already too hard.
“I love you.” You say, barely a breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll hear anyway. “I love you too much, and- It’s not your fault that you don’t- That it’s not the same. But please.” You shift on your feet, hugging yourself tight. “I- I need space.”
Steve doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything he could say to make it better, not anymore. But something in you still fractures, when he just steps to the side. Giving you a path out.
Letting you go.
You think it’s hope. The hope that one day he might feel the same, the dream that you’d tried so hard not to feed, but tended to bloom on its own. That one day he’d look at you and realize he made a mistake.
But he steps to the side. And that’s all it’s ever going to be.
A dream.
You bow your head and shuffle past him, face burning and skin crawling with shame. You’re going to go on this date and pretend like everything is fine, if you can even make it out of the hallway without breaking down. Your knees are wobbly and tears are coming faster than you can wipe away, but you just need to get out. Out of this hallway with its suffocating air.
Away from Steve, and your heart, broken at his feet.
You’ll get over it. You’ll get over it. It’s hard to breathe right now but you’ll get over it-
“God- Screw it.”
A strong hand wraps around your wrist. It takes you by such surprise you don’t even think to fight.
Steve spins your around, grabbing your jaw and picking you up in a single movement. You gasp as his lips slam over yours, sudden and demanding. He kisses you like he doesn’t know he’s already got a claim on you. Like he’s trying to brand your lips with a bruising, hungry desire. All you can do is breathlessly kiss him back, scraping at his shoulders and trying to keep up with what’s happening. Steve tastes a little like honey and salt, and you’re sure he ate something earlier but you don’t really care what. His hair is just as soft as you thought, and you’re being crushed under the force of him but it’s intoxicating and exhilarating and you feel like you’re being remade-
It’s over. Just as fast as it started. Steve stumbles back, fumbling with his hands like they’re still trying to reach you against his will. He braces them on his hips, staring at you with wide eyes.
You gape at him, trying to catch your breath. You reach up to brush your own lips, trying to make sure the tingly feeling there is real. Maybe press it deeper in, until you can feel it forever.
Steve clears his throat. You blink at him through the slowly drying tears, not really sure what’s happening.
Neither of you dare to speak. Or move. You’re breathing shallowly, like anything too big is going to tip the whole world over, and it will all slip through your fingers.
He takes an uncertain step forward, and you should take one back.
But you’ve never been all that good at moving away from him before. You have no interest in learning that skill now.
This time, you grab him at the same time he grabs you. You stumble into each other, uncoordinated and desperate, unbothered by bumping noses and smushed limbs. You just need to be close to him. To feel him as much as possible, as fast as possible.
He’s never been a drug. You’d been getting a secondary high, but this-
This is a hit.
And you need to have more.
You grab at his collar, pressing up to meet his every kiss, and you’re quickly making out with teeth and tongue in the middle of the hallway. Steve’s arm wraps around your ass, lifting you effortlessly off your feet, and you moan into his mouth.
He trips as he walks back into the apartment, and you end up pressed against the wall at least three more times before you make it through the door. Every time Steve slams you back, devoting all his attention to kissing you until you’re drooling and sloppy and just trying to push further into his open mouth. At one point he slots his knee between your thighs, and you start to shamelessly grind down as he sucks your lower lip between his teeth.
You giggle, dazed and sore with overflowing need for him. He kicks the door closed behind you, and you think you’re going to end up riding his thigh against the wall, but he starts down the hall. To your bedroom.
He makes it about five steps before you rake your nail through his hair and start kissing over his jaw. Steve moans into your ear, lagging a little sideways, and you shriek as you both topple down onto the couch.
It takes you a second to catch your breath, and that’s all Steve needs to get the upper hand. He grabs your jaw, tipping your head back as he starts to suck and nip at your neck. You squeak, grabbing his head, and he moans against your skin. His knee pushes back between your thighs, and this angle is even better than before. You can’t help the roll of your hips, down onto the muscle of his thick leg.
“St- Steve-“ You voice is high, and he hums, licking up your throat before making out with a soft spot under your jaw. “Jesus fucking- God-“
“I know.” He mutters, dragging his hand down your thigh and grabbing under your knee. He squeezes gently, hiking it up to your chest, pushing his knee down even harder than before.
“Fuck- You-“ You gasp, your pussy clenching around nothing as your clit gets rubbed through his jeans, through your panties.
At this angle, you’re almost exposed to him. Your dress pooling around your tummy, the wet spot on your underwear growing bigger and bigger. You grasp at the skirt, trying to tug it down a little. It’s one thing to be riding his knee, another for him to see you.
Steve grabs your wrist, pushing the fabric further down than it had been before. Your eyes almost cross when he starts to rub his knee back and forth, the pressure overwhelming and perfect. You didn’t think you could cum like this, but there’s a familiar pressure building up in your stomach, and you have to bite your tongue to stop a wanton moan from escaping your lips.
He sits up to look at you, and you’re sure it’s a shameful, lewd sight. Your makeup smudged, your hair ruined, a picture of depravity and sin as you chase pleasure on his leg. This isn’t the kind of thing you thought he’d be into. He’s too perfect, too good, and maybe you’ve wanted to be put in a headlock and manhandled and used, but Steve’s all about honor. You’d been so sure that, even if you got to have him, it would be lovely, vanilla sex that was filled with such emotion it would make up for the simpleness.
But that’s not what you see in Steve’s eyes. They’re hooded and black with lust. His jaw is clenched as he watches you, and he pushes your leg further up with a gentle squeeze.
“Oh-“ You gasp, trying to reach up to grab him.
Steve grabs your second wrist without letting go of the first. Holds him in one hand, and leans over you as he pins them both over your head. Your mouth falls open, breathing fast and needy.
His own chest is heaving. He looks down to his knee against your core, and a deep sound rumbles from his chest. You’re wound so tight you’re certain you could snap, sudden and fast like a rubber band. You strain against Steve’s hold, and his attention snaps back up.
“You’re good, doll.” He coos. “Relax for me.”
You blink at him, shaking your head. You can’t stop grinding against him, but you need him close. Need to be under the pressure of his body, to feel like there’s nothing else in the world.
Steve picks up the speed of his knee, almost drilling it down into your cunt without touching you at all. You gape, head lolling to the side, and he grunts.
“Look at me.”
His voice is deep. Not a suggestion. An order.
You blink up at him, almost drooling, and he leans down until his lips are ghosting over yours.
“I don’t want space.” He mutters. “I want you.”
You swallow, still rubbing your pussy up into his knee. “You- You can’t just-“
“Shh.” He pushes further down, until it feels like he’s almost inside of you. You snap your mouth shut. “Is that all I did?”
“Wha- Oh-“
He drags his knee in slow circles, and you make an incoherent, starved sound. Steve doesn’t even break a sweat.
“You and me.” He mutters, studying your every expression. “That’s it. That’s what was gonna make me lose you.”
“You- You didn’t lose me-“
“Almost did.” He squeezes your knee. “You walked.”
You glare up at him. “You let me-“
“No, I didn’t.”
Steve’s lips slam back over yours, and you can’t really argue with that. Your eyes flutter as you give into the kiss, your body sparking with a million, delighted nerves. Steve groans against your lips, fucking his knee against your core, and he’s hitting your clit just right, the fabric soaked and filled with rough friction.
Your back arches off the couch as you cum, and Steve lets go of your wrists. You grab his face, trying to pull his lips closer, and he wraps around your back, holding you up. Your toes curl, body shaking as the pressure becomes sensitive, your pussy gushing and clenching around nothing.
Steve rubs your spine, kissing along your shoulder, up your neck, over your cheeks. You hum softly, floating down and tucked into his arms. He leans back against the couch, taking you with him. You slump over his chest, burying your face in his neck as his hand slips under your dress. Thick, calloused finger pads gently graze your hips and waist, and you squirm.
“I- I didn’t want to ruin something.” He murmurs in your ear, and you pause.
“Ruin…”
“Us.” Steve’s face presses into the curve of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin. “You were my friend, we work in a lotta the same places, and I just- I didn’t want to risk that.”
You swallow, leaning back and waiting until he meets your glossy, sad gaze. You take his face between your hands, and he covers them with his own.
“I was willing to risk it.” You whisper, and he sighs.
“I know. But-“ He looks away, words choked and low. “I thought it was a crush. That you’d get over.”
You laugh weakly. “Well, it wasn’t.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Mine wasn’t either.”
You lips part with a sharp breath, and Steve looks back to you with nervous, hopeful eyes.
“I love you.” He squeezes both your hands, guiding them to his lips. “It is the same. So- Tell me that fixes it. Please.”
It does.
Just as fast as they’d shattered, your dreams weave themselves back together. They’re clearer than before. More colorful. It’s no longer like looking through a mist, or watching a reflection in the water. When you touch Steve, he doesn’t ripple away. And that’s more than enough.
You lean down and kiss him. It’s slower than the other kisses. Steve grabs your hips, but lets you press his head down. You wrap your arms around his neck, tracing his lips with your tongue, and he hums in content. Drags you further forward in his lap.
Something thick and hard presses right against you, and you almost go limp. Like your body is already trying to get ready to take it. To take Steve’s cock that can’t be as large as it feels, straining against his jeans and twitching when you drag yourself slowly back and forth.
“Hey.” Steve grunts, grabbing your hips firmly. You hope he’s holding tight enough to leave a bruise. “Easy.”
You snort, leaning back to give him a pointed look. “Easy?”
“Yeah, that’s what I-“
“I just came on your knee.”
His ears turn a little pink, and he coughs. “I, uh- Fair.”
“Mhm.” You hum, smiling smugly, and you take all the strength in your jelly legs and grind right now onto his clothed cock.
Steve hisses, his fingers digging into your soft skin. “Jesus- Baby-“
You brace your arms on either side of his head, dragging back and forth as slow as you can. Steve’s eyes flutter, his tongue darting over his lips as he watches you move on him. His muscles flex with the effort not to grab you.
You’d very much like to see him give up.
“Does that feel good?” You whisper, making your voice sweet and innocent.
Steve grunts. You’re going to have handprints on your body in the morning. The thought just makes you move faster.
“I don’t want to go slow, Stevie.” You purr, and his chest heaves under you. “I want you to fuck me. Pleeease.”
You whine dramatically, thrusting forward, and Steve’s face drops against your chest.
“Jesus, woman.” He lips graze over your breast, and you moan. “Come on, ‘s not playing fair-“
“Don’t wanna play fair.” You hum, slowly reaching between your bodies. “Wasn’t fair how you turned me down.”
“’M sorry about that-“
“You should be.” You kiss under his ear. “Hurt my feelings.”
“Thought-“ He grunts as you palm his balls through his jeans. “Thought I was helping-“
“You weren’t.”
“I got that now-“
“But you know what would make it better?” You lean back up, holding Steve’s gaze with a lazy smile.
He nods quickly, and you giggle, wiggling down onto his bulge.
“Fucking me.”
Steve looks down, and a rumble echoes through his chest when he sees it.
You’d peeled off your ruined underwear without him noticing. Leaving your bare, sweet and soaked pussy pressed against him. You moan, watching him as you grind down, and he’s so close to snapping. You can see it in the tension of his jaw, feel how his fingers keep twitching on your hips. You smile at him, licking your lips, and that dark look flashes over his features. The same one from earlier, that had him overtaking you like a storm.
Steve’s a good boy. A sweet boy.
He also doesn’t like things that he can’t account for. Used to pick fights in alleys as a kid, always wanted to be the person everyone looked to for help.
You’re sure that, between the two of you, you can let him have a little fun without compromising his moral compass.
He has to, if you’re begging him for it. Not very chivalrous, to ignore a lady in need.
“Pleaseee.” You whine again, ghosting your lips over his. “Fuck me, Stevie, fuck me until I can’t walk-“
He mutters your name under his breath, and you just pout at him.
“Make me yours, make me cry, fuck-“ You throw your head back, the teasing him going straight to your own core. “God, fucking- Please, Steve-“
That does it. The explicit, wet cry of his name seems to snap something in Steve’s resolve, and he’s on you in a blur of hands and lips. Grabbing a fistful of your ass before hauling you up his chest, kissing you breathless as he stands. He keeps carrying like you weigh nothing, and you want to be trapped in his arms forever.
“Steve- Shit-“ Your jaw drops he tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Fuck, slow down-“
“You said you didn’t want to slow down.” He reminds you in a deceptively soothing voice, big hands rubbing on the back of your thighs. “Said you didn’t wanna play fair.”
“I- Um- Ooooh-“
You drop your head against Steve’s shoulder, biting at his shirt as thick, strong fingers tease the lips of your pussy.
“Wet fuckin’ pussy.” He muses, spreading you open so the cold air hits your cunt. “Knew you got soaked for me, princess. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
“You- You-“ He needs to stop humiliating you and touching you at the same time. It makes you feel like you’re burning alive in the best way possible. “You knew?” You squeak, and Steve chuckles.
“Always knew. Told you, thought it was a crush.”
You try to twist and glare at him. “And you didn’t tell me-“
“Like you would’ve wanted me to tell you I could smell how badly you wanted my cock.” Steve smacks your ass with a scoff, and you flop right back over his shoulder.
“Fuck-“ You whimper. He’s right. You can barely even stand that right now. “Steve, please- Please-“
You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. Mercy, maybe. More mocking attention. Anything he can fucking give you, because you feel like you’re about to explode.
Steve spanks you again, this time on the other cheek, and you moan.
“’Course you like that.” He mutters. “Dirty girl, testing me every fucking day.”
He drags his thumb through the mess between your legs, and your pussy clenches, trying to drag him in. He laughs, pushing down for half a second before dragging down to your clit and rubbing in quick, tight circle. You gasp, pushing uselessly at his back, already overstimulated and still needing more.
“Felt that.” Steve flicks your clit, and your whole body shakes. “Greedy, princess. You’ve been waitin’ this long, you can hold it a little longer.”
“Ca- Can’t-“ You gasp, pressing your cheek against the broad muscle of his back. “Can’t, Steve- Can’t wait-“
“Yeah, you can.” He grunts. “Christ, you’re dripping all over my hand. Going to take me no problem, aren’t you, baby.”
He’s playing with your clit like it’s just a little button for his whims, and you have to bite your inner cheek to stop yourself from falling apart all over his hand.
“Steve- I- I’m going to- Oh my god-“
Steve slaps right over your pussy, the wet sound echoing in your ears as he shoves those two fingers right into your pussy. He finds your G-spot in a second, crooking his fingers and dragging them over your sensitive walls. You cum with a cry of his name, sudden and harsh. White dancing at your vision, your body seizing up as Steve dumps you down onto the soft mattress.
He presses his wrist further, folding your body up. You grab his neck for an anchor, and he kisses your wrist as he slides a third finger into your dripping mess of a pussy.
“Getting you ready.” He mutters, wiping some hair from your face. “It’s okay, babydoll, you’re doin’ real good.”
You whimper, the orgasm still shaking through you. You’re struggling to breathe when Steve finally pulls his hand away, and the loss makes you whimper.
Steve laughs softly, leaning down to kiss you all sweet and loving, like you haven’t been turned to a puddle under his hands.
“Breathe.” He murmurs, squeezing your breast gently, and you take a loud, stuttering gasp. Steve kisses your nose, smiling like he’s being offered ice cream, and you watch him in a starry-eyed daze.
You hear the click of his belt, and as much as you’d like to reach down and feel him, you can barely manage to hold onto his shoulders right now. Steve pulls slowly up with one last chaste kiss on your lips, and your breath hitches in your throat.
He’s massive. That’s the kind of dick you’ve only seen in cartoons, because even the porn industry can’t replicate it. You’re not sure how he gets around so easily in his tight suit, with that fucking horse cock acting like a third leg. Thick and veined, already beading with pre-cum as he strokes it slowly in his hand, a sheepish expression on his face.
“I was… Endowed.” He mumbles, ears red. “Before the serum. Then…”
He nods to his cock, and you laugh breathlessly.
“Jesus, Steve-“
“It won’t hurt you.” He says quickly. “I know there are those rumors ‘bout be being a virgin, but-“ He sighs, pouting slightly. “God forbid a man tell Tony Stark he doesn’t want to talk about his sex life, suddenly he’s never even touched a boob-“
“Dude.” You smile up at him, and he cuts himself off. “Look me in the eyes and tell me if I still think you’re a virgin after that.”
You tilt your head to the hallway, but Steve just frowns.
“Dude?”
“Um-“
“Don’t call me dude when I’m about to fuck you.” He grumbles, and you’d laugh at him if that didn’t make your heart skip. e
“Sorry, sir.”
You say it half to mock him, half to test something.
Steve’s jaw ticks, and his already rock-hard cock twitches in his hands. You giggle as his eyes narrow, and you’re still laughing as he prowls over you, that dark, hungry look back on his face.
“You think something’s funny?” He grunts, and you shake your head.
“No, sir.”
Steve groans, dropping his face between your breasts.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters under his breath, and you’re still laughing softly.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
You laugh again, because you’re really not. It’s hilarious, and he’s adorable, and this is going to yield some fantastic results.
Steve assesses you like you’re a mission to be accomplished. And you know him.
He never does anything halfway.
“Alright, princess.” He mutters, tapping the head of his cock on your clit. “Open.”
You squeak, still giggling, and spread your legs slowly.
The last laugh is pushed from your chest as Steve slowly starts to sink himself into your heat. Your mouth falls uselessly open as you bow off the bed, your body almost unable to rationalize how full you are.
Steve splits you open, his cock slowly driving through you and hitting spots you didn’t even know you had. He grinds slowly down into your pussy, bullying you further open, and you think he’s found a button inside you that just makes you a limp, sensitive fuck-doll, because you whine out his name but it takes everything you have.
“I know.” He grunts, the tip of his cock pressing into your cervix. “You’re taking it, baby, there you go.”
“Steveee-“
“Feels good, doesn’t it.” He presses at sweet kiss to your lips as he bottoms out. His fingers lace slowly through yours, and you nod.
You’ve never had so many pleasure points being hit at once. Steve’s still got a hand on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers as you try to breath around him. He’s patient. You don’t want him to be.
“More.” You push out, and he raises his brows.
“Sweetheart-“
“More.” You roll up into him, moaning loudly as he hits even deeper. “Fuck me, Steve- Mmm-“
He kisses you, passionate and messy, and you almost scream in satisfaction as he starts to move.
He’s unrushed. Completely in control of you, and aware of it. His dick pulls almost all the way out before slowly pushing back in, the torturous pace making you feel like a live wire.
“Yeah, that’s it.” He coos, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “Pretty girl, you like being stuffed up with my cock, don’t you.”
“Ye- Yes-“ You tip your head back into the pillows, your free hand grasping at the sheets. “Yes- Oh my god, yes-“
Steve’s started to grind against your g-spot whenever he hits it, letting his thickness press and drag over the sensitive, gooey spot until you’re moaning and writhing around him.
“Feel that, don’t you.” He mutters, pushing in a little harder than last time. “Feel my dick inside you, baby, feels so good, doesn’t-“
“So good.” You babble, but who can blame you. “So good, Steve, you’re so-“
Your words turn into a broken moan as Steve drives back into you, and he’s going harder and harder every time. Still pulling almost fully out slowly, letting your arousal gather and drip down your thighs and ass, but then slamming back into you so hard it makes you think the world is shaking.
A breathy sound escapes your lips, maybe a plea, and Steve moves your tangled hands between your bodies, pressing you down into the mattress as he rises up for a better angle.
“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” He growls, pounding into your cunt like he owns it. “If I’d know you wanted me this bad I woulda had you all over this city.”
You whine, squeezing around him. Steve chuckles.
“Oh, you like that. Like the idea of being my good little cockslut, letting me play with you wherever I want.”
Big, steady hands press your knees up, letting Steve hit even deeper than before. A strange, tight feeling is building in your gut, but it feels good. All of this feels so good. You’re spent and cockdrunk, but you feel used in the best possible way. The filth Steve is drawling in your ears makes your brain go all quiet. You’re just a happy, humming bundle of pleasure, Steve’s massive body draped over yours, and you’d probably do anything he wanted, if he just fucked you like this after.
“You were made for me.” He groans, lips wandering all over your face as his cock drills into you. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, baby, swear it, just sing for me, come on-“
You moan, long and loud. Steve grins, kissing under your ear.
“Good girl.” He coos. “There you go, just like that. Come on, doll, I know you’re getting close.”
You are. You’ve been close the whole time, but this feels more and more different by the second. There are wet, sinful sounds filling the room as your skin slaps together, and Steve’s breath is hot in your ear as he starts to lose a little control of himself.
He moans when you start mindlessly humping up to meet him, forcing his cock into the tightest spot into you that makes everything all colorful and hazy. You gasp softly, chasing up from a little more, and Steve wraps and arm around your back.
“Fuck- Fuck- You feel so good,” he groans your name in your ear. “So good, it’s- Christ-“
That strange pressure in your tummy is going to burst. It feels like Steve is driving right against it, daring it come undone.
“Steve.” You breathe out. “Steve- I- I’m gonna-“
He growls, deep in his chest and rolling through you. Steve grabs you and wrestles you down into the mattress, pushing your legs up to your chest and fucking you fast and brutal.
It’s a sight above you. Steve, panting and moaning as your pussy sucks him in, glistening arousal shining all over his cock when he pulls out and smearing on your tummy. Your tight walls are starting to contract, and he doubles over, groaning your name as his thrust become shallow and unmeasured.
Tears start to stream down your face. Steve looks at you like you’re an angel, fucking you like you’re just a toy, and you can’t even remember how to tell him how good it feels.
“Steve…” You wiggle below him, crying out as he just fucks you hard. “Steve- Ooooooh-“
Your eyes roll back, the tears burning on your cheeks from the impossible to handle pleasure. Steve leans down and kisses them off your cheeks, the softness in such contrast with how he’s turning you into a bundle of nerves and tears.
“My pretty girl.” He mutters, kissing your lips sweetly. “Close. We’re so close. You can make it. Make it for me.”
You nod, almost hypnotized into agreeing. And Steve’s abusing that spot inside of you. Sensitive and overwhelming, making your toes curl and eyes cross.
“Steve- I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.” Not a suggestion. Steve’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing it back and forth as he ruts into you. “Come for me, now.”
The command rolls through you, and that pressure bursts. Heat washes over you, making you bow off the bed as a funny, wet feeling gushes out between your thighs. Steve groans, slamming his mouth back over yours, groaning your name as you start to milk his cock.
“Fuck,” he groans, and you wrap your arms tight around his neck. Tight enough to strangle him, if he was a normal man. But Steve just splays his hand possessively over your back and moans against your lips, driving home into your cunt as his release rippling through him.
It’s almost as good as your own orgasm. You’re tucked into a shaking, flexing heat of muscle, his deep voice moaning your name in your ear, his cock still thrusting and twitching inside you. Over, and over, and over-
You can barely breathe in the best way. You’ve never had a man cum so much. It starts just hot and sticky, then it’s drooling out, down your ass and onto the sheets. You can feel it in your throat, almost taste it, and even after Steve pulls out it’s everywhere. Painting your pussy creamy and white, branding your abdomen, your tits, your thighs.
Steve stares down at you with a gaping mouth as you both come down from the high. You laugh, hoarse and breathy.
“Woah.”
“Shit.” Steve mutters, grabbing at the remainder of the clean sheets and wiping them over your body. “I- I didn’t- I usually pull out, you just-“
“Steve-“
“We need to get you in the shower, it’s everywhere-“
“Steve-“
“I’m so sorry-“
“Steven.” You smack his shoulder, and he stops dead.
You’re already bridal style in his arms, naked and covered in his cum, some of it dripping all over the floor. You’re going to need to hire a cleaner. Or invest in really, really big buckets that you’ll keep next to the bed.
“Does that happen every time?”
He swallows, and nods.
“Uh- Not that much.” He mumbles. “But yeah.”
Pride glows in your chest. You get the most of him. “Okay.”
Steve blinks. “Okay?”
You nod, and he shakes his head.
“I ruined your room-“
“I liked it.”
He stares. You smile.
Steve rolls his eyes, and presses a kiss to your brow.
“You’re impossible.” He mutters, and you giggle.
“Yeah, but you love me. And you can’t take it back now, you already said it-“
He grabs your chin, turning it so he can fully capture your lips.
“I do love you.” He mutters against your lips. “And no one could make me take it back if they tried.”
You smile. You have no plans to do that.
Steve is somehow more than you ever dreamed. And there’s no way you’re letting him go now.
✦End note: this was so fun for me to write i love a puppy dog man. i hope you enjoyed it!✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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Summary: Joel returns home from patrol and you help him get warm with your body.
Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, comfort, established relationship, horny!Joel, a touch of somno, nipple play, f!oral, fingering, coming in pants, swearing.
Word count: 1,5k
A/n: thank you, lovely anon, for this idea 💞 Kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 Dividers by @/saradika-graphics 💞
MASTERLIST
Joel came home when you were already sleeping. Shivering from a blizzard raging outside he quietly walked into the dark bedroom and kissed your soft cheek. His lips were chapped and cold, and seeking your warmth, they lingered on your skin for a second too long and woke you up.
Whenever Joel was patrolling outside of Jackson, you slept badly, tossing and turning in bed that seemed too big and too cold for you without him, disturbing thoughts not letting you relax. But that day Tommy was patrolling with Joel, and busy with newcomers, Maria asked you to babysit Benji. That tornado of a boy left you completely exhausted and you fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.
But just like in Sleeping Beauty Joel’s soft kiss pulled you out of your dreamland.
“You’re back,” you rasped, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. His clothes and skin were cold against you and chills immediately covered your body. A smell of smoke and winter reached your nose and you took a deep breath of your favorite scent — your Joel.
“Shhh… go back to sleep, baby. Gonna take a shower.”
“Noooo…” you protested, not letting him go, nuzzling his neck and clasping him against you. “Don’t go yet.”
Joel was huffing and puffing, bent over you in an awkward position. He planted his hand on the bed by your side, keeping himself from collapsing on you, and chuckled,
“Darlin’, it’ll take me five minutes.”
Joel pulled away slightly and searched for your sleepy eyes, barely visible in the dark. You heard worry in his voice as he muttered,
“What’s wrong? Tell me.”
“Nothing,” you said hastily, staring up at him like he’d hung the moon and the stars. “You’re cold. Let me get you warm.”
His lips spread in a sweet smile and it was the answer you needed. You took his winter-kissed face between your palms and started peppering hot kisses over his cold nose, cheeks, scruffy chin and forehead as he was laughing softly.
Impatiently you pulled him down and Joel plopped on the bed by your side and then sighed contentedly when his head rested on your chest, that was warm and covered by a thin nightie.
“‘s nice?” You whispered as your skin erupted in goosebumps, his chilly cheek at fault.
“Oh yeah,” Joel mumbled and his arms snaked under your duvet and wrapped around you. You held your breath, keeping yourself from shivering again, scared that Joel would part from you if he noticed you getting cold.
To your pleasure Joel was happily snuggling up with you. An encapsulating feeling of love filled your heart to the brim. He was there with you, safe and calm, and your soul was finally at peace.
Slowly you drifted back to sleep, lulled by the comforting weight of Joel’s body, his steady breaths, his big embrace, which was still a bit chilly, but the warmth of your bed didn’t let you get uncomfortable.
Suddenly your own soft moan woke you up,
“Oh, Joel…”
You knew right away that Joel was the one making you feel all THAT. No one else was capable of plunging you into an ocean of ecstasy that fast and that expertly. You fluttered your eyes open and saw what was happening — Joel had pushed the neckline of your nightie down, out of his way, and was licking at your nipple. Then he nibbled on the hardened bud and gently sucked it into his hot mouth.
Your breathing was already fast and unsteady, your pussy wet, your body close to a climax.
Tugging at Joel’s soft locks you took a sharp breath, trembling under him, and whined,
“Joel… what are you doing?”
The man parted from your breast with a pop and even in the darkness you saw how blown out his eyes were — he was already deep in the pit of lust.
“You’re so warm and soft, baby… couldn’t help myself.”
His big cold hands glided up your sides, then circled around your breasts and lightly squeezed them.
“Go back to sleep,” he said with his voice strained, staring at the soft flesh in his palms, his jaw slack.
You shook your head and moaned when Joel latched onto your perked up nipple and started sucking on it. You pushed your thighs together, desperately seeking pressure to your aching pussy, your fingers clasped in Joel’s hair, your back arched, your eyes closed from the immense pleasure.
“Joel, my pussy..,” you whimpered weakly, ready to beg him to take care of you, but there was no need. Mumbling ‘yes, yes, darlin’,’ Joel got up and started taking his flannel shirt and jeans off, his breathing heavy. You were marveling at his broad and strong frame with hazy eyes, still a bit sleepy, as he was hastily discarding his clothes. You couldn’t believe he was yours, couldn’t believe how lucky you were that he called you ‘mine’.
“Need a shower but… I ain’t waitin’,” he panted, leaving his white undershirt and boxers on, palming his huge cock under the material, his eyes glinting in the dark.
“Come,” you breathed out, reaching out for him with your arms but Joel shook his head.
“I know where my baby needs me.”
He walked to the foot of the bed, lifted your fluffy duvet and dived under it.
You squeaked when his chilly hands spread your legs and he began settling between them, pushing them apart with his broad shoulders, pulling your nightie up until its skirt was around your waist. Soon your thighs were resting on his shoulders, his warm breath fanning your wet cunt.
“Honey,” you called, staring at the huge lump under the duvet. When you lifted it, you saw Joel’s head hovering over your pussy, but like a feral animal he growled “no peekin’ ” and pulled the cover back down.
You were blinking at the lump in surprise until a gasp fell from your lips when you felt a pair of lips kiss your heat. They were still a little cold and you took a sharp breath at the unusual sensation.
Joel ran his tongue over your seam, tasting you, and then immediately delved between your soaked folds. His fingers spread them apart and he began licking your pussy, from your clenching hole to your puffy clit— up and down, up and down.
“Hngggg,” you were hearing him groan under the duvet. You knew how much he loved eating you out and his lustful noises turned you on even more.
With your nightie pulled down, you were twitching your nipples, drowning in pleasure, panting with your eyes closed. Your heart was pumping loudly in your ears. No way you could fall asleep then.
Drawing another whimper out of you, Joel pushed his finger into your entrance and added a second one, aware of how much you loved a stretch.
His thick digits began pumping in and out of your hot core, making your eyes roll to the back of your head, and when he placed his open mouth over your blooming pussy and started flicking your clit with his hot tongue, the temperature contrast and the stimulation brought tears to your eyes. He was sucking on your clit and fingerfucking you until your pussy was drenched with his spit and your slick, until your skin was covered in sweat, your legs trembling.
“Joel!” You came with his name on your lips, your tensed thighs locked around his head, your hands clasping the bedsheets. A wave after wave were rippling through your body, Joel’s fingers squeezed by your pulsating cunt, your clit twitching against his tongue.
When your body relaxed, Joel rested his head on your mound and you felt him panting heavily, just like you were, catching your breath.
For some time you were lying like that, sharing this intimate moment. At one point you thought that Joel had fallen asleep under the duvet but when you carefully lifted it, he raised his head and looked at you with eyes half-lidded.
“Damn, baby, you’ll be the death of me.”
“What?” You giggled. “I only wanted to get you warm. Didn’t ask you to…”
“I know, I know,” he hurried to assure you. “I ain’t cold now, that’s for sure,” he chuckled, emerging from under the duvet all sweaty, with his cheeks flushed. You grinned at him, proud to have given your man all of your warmth.
“Now I’m definitely showerin’,” he sighed, standing awkwardly by the bed. “Came all over my pants… Jesus Christ.”
You bit your lip, feeling incredibly flattered, and then giggled as he waddled towards the bathroom.
“Can I join you?” You shouted, eager to help him wash the tiring patrol and cum off his body.
“Sure, darlin’,” he replied and you hurried out of bed.
Thank you for reading! Please, comment and reblog if you enjoyed the story. It’s the greatest compliment for a writer💞
Ooh, a headcanon game! How about pre-Outbreak! Joel, smutty?
yes, pre-outbreak!Joel ugh 🫠 what a gorgeous man. thanks for asking! 💖
ppcu headcanon asks
pre-outbreak!joel constantly calls you for phone sex
cw: phone sex lol, puppydog Joel
Between the single dad life and all the double shifts he’s gotta work, pre-Outbreak!Joel is busy as hell. He never gets to see you as much as he wants, but you’re all he thinks about, and he doesn’t let you forget it. He calls you almost every night, late. You know what to expect, but you still feel a little thrill every time you pick up, every time you hear the ragged current in his voice.
He’s jacking off - he sends you photos sometimes - sitting naked on his bed, clean and tired from the shower, fisting his cock and murmuring into the phone about everything he wanted to do to you today. He woke up hard for you, he says, woke up wishing you would ride him, you look so good when you bounce on his cock, he woulda cum so hard inside, he loves filling you up at the start of the day, knowing you’ll be walking around with his cum leaking out of you. Then he says one of the guys in his crew brought a playboy to work, and all he could think about was you as the centerfold, all kittenish and spread-open, but only for him.
And that’s really why he’s calling - he needs you to tell that him you’re his. You do, and he lets out a long sigh, because he missed you so much, his baby girl. He missed how wet you get for him, he wishes you could see how hard he is for you right now, he wants you to touch yourself the way he would, to cum hard while he listens, and not hang up until he’s fallen asleep.
Warnings: Smut, fingering, a little dirty talk, spanking, pet names, punishment, blowjob
Word Count: 708
Plot: Joel is playing with you and tells you how pretty you are. When you disagree he doesn't take it too well and he decides it's worth a little punishment.
Joel loved to please you. It was one of his favorite things to do, especially in the bedroom. He loved the sound of your moans and the way you'd arch your back and squirm for him. It was one of the few ways he felt he could really show his love for you. Joel would take his time with it. Make you feel every little thing he did.
"Good girl, keep taking it" Joel growls as he keeps pumping his two curled fingers in and out of your pussy. He keeps his eyes on you as he watches your face.
"You going to cum for be babygirl?" He asks and starts to go faster, smirking at your change in volume.
"You look so pretty when you're about to cum baby" Joel growls in your ear. You couldn't help but shake your head. You always had thought Joel could do better even though you were attractive. You just never believed Joel was totally satisfied with you.
Joel watches you shake your head and he raises and eyebrow.
"What's that for?" He asks.
"I-I'm not a pretty girl" You tell him. Joel looks down at you.
"You really believe that Y/N?" Joel asks coldly. He was almost offended. He knew he wasn't the most affectionate partner but he liked to think you knew how beautiful you were to him.
Joel suddenly pulls your hair into a ponytail and gives it a death grip before he yanks you up off the bed, onto your knees on the floor. You lightly winced but loved when he got rough so you didn't complain He grabs his cock with his free hand and jerks it in front of your face before pulling you closer.
"Suck" He orders. You look up at him and softly nodded before you took the tip into your mouth and started to suck, slowly taking more and more of him.
Joel groaned but he wanted to teach you a lesson. He loses his grip on your hair before he grabbed your head and started to thrust into your mouth, making you take him deeper.
"You think I'd throat fuck anyone other than a pretty girl like this?" He growls. Joel continues to use your throat, dead set on making sure this lesson sticks. You continue to gag on his cock, tears watering in your eyes as you looked up at him.
Joel pulled you off his cock and let you catch your breath for a second.
"You're not just a pretty girl, you're a gorgeous girl" He tells you. "And you're going to get a little punishment to make sure you remember what you are" Joel says darkly before instructing you to get up on the bed.
"All fours" He orders and you quickly comply. Joel gets onto the bed on his knees behind you. He reaches down to your clit and starts rubbing light circles. You lightly moan and tried to move lightly to feel more.
"Stay still" He growls and uses his free hand to hold you in place.
"You want more babygirl?" Joel asks you teasingly.
"Please Daddy" You whine.
"Say your my pretty girl" He orders.
"I-I'm your pretty girl" You tell him, but not with much conviction. He lightly chuckled and scoffed.
"Mean it" He growls in your ear and begins to slow down his rubbing of your clit.
"I'm your pretty girl!" You say more confidently, desperate for more.
Joel smirks and nods as he begins to rub your clit faster again and he begins to finger your pussy with two fingers. Your eyes widened before they rolled back in pleasure.
"Yeah you fucking are" He said and smacked your ass roughly.
"Y-Yes Daddy!" You cry out and get lost in what Joel is doing to you.
"Cum for me pretty girl" Joel says as he curls his fingers, hitting your sweet spot and that was enough to send you over the edge. Joel smirked as he watched you cum on his fingers.
"Good girl" He praised and rubbed your back lightly as you tried to catch your breath.
"I hope you learned your lesson. Next time you forget it, Daddy won't be so nice" Joel tells you with a smirk.
A/N: I love doing these little smut requests so please send more! (Also sorry if it's not perfect, I was stoned writing this 😂)
━ she's got you right now (but i'm still on your mind) (18+)
( tim bradford x younger!girl!reader )
SUMMARY: there's many reasons why tim bradford shouldn't be with you. one - he's at least ten years older. two - he has a girlfriend. and three - you're lucy chen's little sister... but, somehow, those reasons still don't stop him.
MISSY'S NOTES: originally titled 'everybody knows i'm a good girl, officer', however tate mcrae's song 'hurt my feelings' fits the vibes more! this is the longest fic i've ever written AHH thank you to my gorgeous baby @quinnsdesk for this request and also anon for this one! mwah mwah x
INCLUDES: slow burn, little bit of angst, swearing, forbidden love, sir kink, age gap (reader is in her 20s, tim is in his 30s), petnames, dirty talk, praise, sister's best friend trope (or even better, best friend's sister), reader is lucy's younger sister, cheating (fuck you ash), bondage (light restraints/scarf), tim second guesses himself A LOT, dom!tim, sub!tim if you blink (man's been yearning), sub!reader, reader has hair, nipple play, lowkey lots of grinding/humping, power imbalance, oral sex (tim receives), fingering, riding, porn with plot, realistic ending, ocean symbolism/lexical chains/connotations/motif.
WORDS: 15K+
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❝ got me heavy breathing
every time we're speaking
got me real, real deep in
want you so bad, baby
hurt my feelings ❞
LUCY CHEN IS A WOMAN TIM BRADFORD KNOWS BETTER THAN TO MAKE WAVES WITH . . .
For starters, Lucy is an amazing cop and has been ever since she saved his life from a gun wound on her first shift on the job. Even for someone who received hours upon hours of hardship and frustrations from him as her training officer, Lucy Chen didn't let down for the twelve months she was shop-bound to him. And still, she is yet to prove Tim wrong in his confidence that Lucy could be - and possibly will be - a better cop than him.
Even more importantly, Lucy is an amazing friend too. Tim solemnly believes that everyone deserves to have a friend like Lucy; someone who can help you through the hardest and best times of your life without an ounce of judgement or jealousy. Better yet, someone who understands the longevity of pain and grief and still decides to stay by your side through it all.
Lucy's hilarious, the kind of hilarious where she hasn't even said the punch line yet because she's already laughing. And, well, laughing is contagious. She's also kind, thoughtful, and self-aware to push the jokes aside and give Tim a hug or a comforting smile when she knows he needs it.
There's many things in this life Tim Bradford doesn't feel rich of, but he most certainly feels it when he has a friend as good as Lucy Chen.
All in all, Lucy is protective, quick-witted, and intelligent in so many ways within the arts of academia and pure morality.
...And that's the problem.
Lucy Chen is protective. Quick-witted. And intelligent.
Which makes the situation Tim is in so much fucking worse.
Because you, little Miss Chen, is everything Tim Bradford should not find attractive.
You're nothing like your sister; you're sweet and kind, of course, and you have those pretty, dazzling eyes too. But, you manoeuvre through life with a lack of urgency and carefree, late-minute plans. Your smile is your weapon, and you most certainly can use it well to get your way- just a simple lowering of your chin and the batting of your eyelashes with that pretty fucking smile could lure anyone including Tim to do anything you want or need.
There's something so unique about you, Tim could even tell from the first time he met you at the station. On the occasion that Lucy forgot something, like her phone charger ("My phone's on 2% and I only just started my shift!"), or important documents she'd taken home to review ("Please, please bring them in. Sergeant Grey will kill me if he finds out I didn't bring them back!"), you were the delivery girl!
Of course, like the little sister that you are, would complain about taking time out of your day-offs ("Seriously, Luce, I'm literally in the middle of my shower! You can wait ten minutes until I'm done."), but, nonetheless, you always came to your big sister's rescue with a classiness that was overpowered by your chaos.
Mismatched socks, embroidered tote bag and a coloured cardigan meant you stood out like a sore thumb. And if that wasn't obvious enough, you overshare too. Literally.
Tim remembers how you walked in for the first time with two coffees in your hands, chatting to Smitty with a wide-beamed grin as he guided you to Lucy ("Oh my god, me too Smitty! But honestly, I so prefer the bath bombs that don't have glitter in them. Literally days later I'll still be finding glitter in my ears." "...Wait, you're not supposed to go underwater when you have bath bombs, Little Chen." "Oh...heh...you're not?")
But, aside from your dramatic entrance about God damn bath bombs, actually meeting you for the first time was an absolute life-changing event.
Because as you stood in front of Lucy, passing her not only her required necessities in the tote bag AND one of the coffees, well, Tim's ears perked at the sound of your soft voice asking:
"And where's Sergeant Bradford?"
Lucy - mid-way through her sip - raised your brows, "Oh, yes! You two can finally meet! Here-" And before Tim could even prepare himself, putting his heart eyes into the back of his brain and forming whatever stoic expression he usually shows, you and Lucy had made your way over to him.
Lucy - big-grinned - Chen placed her free hand on his shoulder comfortingly as she glanced between you two, "This, is Tim. He's a softie, I swear."
"A softie, hey?" You mocked your sister's words, "He's looking at me like he wants to kill me."
Well, Tim was definitely looking at you- that was for sure. Baby blues grazed from mis-matched lengths of your white socks to the exposure of your legs that earned a skip to his heart beat. He continued up to where your navy cotton dance shorts rested just on your hips and your black sports bra that complimented the fuck out of your breasts.
God, did he just want to glide those shorts down along with whatever pretty underwear your wore underneath, inviting you to squeeze your thighs around his head as he began exploring the depths of you 'till you were a squirming mess-
"Well, I got you a coffee. Hope that my spares my fortune."
Tim blinked.
"...What?"
"A long black, right? That's what Lucy told me anyway."
Tim had to blink again, not just to rid his nasty, sick thoughts, but also because...you got him a coffee?
You stood there patiently, one hand outstretched with his coffee in your hand as you wore a smile that was so authentic, kind and full of fun, "I didn't spit in it if that's what you're concerned about."
"I- no, just...unexpected," Tim dared to share a glance at an oblivious, smiling Lucy as he took the paper cup from your very own hands- velvet skin, warm and cozy. "Thank you."
By how Tim could hear the small hitch in your breath as you touched fingers, and how your eyes faulted to look away from the bulge of his biceps...let's say it wasn't just him running fantasies in his mind, either.
Though as much as Tim could've pulled you aside and asked to take you out, fuck, he absolutely could not.
Because if anything can remind Tim of why he shouldn't be with you, so much as even fuck you, well, you're way too young for him, at least by a fucking decade, and for Heaven's sake- you're Lucy's younger sister. How much worse could you be for him?
It just so happens that you were a blue moon shining against crashing waters: always rare to come by, but on the off-chance that you did, it always felt like a punch to his heart.
Tim's been sitting on this for months now.
Every time you pop up at the station, a loud alarm shakes his brain, shouting something stupid like 'CRUSH ALERT! CRUSH ALERT!' and Tim is fucking reminded again and again that he absolutely can not, and will not- no matter how much his straining cock and ringing ears tell him otherwise.
Today, however, is a little different.
Because rather than Lucy needing you, roles have reversed and you need Lucy.
The 'crisis' happens on a sunny morning in the middle of LA summer, where the air is everything blazing and sticky. Though, while they drive along in the shop with the air -con blasting into their faces, Lucy and Tim are careless of the weather's worries- clearly evident to their chattering and mixture of laughter.
Lucy's only just getting to the good part of her story ("And so after I yelled at this guy to maybe prioritise spraying deodorant on himself rather than catcalling me- GUESS what he did?!"), when a sudden vibration in her work pants catches her attention.
Lucy jumps, "Oh! Sorry, gimme a sec," She murmurs, putting a hold to their conversation as she fishes out her phone mid-giggle.
Half heartedly expecting it to be anyone but, Lucy's brows furrow when she realises the receiving call is coming from you.
A small curse escaping Lucy's throat is enough to make Tim glance over, "Everything okay?" He asks.
"Yeah, it's my sister." She mutters, as if that doesn't make Tim's heart earn a kick at the sound of your name.
Nonetheless, Lucy slides her finger to the 'accept' button, not even thinking twice before pressing speaker either (A 'rookie' mistake, if I must say), "Hey, girl! You good?"
"Hi Luce!" And oh, does your voice sound like soft butter beneath a sunrise, "Yeah...uhh- funny you say that...
I...um. I locked myself out of my apartment."
A second passes through the conversation, only to be started up again by the obnoxious long sigh Lucy lets out.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I don't joke about these things, Lucy." But Tim can still hear the light humour uplifting your voice. "I was just taking the trash out and the door slammed behind me. And - if it helps your sense of urgency - I'm in my pjs. Like...no bra, no undies-"
Lucy chokes on her own saliva, obviously regretting not making Tim's presence aware to you as she quickly looks over at her boss' cheeks reddening with apologetic, wide brown eyes.
And Tim will admit it, of course he's fucking blushing as he imagines you - sweet, kind you - in thin pyjama shorts and a cami top wearing nothing underneath.
Not that Lucy needs to know that.
Lucy brings her palm to her forehead as she groans loudly, "Jesus Christ, I'm working right now, you can't say shit like that!"
"Why? What's wrong with letting my nips and vagina breathe for once?" You protest, clearly unfazed, "God forbid a girl takes a break from wearing a bra-"
"Oh my god-"
Tim doesn't allow his brain to allocate time for preparation before his lips start moving, "Do you have a bobby pin you can use to unpick the door lock?"
There's an obvious amount of stunned silence on your end, being clearly confused from the sudden intrusion of another voice.
But, no person has that rough, raspy tone none other than your sister's hot Sergeant and God, do you like to be reminded of his presence.
"...How long has Sergeant Bradford been listening for?"
Lucy grumbles, "The whole time."
"Ah, great..." A nervous chuckle fills the shop, "Morning, Sir! My apologies, didn't know you were here." You pause, patting your hair for any bobby pins that could've magically appeared on your hair.
Though, to your dismay: "And...no. No bobby pins."
There's a short few seconds on the line as Tim and Lucy look at each other, communication written in their eyes before Tim's mouth moves first.
"Where are you right now?"
"...Uh, front of my apartment door, sitting next to it like a pathetic loser." Shifting can be heard as you bring your knees up to your chest, "Didn't realise how uncomfortable this floor is until now. Deadset my ass is getting a bruise tomorrow."
Tim can't help himself when a small chuckle escapes his throat, only to quickly cover it up by a faux cough.
Lucy's smarter though, and she's sending him a death glare before answering:
"Look, we're not far. Probably five minutes away."
"Oh my fucking God- that long?" You draw it out.
Lucy scoffs, "Be grateful we're even considering helping you, you little shit. It's clear I'm the only competent sibling in the family."
"Yeah? Well, I'm funnier."
She rolls her eyes, "That is so debatable."
"I'm prettier too."
"Be respectful! My sergeant is in the shop and he can hear every single thing you're saying."
You choose to fight her as you hum innocently, "Okay, well, he didn't disagree."
Tim chokes on air, violently.
Lucy glares at him and virtually at you too before she shakes her head, "Be there in four." And before she can even provide a second for you to express your gratitude, she's hanging up the phone.
Tim's smart enough to know to shut up by now, but he can't deny the stirring swell of a current forming in his chest.
You're letting out a puff of breath when you recognise the warm, familiar caring presence of your older sister, and the handsome man that tends to follow her as they step out of the elevator.
Tim's taller than what you remembered the last time you saw him- possibly the other week at the station when Lucy had forgotten another case file. But, compared to Luce, he's tall, he's hot as all hell, he's broad-
He's also royally fucked.
Tim is so, so fucked.
God help Tim because those are the smallest fucking pyjamas he's ever seen just covering your thighs and your cleavage. It's enough to not spill anything out but honestly, he's trying his best to ignore the strain that's ever so slowly growing in his pants.
He's no expert, but he can tell they're decent quality; a simple white cotton set that's comfortable and breathable-
And my god, does he want to rip them off you.
"Finally!" You exclaim, standing up with a wince as the tender ache in your glutes releases through your body, "Probably would've melted to the floor if I stayed there another minute or so."
"Enough from you," Lucy grumbles, yet, still pulling you into a soft embrace as she hugs your side- minimal, but effective. Tim forces himself to drag his eyes away, though keeping his stance in front of you so the problem presents itself in front of him...your door. "Cute pyjamas."
You grin, "Thank you! You best believe I stole these from Victoria's Secret."
A beat passes. Then, Lucy and Tim both turn to you with widened eyes in sync.
"Oh my god, kidding!" You hold your hands up quickly, "Jesus, you two are no fun."
And if it were anyone else, Tim Bradford would've ripped into them about how serious shoplifting allegations are taken, classified under California's Penal Code Section 459.5, which he'd state: If convicted of a misdemeanour act of shoplifting, the penalty may be six months in a county jail, a $1,000 fine, or both a fine and jail time.
Tim, instead, keeps his mouth shut and turns to the wooden white door that stares back at him, tauntingly.
Lucy, too dumbfounded to even try to discipline you, shakes her head, followed by an audible groan, "Why are you like this?"
You shrug, "I was probably dropped as a baby."
Tim's ears perk to your response and he chuckles- low and warm. And the rough voice of your sister's sergeant has you canting your head to look at him, suddenly feeling a sense of 'pride' bubble within you.
Lucy frowns. How were you so quick to make her sergeant laugh? Hell, Tim only began to even smile at her once she was close to finishing her Rookie year.
Before either Lucy or you can make a comment on it, a curious sound escapes Lucy as her hands grasp onto her vibrating cellphone.
"Oh! I'll be outside, Angela is calling." And before either of you two can respond, she's already pressing 'answer' and rushing to the end of the hallway- not too far that she's out of of vision, but enough to make it feel like you've been left alone with Tim Bradford.
"Think you can unlock it without breaching it?" You ask, resting your shoulder against the wall beside your door, folding your arms in the process.
Tim doesn't mean to come off cocky, but the nod he sends you to his left - where you stand - is confident, and he squints his eyes as he drives his right hand to the heavy duty belt resting on his hips.
"Probably could've unlocked this thing with a bobby pin if you had one," Then, he kneels down once he finds his lock pick tools; a tension wrench and a rake- two essentials that come in handy every now and then when a civilian needs help (not that any of them have been in their short, see-through pyjamas with nipples perking at his attention).
He peers up at you, eyes trying so hard to focus on your own. "You ever lock picked before?"
You smirk, "You tryna get me to commit a crime, Sir?"
Sir.
Tim's breath falters at the name, and he can't deny that his blood rushes even more south to the sweet sound of your voice calling him Sir.
Jesus Christ, everyone calls him Sir- but why is it so different when you do it?
"I-" He quickly glances back at the lock, "No, 'course not. Lock picking is essential, especially for situations like the one you're in right now."
"Okay, well, no. I haven't lock picked before."
A second or two passes by, "Come watch."
You let out a huff, "I'll be fine, thanks. I'm sure I won't make the mistake of leaving the window open when it's windy-"
"Come here."
Your heart skips a beat.
It's a demand, not an invitation, and his ordering around does something terrifyingly arousing to your ovaries as you squeak out an, "Okay."
Stepping closer to Tim feels invasive but no more intimate than when you kneel down beside him, feeling the brush of his uniform against your bare arms and earning yourself goosebumps that you're sure he can see.
He can, and Tim refrains himself from shuddering when he can also smell your dainty aroma of florals and vanilla- a scent that he only likes on you. And you're close, so fucking close he can hear your quiet exhales coming from your pretty lips.
He's fucking glad Lucy is too far to even notice.
Ignoring the sudden change to the quiet yet loud atmosphere, you watch him carefully as he brings the L-shaped tension wrench up to your vision, "This one goes in low, right at the bottom of the keyhole. It mimics the turning of the key," And right before your very eyes, he gets to work.
His voice is hush, which only exaggerates the huskiness that often underlines his tone, "Apply slight torque. Not too much, or you'll bind the pins. Not too little, or you won't catch 'em. Just the right amount of pressure."
You swallow, however, nodding slowly as you keep your gaze trained.
"This-" He then lifts up the rake, "-goes inside next. Y'wanna slide it in, and push up gently- try to catch each pin one by one."
Holy shit, he's gotta be doing this on purpose, because in no way can someone whisper 'slide it in' like he just did without it sounding fucking sexual.
To his tease, however, he keeps going.
His thumb braces the tension wrench, and his long fingers guide the rake with steady taps. Every movement is purposeful yet tight, and with the focus Tim has set on not fucking up in front of you, his breath has subconsciously changed to match your own soft ones.
"Just like that," He murmurs and you tremble, "last one is always the trickiest..."
The click is so faint compared to the thumping of your heart in your ear that you almost miss it. But, Tim's hand drops the tension wrench as the deadbolt shifts, and the door slightly creaks open by half an inch.
Tim is clearly chuffed at himself, because he says 'attagirl' way too surely that for a split second, you think he may be saying it to you.
"Wow," You blow out, staring intensely at your unlocked door, "Sir, that was-"
"Easy, hey?" He says as he turns his head to look at you.
And, well, you were gonna say hot, but easy works too.
You, ever so slowly, peer over at him too, eyes catching his own in the heat of the silence.
"Yeah," Breathlessly, you flicker your gaze quickly to his lips before looking back at him. Then, you offer him the gentlest of smiles, "Thank you, Sir."
His brain short circuits, and his heart takes it's place.
With a loud thudding beneath his chest, he can't help but wander his pupil-dilated eyes around your face- orbs so fascinating and lips so kissable. It's an intensity Tim Bradford hasn't felt in what feels like forever. Ever since...God, ever since Rachel perhaps.
He doesn't even realise he's been inching closer to the warmth of your mouth. Maybe you don't realise either, at least not until he begins to feel the soft air that escapes you- hot as it tickles his own sensitive lips.
You're so close...so very, dangerously close. But, fuck, you wanna pull him into you, wanna feel him all around you, wanna-
Lucy's footsteps louden from behind.
It seems Tim has the same idea of how unprofessionally close you are because you both quickly whip your heads to the drop of your stomachs just when Lucy reaches you two.
"Sorry! Angela found some new information on her current case, she wants us to take a look at an abandoned house in Ethels Lane." And with a breathless huff, her brown eyes attract themselves to the unlocked door, "Oh, nicely done, Bradford!"
And while there's no mention of it from her, Lucy can't help but get a sense she interrupted something; especially from the close proximity you two are as you stay crouched together, and the overt blush staining both of your cheeks.
Almost as if you guys were caught red-handed.
Tim's not one to get lectured on, considering he's always been the lecturer.
He's a hard-headed training officer, for fuck's sake, it's all he's ever known to do.
But now, however, as they walk back to the shop, he knows it's best to let Lucy give it to him, especially when she slams her door shut just that tad more aggressively.
He barely has time to settle into his seat before she's raising her hand towards the front of her uniform. Her fingers find the button on her body cam, and a faint click confirms her doing- she's muted her mic.
Tim can't even put a word in before Lucy's doing the same to his.
And then...nothing.
The body cam only has a two-minute grace period before it automatically unmutes itself, and Lucy's savouring it.
Tim actually wishes Lucy could speak right now because the shop is awfully quiet, too much that the only noise filling the silence of voices is when Tim ignites the shop and the background noises of Los Angeles surrounding them; a honk in the distance, gravel scraping against someone's shoe, ear-piercing construction work.
"You were about to kiss my sister." Is the first comment she makes since buckling her seatbelt, and for a second Tim sighs because finally, Lucy Chen spoke.
However, she is absolutely not happy about it. Provided in the monotone on her voice and the fact that she's staring straight ahead with a stern brown. Usually, people-watching would be her go-to, but they both know Lucy's mind is somewhere else.
Tim, ever the honest, quickly replies, "No, I wasn't."
"Tim."
Ah, shit.
"Yes, you were."
"Yes, I was."
Lucy jerks her head towards him, "Don't you even dare to try and do that again. That's my baby sister."
Holy shit.
Tim's swallows, guilt riddling his chest as he struggles to maintain Lucy's contact. He doesn't feel guilty for almost kissing you, (You're a grown woman. Please, you can handle yourself.) but he does feel that deep ache because you're Lucy's sister.
And there's nothing worse than disappointing his friend.
Lucy's right, she's so God damn right because what was he thinking? He could do that with any woman and yet, he's chosen to almost kiss his friend's little sister and expect Lucy to be okay with it?
Tim allows himself to feel those emotions for three seconds, maybe even four, before he's masking it behind his stone-cold demeanour.
He grumbles as he pulls the shop out of the curb, "Roger that."
Lucy doesn't say anymore on the topic after that-
One: Because once Lucy's made her mind, she's locked in on it.
Two: The body cam's grace period is gone.
And fuck, did she make it clear that you - little Miss Chen - are officially 'off-limits'.
The bar is the worst place to go when your girlfriend is already in a bad mood.
For starters, it's way too crowded for Tim's liking. Bumping shoulder to shoulder as they make their way through the entrance, and Hell, even finding seats has been an impossible mission. Ultimately, it's adding fuel to both Tim and his girlfriend's fire by increasing their frustrations.
It's also fucking noisy too. Not the music, per se, but the uproar of laughter, chattering, and the clinking of half-drunken glasses on wooden tables and against one another to cheer.
There's also alcohol, which Tim has been using to his advantage as he takes another sip of his whiskey on the rocks- his second one since arriving an hour ago. It's not enough to get him plastered - considering he's gotta drive - but the blows his significant other is sending his way aren't as damaging as they should be.
Ashley throws her hands up in the air, "I mean, seriously, Tim, this is - how many fucking times now? - that you've come home late!" She fishes for her phone, pulling out her 'evidence of suspicions' by the numerous amounts of missed calls from Tim's end. "At least have the decency to call me back if you're being kept on overtime."
She's right to a degree. But, Tim's heart doesn't tug out of empathy like it should have, and he knows it all too well that it's because he doesn't like her enough to care.
Not when his mind is at somewhere else...someone else.
It's been months since he'd last seen you- it seems Lucy's getting better at not forgetting things now that she's become his go-fer. But, still, you're always lingering in the air some way or another; often in the mismatched socks he may see a civilian wear; or white pyjamas shown on a television show; even in the waves on Santa Monica- the ones with an underlying current beneath them, yet, shadowed by the overwhelming sun glitter on it's surface.
He also finds his heartbeat skipping at the mention of your name slipping out of Lucy's mouth every now and then when she talks about you.
Tim doesn't ask about you. He wants to, always wants to, but he constantly holds himself back just as the words brush on the tip of his tongue because it's smarter to not get Lucy confused as to why her sergeant is asking about her little sister, especially now that you're a no-go-zone.
The most recent information he's gotten out of Lucy about you, however, is that your 'poor baby' car broke down on the middle of the freeway and you're now relying on Luce, Ubers and public transportation to get you around as you wait for your car to get repaired.
The moment Lucy had groaned about it as they took a criminal through the arrest procedure, Tim was so close to offering that he 'could be your taxi-man'. But, the only thing that held him back out of all the reasons why he shouldn't say that was because Lucy would've killed him-
And not because he has a girlfriend.
...Ah, Ashley McGrady.
You becoming off-limits meant Tim Bradford was not only desperate, but angrily and sexually desperate too. Him and his palm had gotten quite familiar with each other, and honestly at his age? Tim didn't think he still had it in him.
But hey, he's a yearning man after all, and you were affecting him like no other woman has.
So, a month after he helped you lock pick your door, he found Ashley. And she was just the right person, and just the right distraction for what he needed- as much as that sounds selfish and mean.
At first, it seemed like a good idea...dating her, that is. The sex is good- great even, but, she isn't you.
(Which is crazy to admit, considering you two have only ever touched when trading coffee cups and eye-fucked like horny teenagers.)
Tim can't help it, any running thought that pops up in the process of giving and receiving pleasure is of you.
You, instead of her.
He's careful, not being stupid enough to moan your name out as he spills white ropes of cum inside Ashley despite imagining the hair he's holding as he burrows himself from behind as yours, and the noises that she makes can somehow...almost form into your voice- if he tries hard enough.
It's sickening, it's filthy, but in the heat of the moment, it feels so fucking right for him.
Tim finds that the seconds he should've taken to respond back to Ashley - possibly starting off by apologising and explaining that 'crime doesn't have a curfew' - he, instead, downs the remaining of the brown liquor too swiftly.
He gives her a pointed look, "Another drink?"
Ashley scoffs, "Tim."
He sighs heavily, his name sounding offensive in her mouth like it's spoilt milk, "What do you want me to say, Ash? You've experienced police hours with your dad- everyday is different." Having enough of looking at the disgust written all over her face, he darts his eyes down to the condensation beading around his glass, hot from his touch and the air that circulates between them- sticky, sweaty and angry.
The sound of laughter fills the air where the both of them don't speak. Tim flickers his gaze between his girlfriend and his empty glass, and Ashley just...fucking glares at him.
Finally processing on what to say, Ashley opens her mouth.
"You don't get it, do you?"
And well, did that catch Tim's attention as he brings his head up- brows furrowed, jaw clenched, "...Don't get what?"
She tightens her lips, "We haven't had sex in days, Tim." And with a huff, she throws her hands around until she's pointing towards herself with a shout not nearly as loud as the bar's volume, but enough to shock Tim, "I have needs!"
...Tim wants two whiskeys now. And a shot of tequila.
He doesn't even know where to start. Completely and utterly shocked at the lack of sympathy one can have towards him.
"Days? Jesus Christ, Ashley, I'm trying," He shakes his head, voice surprisingly steady and calm compared to his partner's rage, "I'm fucking exhausted by the time I get home- just spare me a day or two until I have a day off for once."
Ashley's head looks like it's about to explode with how her cheeks are stained red from fury, and the glare she's sending Tim like he personally and purposely ruined her routine of sex.
So, instead of yelling at him, she stands up, taking her shoulder bag with her.
"I'm getting my own drink."
And despite how much Tim can't stand her right now, deep down in his heart, he's still a gentleman.
He scrambles to get out of his seat, "Don't you dare, I'll get it-"
"No, you're pissing me off, Tim." She calls over her shoulder, and God is she fast as she manoeuvres through bodies upon bodies.
No one pays attention, not when it's so fucking loud in here. Tim narrows his brows as he walks after her, "How?! Why? Look, I'm sorry that I'm not home at the times that I am, and when I do I can't...satisfy your needs, but, c'mon Ashley, I'm not gonna quit my job just because you don't like-"
Tim would've continued, he should've, actually, if it hadn't been for the one person he's been dreaming and thinking about for the longest of times catching his attention.
Like tunnel vision, Tim's baby blues find you.
You, who's smiling at someone that isn't him, though it never quite reaches your eyes. You, who wears a black and white checkered short sleeve blouse and a black skirt that should be communicated to HR. You've got one hand casually pouring the most perfect-looking espresso martini, and the other taking the customer's cash and tip.
And he almost misses it, but he's saved by the bar's low lamp above you shining against the hair accessory and straight towards Tim's eyes.
Because gripped securely and snugly through your strands...is a bobby pin.
...Tim feels sick.
(In a good way or not? He isn't too sure yet.)
It all happens at once; his stomach churns lowly and his heartbeat rises to his eardrums, and his cock twitches at the longing sight of you.
It only doubles in intensity when your focus moves away from your previous customer to his.
That's when your smile reaches your eyes.
"Sir! It's been a hot minute!" It has, far too many minutes, days, weeks...months. But, still, you pursue to engage in a conversation with him, picking things up where they were left off.
Suddenly, Ashley isn't all that important anymore as all of the negativity she only just threw at him demolishes to the sweet sound of you calling him 'Sir'.
"It has, hey? How are things?" He asks, propping his elbows against the wooden bar as he stands to his girlfriend's left, despite the sticky, wet residue left on the bench.
You nod, drawing closer to where he stands so you're in front of him, a look so joyful, so true written all over you, "Things are okay! Working hard, but, I can't complain." You tilt your head, and the shine in your eyes that constantly taunts him in his fantasies makes way. "You've cleaned up nicely tonight."
Tim quickly glances down at himself, his brain suddenly forgetting exactly what he wore. It's nothing too exciting; just a navy henley and dark blue jeans. But hey, a compliment is a compliment- and Tim will treasure any words that come out of those pretty lips.
"I...thank you. Anything beats wearing the uniform." He grins.
God, you're trying so fucking hard not to rake your eyes up and down his frame- how unprofessional would that be in the workplace? So, instead, you stick to just letting out a low hum of approval.
You're about to ask what order he'd like, but-
"Can I get a Bloody Mary, please?"
Oh. Right...Ashley.
Your attention wavers off him to the sound of the female voice beside him. At first, you think she's just another impatient, intoxicated customer who looks fucking pissed as she taps her fingers on the wooden bar. But, when your eyes take a short journey around the unfamiliar blonde's body, and your subconscious draws you to the close proximity between her and Tim, your heart drops.
Tim coughs awkwardly, peering over to Ashley before he's back to you, "I- uhm, I believe you haven't met Ashley..." And he's lifting his right hand to place on her lower back, "My girlfriend."
You want to wince at those two words, so badly- even cringe...maybe cry too because...Tim's taken?
You don't, and rather so, offer a welcoming smile.
"Ashley. How very nice to meet you," You don't provide much more than that, except for when you look down to point at your name written on your badge just above the left pocket of your blouse, "I'm sure you've seen my name by now-"
"I have." Ashley's stern on her words, eyeing you up and down to the magic of your hands as you begin to make her drink. And before you can sheepishly and profusely apologise for complimenting her boyfriend in front of her, she's turned her head to rummage through her bag. "How much for the drink?"
Tim sighs, pulling his wallet out from his back pocket, "Ignore her. Can I get a whiskey on the rocks too, please?"
Ashley cuts in, a petty sharpness to her tone, "How. Much?"
You pause the effortless momentum of your pouring as you dart your concern between the two, "Uhh..."
Before Ashley can ask again, especially in a worser tone than what she's already snapped towards you, Tim barges in, "Can I get a whiskey on the rocks as well as the Bloody Mary. Please?"
And Sergeant Bradford really is begging. With baby blues that deprive of their usual confidence, shadowed by a heavy weight- shame, exhaustion, uncertainty. The tension is unbearable between him and Ashley, and not in a good way either.
You couldn't admit it aloud, but fuck, he looks unhappy.
A faux smile is enough to get Tim to exhale in relief when you repeat assuringly, "Bloody Mary and whiskey on the rocks- coming up."
Introducing Ashley to you was a bad decision. A stupid and regrettable one, at that.
Because by the time you serve them their respected drinks with an imitated grin and they make their way back to - surprisingly - the same table they originally were at, Ashley has given Tim an absolute mouthful.
It's 9:00PM. Ashley's been yelling at him for thirty minutes now with lash after lash from her tongue, and it's beginning to grow unbearably thin on Tim's nerves.
The insults towards Tim? Sure, he can deal with it.
But what's hurting the most are the ones directed towards you.
Tim knows you and likes you- unforgettable, kind-hearted Little Miss Chen with mismatched socks and clothes that compliment your personality. You, with a smile so pure and authentic to your character with the same lips that produce the best kind of effortless humour.
And the words Ashley's using to describe you are everything but who you are.
He hates it, knowing he's going against his girlfriend's opinions, but even if Tim Bradford didn't know you the way that he did, he'd still be baffled at the absence of respect from Ashley.
"I mean, seriously, who does she think she is eye-fucking you in front of me?!"
Tim tries his best to hold in his frustrations when he pinches his brows, "Ashley, she was not."
Yes you were, you most certainly were. With that shimmer sparkling your heavy-lidded eyes as you looked up at him. That is, of course, before you realised he'd been taken.
Tim recognised the deflate the very second he mentioned Ashley's name, and the shame of calling her his 'girlfriend' in front of you. Which is weird, considering you and Tim have no correlation of past dating or relationships- just an awfully, torturously slow build up of tension and desire.
Ashley widens her eyes in disbelief, gawking, "Oh my God, no way you're defending that slut-"
"Ashley."
"But she is! She may as well spread her legs open and let you take her on the bar right then and there-"
Tim snaps.
"Enough!" As if he's snapping at one of his rookies. It's not loud, per se, but to think Tim had to be firm to his girlfriend is something he hates.
Still, his frustrations get the best of him as he glares at her, skin hot beneath his henley. "Holy shit, Ashley! She's a person- leave it alone."
You - considerate, funny you - watch the interaction from afar with utter guilt and resentment flushing your body. Tim doesn't even realise you've caught on, not when you pull it off so easily as you continue to wipe down the wooden bar, towel-drying whatever glasses present themselves to you. There's no one attend to, so you take advantage of what you can call a 'mini break' as your attention trains on the two adults amidst their blazing argument.
The bar is still loud, and while Tim and Ashley aren't causing a scene to any intoxicated locals, it's clear as day that if one was to study hard enough, they'd know it's a terrible fight between a couple.
You don't even need sound to hear the echo of their disagreement to know they're talking about you, provided that Ashley every so often points her hand directly towards you, and her huffs of complaint that string along.
You swear you can read her lips well enough to understand that the names she's calling you are...mean.
The moment, thankfully, comes to an end when Ashley takes the end approach for herself; her seat squeaks against the floorboards as she pushes it out, sending Tim a...oh, a 'fuck you' and a death glare your way before she storms out of the building.
...The night has grown quieter. It's a Wednesday, after all.
But, beneath the LA's summer haze, the moon's gravitational pull is changing the ocean's swirl from a low tide to...something bigger, something more disruptive. And it all happens the moment Tim whips his head to the left, and his yearning baby blues immediately find your own.
Because now, he's left alone in the bar. With you.
"You alright, Sir?" Is the first thing you ask just as Tim pulls out a high stool tucked beneath the bar's wooden bench with a hefty sigh. You're not just saying it for the sake of pity; the furrow between your brows and your clenched jaw speak more words than what comes out of your mouth...you're actually concerned. "Looked pretty rough from what I saw."
Tim groans- fuck, he hates that you saw it.
"I will be." He starts, and that's all the emotional vulnerability you'll receive from him, so you decide to leave it at that. "Good thing I drove here...can't imagine how Ashley got home." He ponders for a bit- a taxi? Uber? God forbid he actually texts her and makes sure she's okay.
But...you're here. And Tim would hate to waste his time texting his partner who couldn't respect him when he could be spending it with you.
You chuff, drying the current glass you hold in your hand a second time, "Hey, be lucky you have a car at all."
Tim tilts his head for a second, and before he can ask what you mean by that, his brain sends him the information he already knows.
He raises his brows, "Shit, it's still needing repairs?"
Your glass-drying motion pauses as you look up at him, "How do you know that?"
"Lucy."
"Oh," You say, because of course- she's the only reason why her sergeant is talking to you right now. "Um...yeah, it's been pretty annoying. Unfortunately, my cute little Euro car is causing me big problems. Need some 'alternator' piece from overseas to be shipped or whatever." You sigh, circling your fingers to the glass's rim, "Uber's are so expensive too."
Tim pauses.
He shouldn't, he really shouldn't.
But...
"Let me drive you home tonight then."
The offer comes unexpectedly and it causes you to shake your head with a dismissive laugh, "That's very kind of you, Sir, but I-"
"Please, I insist." He cuts in, gentle and sure, and he even blesses you with a smile that's small yet effective. "What time do you finish?"
You pick up another wet glass, "I finish at..."
Checking the clock to your right, you find that it reads 9:08PM.
"Oh! In twenty-two minutes."
Tim hums, "Then it's a deal."
You're losing this - you know it - but, still, you persist, "But, Sir-"
"Tim."
You halt.
All confidence shrivels as you stare at him with wide eyes, blinking to the erratic thumps of your heart. And suddenly, the bar's warm lights feel like they're dimming, along with the fading of laughter and chatter amongst the room.
Everything quietens, except for the man who looks right back at you, except for Tim.
It appears just the beckoning of his first name sparks something deep inside of you, lower to where your thighs throb - a sense of enticement...intimacy- if you can even say that in a public place.
You breathlessly stutter, "...What?"
But, Tim's immediately onto it as he sends you a grin at your shaken-up posture, "You can call me Tim. I'm your sister's sergeant, not yours."
"I-" You know your cheeks are reddening to every second that passes by, under pressure to Tim's observation on you. "I can't call you by your first name."
"You absolutely can."
"Can not."
"You can...you will." And as if what he just demanded did nothing to the heating of your core, Tim's smile grows smug as he places his elbows onto the wooden bar, naturally leaning closer to you and ah, there's your floral perfume he often thinks about. "Where's that little firecracker gone anyway? I'm surprised you haven't sworn yet."
You give him a pointed look, playfully yet still tainted by the previous events, "I'm working. Gotta be respectful 'n innocent around here."
Like Tim couldn't make the situation any more suggestive, he finds that he's got more tricks up his sleeves than the usual person.
(Good thing Tim's never considered you under 'the usual', anyway.)
Respectful and innocent.
"Well," Tim shrugs, eyes piercing yours, "Not for long."
And the words hang in the warm air, along with his woody musk after-shave, because you both know he doesn't just mean your shift.
You peer over at the clock.
9:13PM.
"No," You hum, and turn back to him, knowingly-
"Guess not."
You find there's no use fighting whatever angels are trying to persuade you to the good side - the right side. The ones demanding that the car ride was already a bad idea, and inviting Tim into your apartment will be an even worser one.
The drive was quiet, of course- but it was a silence you both could tolerate without feeling like you were being intoxicated in anxiety. Sure, your heart pounded and Tim's knuckles kept whitening around the steering wheel, clenched tight with whatever thoughts filled is brain, but saying nothing was kept at best. The safer option.
Tim's truck was spacious, it smelled clean and was clearly well looked after- a pleasant aroma of fresh leather and Tim's lingering scent from tonight's choice of after-shave.
It didn't surprise you that he was an excellent driver, but damn, was he a sexy one too. With one arm flexing as he gripped the steering wheel, the other glided and circled smoothly around the gear sticks. And while you tried your very best to just fucking focus on what laid ahead of you, your buzzing thoughts were spiralling - revving with every filthy imagery already messing with your head.
And still, even through telling yourself that it's a terrible idea, when you both reached your apartment's door, you looked up at him so invitingly, so needy, and whispered:
"Come in."
Not even a question was deserved in the space- your selfishness couldn't dare to give him that option.
Tim was hesitant at first, clearly his own conscience was battling with him too. But, nonetheless, he agreed.
Now, through the hour that you've sat down with him on your cream couch with a glass of wine in hand, you find that Tim Bradford is an easy conversationalist.
He knows just the right questions to ask you, and the answers he provides are relatable and understanding, all the while he makes himself comfy. You try not to notice, you really do, but it's hard when he's sprawled out on the opposite end of the couch.
His lap is oh so inviting. And with one arm slung casually over the backrest behind you, his long fingers are close - close enough to touch you if you leaned back just a little bit.
What makes the situation even more suffocating is that the conversation has taken a turn- a whole 180° if you must say. Because asking about each other's work lives, passions and drives has morphed into...Tim's relationship troubles.
He didn't mean to bear his problems onto you, God, he wants to speak nothing about himself and everything of you. But, you're just so easy to talk to. And whenever he speaks, you're watching him with such gentle eyes and how your mouth moves as you reassure him feels like you're casting him under your spell. Your hair (loose, but the bobby pin is still there, pinched on some strands above one ear) gets tucked every so often by you behind your ears Tim wishes he could be doing it instead.
The luring of your oblivious actions feels like a haze, a dream, like the meditating white noise of waves crashing against warm sand and more.
Tim's only just getting to the good part of his problems...the sexual ones.
"-and I just don't understand what she wants from me, y'know? I don't know about all that kinky stuff." He's deadly serious when he makes his statement, but when he casts his focus away from the window's picturesque of a perfect Summer's night due to the obnoxious lack of noise from you, he finds you staring back at him with a shit-eating grin.
His grumbled "What?" only breaks your concentration when you burst out in laughter.
"Fuck- sorry!" You try to squeak out in between heavy breaths, though your smile never falters as you try to cover your mouth with the palm of your hand.
"Jesus Christ, you and Lucy are exactly the same." He rolls his eyes before taking another sip of the wine you offered him (He wouldn't say he's a big wine-drinker, but you insisted he have a try and, well, he now can't prove you right but how nice it is to his tastebuds.).
"Oh my God- I'm so sorry," You manage to say after a moment when your breath finally catches up to you. "So she uh- she said she wanted you to tie her up? And you...froze?"
He clenches his hand around his half-empty glass, jaw tightening, "I'm a grown man. I should be able to please my girlfriend."
Let’s be real here. As much as you're having fun listening to Tim struggle to even know that bondage is a serious kink that women like Ashley enjoy, you can't deny the pang of jealousy brewing in your gut covered by your delightful laughter. It's frustrating, knowing a woman like Ashley McGrady has the pleasure of handling a man like Tim Bradford, someone who's adaptability and versatility could make him looked good tying someone up.
Or even better, look good tied up.
Strikingly, an idea hits you just as another splash of wine glides down the back of your throat, and your eyes widen.
It's a bad idea, a terrible one too, and yet, when you pull the glass away from your lips, your lips curve into a smirk.
"How about this-" You start, placing your empty glass onto the glass coffee bench in front of you both. Tim’s gaze never leaves your body as you then stand up, "Follow me."
Tim, ever the confused, knits his brows before he mirrors your motions; placing his also empty glass on the table beside yours and rises from the couch to walk behind you.
And while he shouldn’t, he doesn’t regret noticing your black skirt has hitched, only just kindly covering up your ass.
So focused on the sight in front of him, Tim's baby blues blink rapidly when he looks up, realising that- oh, you've brought him to your bedroom.
You've manoeuvred yourself to the chest of drawers located on the opposite side of the room, rummaging through it for something Tim doesn't know of yet, so, he takes the moment to ground himself to his surroundings.
Your room pretty much describes your whole personality. Not too messy but not neat either- comfy, he could say. Sure, some clothes hang over a neglected chair in the corner, and your makeup has taken it’s dominance across your desk, but it's not like you expected your sister's sergeant to enter your bedroom anyway.
It smells like you too. God damn, every corner of this room smells just like you.
Tim's attention drives away from the jewellery laying on your bed side table on his right when he hears your "Aha!" as you pull out your required necessities.
And when you turn around to show Tim, he swallows nervously.
Two scarves.
"How about I show you how to tie someone up in bed, Sir?"
Tim can only assume you're trying to kill him. That is, of course, before Lucy could kill the both of you herself if she fucking had any idea. But, written in the encouraging smile you show him and the way your eyes squint to his thunderous heart, you are buzzed.
You quickly raise a hand, "Don’t worry! We're not gonna have sex or anything. 'm just showing you how it's done, okay?" You add, and you give him a reasonable second or two to actually wrap his head around the idea.
Tim's never been good at saying no to you, especially not when you've got that sweet smile on your face.
"Okay." He agrees with a breathy exhale, and you grin even wider.
The direction Tim receives on your end is clear when you flick your gaze between him and your bed that presents itself beside the bed-side table, multiple times.
Get on the bed.
He sits himself upright in the middle of the bed, and the mattress beneath his very skin is overwhelmingly soft, plush- and dare he say smells of you also. Not your perfume, but rather the aroma he’s gotten familiar to what you resemble.
It's hot - unbearably hot - despite the air-con working just fine. But, the heat doesn't come from your house, it's coming from you two, and Tim can feel this new profound feeling intoxicating the air and his very veins.
And no amount of Police Penal Codes could get Tim's semi-hard to stay calm.
His breath grows heavier as you drag your eyes over his body before you take a few steps towards him.
The first thing Tim notices is how you’re struggling to maintain eye contact. Then, your own erratic inhales and exhales. Even as you pick his left arm up until his wrist is inline with your white metal headboard, with how close you are to him he can so easily tell that this - whatever the fuck is going on right now - is having the same amount of effect on you as it is him.
Of course it is, your sister's sergeant is in your bed, wrists bound beneath your hands, how couldn't it make your pulse pound in your ears?
His arms are wide with biceps flexing beneath your stare as you tie his wrists to the banister of your bed. Your fingers are gentle as they loop the silk scarves, careful and steady to restrict Tim enough without overt pain.
"Too tight?" You ask, your whisper loud against the tension that seeps between you two.
Tim gives his wrists a little jerk against the bondage, "Not at all," He murmurs, suffocating at the strain in his pains, "It's perfect."
A beat skips your heart.
He's praising you.
You hum, satisfied at your work and his words before you finally lean away from Tim's personal space.
You flatten the hem of your blouse as your eyes begin to scan his body.
His face is tinted red, and his lips are parted- speechless, breathless.
"If it's your first time, you might start to feel a bit claustrophobic due to the exposure of vulnerability…" You move down from his face to the heaving of his chest through his dark henley and his big arms swell to your attention. "…But, once you remind yourself you're in a safe space with someone you trust, you should start to feel-"
You freeze.
Because when you reach Tim's lower half, you find it's hard to miss the bulge in his jeans staring right back at you.
Your pulse quickens and the throbbing in your core only worsens with each second that passes.
"Sir-"
"Don’t." He winces, "Just ignore it. It's nothing."
But it isn't nothing, and you both know it. Even as Tim meets your widened stare with a hunger he's never known you could show, Tim knows it's everything.
You stay still for what feels like ages- clearly the cogs working overtime in your brain to just think. It's a play against morals here, right versus wrong, and your conscience is stressing your mind to do anything but.
Lucy comes to thought even before Ashley. In fact, who the fuck cares about Ashley?
Tim's getting more heated under your gaze, his cock twitching for anticipation and his heart reaching a dangerous patter within his ribcages.
...And then, he feels the shift in the air.
A king tide creeps upon you both, and the ocean just seems way too inviting, too warm, too good to not get a taste. Testing the waters won't do too much damage, right?
You tilt your head.
"Can I help?"
Tim grits his teeth- his resistance is wearing thin.
"We both know you shouldn't."
"Oh, I'm aware, Sir." You nervously chuckle, eyes flickering around Tim's hardened bulge, to the pleading in his baby blues, and his wrists- so nicely restricted.
Tim inhales, shaking his head, "Lucy will never forgive me if she finds out we-"
"Lucy isn't here right now." You take a step closer, a certainty overpowering the nerves in your voice. Then, you graciously sit right beside him and exhale, "What she doesn't know, won't hurt her, Tim."
He falters.
You called him Tim.
"I-" He opens his mouth to speak, but any words he could have said - should have said - never pass.
So, he shuts himself up, and you smile. Then, with the gentleness of your right hand, you trail your fingers up from his trembling chest to the blush on his cheeks, cupping one side of his face so you can get a real good look at him.
You lean closer, his breath heavy against your own.
"You can have me tonight, Sir- just this once."
His stubble tickles your palm as Tim lets out an exhale, lids fluttering to the warmth of your hand and your familiar voice. It all feels so good; your touch, your bed, your breath, and you're saying all the right words regardless of if you're being honest or feeding into this forbidden illusion.
Good thing Tim Bradford knows you too well to even assume the latter.
Tim doesn't respond verbally, finding that his need to fight whatever control he should have around you is lacking.
Because rather than stopping in that instant, he, instead, gives his consent with his lips when they touch yours.
He kisses you with every ache of his heart and swell in his cock, providing you with an intensity that makes you gasp into the kiss. And while his lips are soft and tender, they're experienced too- so every now and then, his tongue will graze against your own, and he'll be unsurprised but filled with pride when it makes you sigh.
He's hungry, you're quick to analyse. Because every time his mouth glides with yours, it's becoming more heated. More rough. More needy. But, you can't pull away, God no, he feels too good and tastes so fucking nice to move from it.
You do, however, need to fix both his and your problem soon...now.
So, with your free hand, you begin to trace your digits ever so slowly to where Tim needs you the most.
You dance around the outline, your index teasing the shape of his cock through the fabric. Tim's groans into the kiss, followed by a small buck of his hips to meet the featherlight touch of your hand.
You don't tease for long. Clearly, the months that have boiled between you two were enough of - what you may call - 'edging'.
You retreat your hand from Tim's blazed face to assist with the other, all fingers taking their role as you blindly undo his jeans' button, and the zip that tends to come after. And, yet, you're still kissing him generously, and he's breathless. It's like you're a fucking siren stealing his air with the magic of your lips.
The headboard rattles with each pull of his bound wrists.
"Please," Tim rasps out, strain in his eyes as he looks down at you, "Don't tease me."
You know Sergeant Tim Bradford too well that with his class and authority, he doesn't do much pleading, nor begging either. And while him yearning may be the hottest thing he's ever said and done to you (yet), you grant his wishes and decide to not leave it any longer.
One hand tugs his boxers down just enough that you can freely take his stiff cock with the other.
Fuck, you don't even need to look at it to know he's big.
Finally pulling away from the kiss, you send Tim a heavy-eyed look before you lower yourself down onto the bed, licking your lips until you're situated between his thighs and staring at his throbbing cock your hand wraps itself around. Then, you take the first lick, your tongue darting out to trace the vein beneath, starting from the base to the head of him.
Tim moans, his own hands balling into fists as you then take the head into your mouth.
"Oh, fuck."
Your mouth, pleasant and gentle, vibrates against his cock when you let out a hum, and you begin to take more of him. You glide his pulsating cock deeper along the bed of your tongue as your saliva wets the surroundings and shit, this feels like heaven.
You open your eyes, searching for Tim's face in the midst of your tongue exploring every vein and space on his cock.
Only to find that Tim's staring right back at you.
So, without missing a second of eye contact, you take him even further until you can feel his tip pressing against the back of your throat. And you watch with pride when Tim groans, wrists fighting against the restraints as he throws his head back. You take it a step further when you begin to suck him, the motion of bobbing up and down on him, and you watch with fucking delight as that breaks him.
"Oh my god, baby-" He first rasps out breathily, Adam's apple bobbing to your vision before he drops his head down, eyes closed and lips parted in pure bliss, "So fucking good, holy shit."
There's something about Tim calling you 'baby' that has your core leaking more arousal than normal, and enticing you even more to move faster.
His stream of filth only worsens over time as you continue to suck him, regardless of the hair that gets in your way or the spit that rolls down the length of his cock every time you take him in. He's already leaking generously from the amount of worked-up tension he's endured during tonight...the last few weeks...months, fuck, it's all coming to the now and my, does his pre-come coat your mouth.
You decide to pull his length out just enough until it's only his tip left in the heat of your mouth, and that's where you give your whole-hearted attention. Swirling your tongue around the head and licking his frenulum earns you another gravelled moan from Tim, another "That's it, baby" from his panting lips. One hand twists around the neglected length to the rhythm that your head moves atop, while your other hand snakes it's way beneath his henley, taking it's own route to scout his stone-hard chest.
Tim wouldn't have been surprised if you could feel the pounding of his heart, either.
Your touch is tender, and he can't help but shiver beneath your nails when you rake them down, down until they're below his belly button- and you do it again.
Then, you pull a specific move on him.
You direct the motion of his cock to hit the top of your mouth; your palate, and in doing so, you twist your head so your tongue can dance itself around him.
He goes as you expected: Fucking feral.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" He curses out, mouth drawn open as he shakes to the arousal coursing through his veins. And God damn does he hate these restraints because all he wants to do is grip your head with his large hands and fuck himself into you.
"Doing so good f'me, aren't you?" To which you look up, and your batted eyelashes tell him more than enough that you're enjoying this, you really are.
To suck your sister's sergeant while he's tied up in your bed? Please, who could top that?
So, it doesn't take too long after that you then start to hear the change in Tim's breath- once stable and steady now imbalanced and heavy. Low grunts and groan escaping his throat as you continue to drag him closer to his orgasm him with the power of your lips and hands.
That is, until-
"Wait, sweetheart- stop."
...You halt.
Immediately, you stop your actions, mouth lifting off his wet warmth as you lift your head up to his blown-wide ones- not a blue spark to be seen.
A deep rumbling forms in your gut.
Anxiety- you know it too well. You can already picture it, him shaking his head as he says that this was all a big mistake, and that he can't betray Lucy like this.
You're too young, too sweet, too-
"Did I do something wrong?" It comes out rather heartbreaking than concerned, your voice pitched with dread when you pull away from his lower half, kneeling up so your levelled to him.
Tim must sense it too, because he quickly widens his eyes, "No! God no, doll, you did nothing wrong," Reassuringly, he curves the edges of his lips between each exhales he puffs out, "You were amazing- are amazing, and I really want you to keep going..."
...But...
"But, I want to fuck you when I cum."
...Oh.
"Oh," You whisper out, as well.
And, once again, heat runs quickly down to where your core throbs, and you find that any dirty fantasy you've ever had of your sister's sergeant doesn't live up to the reality of this at all.
Tim chuckles, low and gravelly, and his cock twitches when you let go- only to inhale sharply as you begin to crawl your way over to his lap, both legs finding comfort on either side of his hips as your clothed pussy sits... ah, directly on top of his teased cock.
You're soft, and warm, and Tim's might start going crazy if he doesn't get his hands on you right now.
"Can you please take these scarves off?" He asks, "Wanna touch you so badly. 'm dying over here."
At the mention of the restraints, you dart your sight quickly at the way he's still flexing his fists and back to his pleading eyes.
You giggle, planting a kiss to his lips, "Of course. Did you like them?"
Tim leans lower, mouth moving to press kisses into your neck as you begin to free him, "They were great." He adds one onto your jaw, "But, I can't not touch you either-" Another ones goes to your chin before he looks up at you, "-would be awfully rude, hey?"
You peer down, heart thumping against the close proximity with a hush, "So, very rude, Sir."
Tim groans- how many times have you gotten him hard by calling him that?
In the fleeting moment that Tim feels the loosening of the scarves on his wrists has him immediately drawing himself away from them, and like predator to prey, Tim takes the dominance from now.
You gasp at the sudden embrace when Tim pulls you in for another clashing kiss- a kiss that's overpowered by hunger infiltrating his large hands where one grips the back of your neck. The other, in question, cups your ass, and whatever black fabric was still barely covering it has been shied away by the touch of his fingers.
His grip is firm but not painful, and you like it.
His lips are brutal too, biting your bottom lip every so often just to make his heart swirl at your vocal responses.
With his fingers tangling themselves onto the root of your hair, the other hand on your ass guides your body to gently rock against his cock. Your underwear only creates more friction between your aching clit and him, so every glide has the both of you moaning into each other's mouths.
"Fuck," You whimper against him, hips stuttering as you grind in rhythm to another thrust from him, "Sir-"
"Feels good, huh?" He retreats his face, only to peck your jawline and his arms manoeuvre until he's reached the front of you. Then, he begins to blindly unbutton your blouse, "Want you so bad, baby."
You continue to rub yourself on him, knowing too well that you've created a fucking mess in your wet underwear. "You have me," And your palms plant themselves on his shoulders as you create more space in your neck for him to attack, "You have all of me, Sir."
He does, and that's what's so fucking wrong.
Because while you should've known better, he should've known better than you that he's gonna hurt your feelings.
Because of your age, because of Lucy, Hell, because he's got a girlfriend he's yet to leave.
Tim doesn't let it get to him in the heat of the moment- he won't let his conscience to ruin what you've given him. So, he allows the thoughts to marble within your heavy breathing and the sweat on your neck until they fade to nothing once he reaches the release of the last button.
Beneath lays a black, laced bra- simple, but effective. Tim peels your blouse from your arms and when bra follows too, he doesn't hesitate.
He quickly leans in, capturing one nipple into the heat of his mouth in which his lips suck around it. You let your mouth fall agape, eyes fluttering in bliss as your nipples harden both from the arousal seeping around your body and the cool air it's exposed to. Even so when he keeps your other breast occupied with the large palm of his hand, circling and pinching until you're writhing.
"Tim," You huff. Ah, there's his name on your tongue. "Please, I want you to fuck me."
"I know, sweet girl," He murmurs against your bud, switching sides as he presses a kiss to the next nipple. "But I gotta get you ready, though."
A breathy laugh escapes your throat as you clasp your fingers around his head, bringing him even closer to your breasts, "I've been ready since you lock-picked my door. I think we've passed foreplay."
Tim lifts off your nipple, wide eyes immediately reaching for yours.
"Since then?"
You tilt your head, a grin edging your lips, "'f course. I literally was about to risk kissing you in front of my sister."
Tim gives himself a second for his brain to playback the memory that constantly runs within his dreams.
The heated tension. Heavy breaths. Tight proximity. So close but so fucking far.
"Yeah," He mumbles, a ghost of a smile wearing on him as he trails his fingers down from your breasts to then hoist your skirt up until it's scrunched around your waist. "That's right."
"Exactly, so..." You look down at his digits that are just reaching your ruined underwear, "Fuck me. Right now."
Tim chuckles, looking up with lidded-eyes as his index finger hooks to swipe the fabric to the outside of your outer labia, "You are in no position to be in charge here, baby."
You squirm, his intrusion foreign but welcoming, nonetheless. "I had you tied up...ten minutes ago."
"You're right. But-" He glides his finger through the wet of your folds, "I don't think you're complaining about me taking the lead..." He cocks his head to the side, "...Are you?"
Your breath hitches, tightening your pelvic so he has more space to move his fingers as he explores from your clit to the leaking of your hole, "No, Sir."
"Good." Tim hums, pushing his finger further until he's at your entrance, "Gonna stretch you out first, baby, okay?"
He doesn't need your response, not like you're fit to even speak anyway when he inserts his first finger inside you.
Tim's hands are fucking delicious and one is already feeling rather filling, pumping inside your wet walls slowly but deeply, and it has you acting out. Your hands hold onto his shoulders for well-needed support while your mouth spills whatever comes out of it; moans, gasps, whispers of incoherence stuffing your bedroom.
And despite totally not have the position of authority here (Please, a sergeant is fingering you, what power do you have?), still, your eyes challenge Tim's as you continue to look back at him, despite the flicker in your lashes begging you to just close them. But the way Tim's staring at you with dark eyes like you're unreal, like you're his obsession? Yeah, how could you miss that?
"You're somethin' else, sweetheart," He murmurs, taking his middle finger to join in on the mess, "God damn, just look at you- all wet and ruined, haven't even fucked you yet."
The mention of him burying his cock deep inside you has you dragging out a moan, just in time for his two fingers to starting thrusting into you. And, hey, if you think well enough, his fingers might just do the job replacing his cock.
You do think about it, because as Tim continues to finger you...you begin to move yourself up and down on them.
"Holy-" The sentence is uncompleted by your breath hitching in approval, and your greed overrides whatever self-control was leftover within you as you begin to bounce it.
"That's it, baby," He coaxes, low and rough, burying his fingers knuckle-deep into you, "Use my fingers."
The motion is too good, way too good that you know you'll be dreaming about this the moment this night shared selfishly between you and Tim ends and you're laying in bed helpless and exhausted. Especially when you're unable to sleep by the twists and turns on your pillow and blankets, and your fingers are the only thing able to tire you out.
Oh, you most certainly will be thinking about fucking yourself on Tim's fingers.
Tim didn't know he could get harder than what he is right now. It's painful, actually, wishing nothing than to pound into your wet warmth but...Jesus, this is nice to watch. Your neediness taking him even more as you let your hips do all the work, and God, if you're fucked-out just by the length of his two fingers, well, Tim can't wait until he replaces them with his cock.
When Tim doesn't let his fingers down from your entrance, you continue to take from him. And, finally, you shut your eyes- not because you can't handle Tim's eyes devouring you, no. But because you might actually cum from this.
It's a truth you're surprised to even accept, considering he hasn't even fingered you for long. But, with his pace fastening and your longing need to be fingered by Sergeant Bradford for ages being satisfied right now, your excitement is helping you to reach your orgasm- quickly.
"Oh my God, Sir-" You squeak out amongst the heaving of your breath, half-open gaze locking onto his dilated pupils as your hips continue to meet his fingers, "Fuck- 'm close."
It's music to Tim's ears, and his cock twitches, "That so, hey?"
You nod rapidly, "Please, please keep going."
Tim smirks. Like he'd ever be mean enough to take your pleasure away from you.
But he does help you get there when his thumb lightly touches your clit. Circles he isn't so sure he's making due to the ruthlessness of both of your motions, but he does graze it every time your pussy meets his knuckles.
"Oh," You let out and your toes curl, "O-Oh, shit."
"That better for you, doll?" Tim already knows the answer, smirk growing more smug at the sight of your concentrated face, eyes squinting that bit more at the new sensation added to your other ones.
Still, you answer, "Mhm, don't stop- please don't stop, Sir."
Your pleads don't go to deaf ears, and Tim leans in to kiss your collarbone, murmuring against your skin, "I won't."
He takes his promise seriously; kissing your chest and neck while he fucks his fingers into you and rubs your clit. And soon enough, he hears the loud hitch in your breath as you arch yourself into him and grasp onto his hair, fisting your hands through whatever strands beckon to you.
Tim wishes he could've seen it- how your face would've scrunched up as your mouth would hang open, letting out moan after moan. But fuck, feeling you shaking and clenching around his fingers is just as good too.
He lets you ride the remainder of your orgasm, tremors lessening in intensity and your breath simmering to something...tolerable, but still underlined with a need for more. Tim reluctantly pulls his fingers out of your warmth, ignoring whatever cramps ache in his fingertips and focusing more on you.
You, whose cheeks are flushed pink, and lips panting heavily, catching onto whatever oxygen is left floating around you two. You, with eyes only just starting to wake up to meet his own.
You're glowing from sweat and sex, and Tim can't help himself but to capture your mouth into another kiss. It's slow this time- reassuring, reminding you that he's here, that you're alright.
And just like the good girl you are, you reciprocate.
He never knew one's kisses could taste so sweet, whether that be the wine still lingering or just you in general, but it's enough to get Tim drunk on you. And while sensualness and contentment are easy to feel in this moment while Tim's hands graze down to your waist and yours are moving to cup his face, remorse is hard to wither away too.
In fact, it's getting stronger by the minute. An intense feeling of guilt tip-toes five steps behind from you two the longer you leave it hanging.
Still, despite everything going against him, Tim pushes it all to the side when he guides you to rock against his hardness again, and with your pussy now bare on him, it's so much better than last time. You like it too, sensing it by the small moans you exhale with each breath, your arousal wetting his length from base to tip.
The kiss is growing heated. More teeth clashing. More saliva. More tongue. More heat.
"Tim," You puncture him out of his thoughts, his name blissful against both of your heavy breaths, "Tim."
"Mmm?" He hums, pecking the corner of your lips as he squeezes your ass.
You don't waste a second to tell him what you want, and exactly what he wanted to hear.
"I want you."
Tim growls. He ruts yourself onto his cock again, "Jesus- anything for you, baby." And for a split second, his embrace leave yours. That is, of course, to match your lack of clothing as he pulls his henley off.
Your eyes rake his body, bare and naked- the one usually hidden beneath the uniform. And sure, you could feel how rock-hard he was as you sucked him. But to see the tone of his chest in front of you?
"Sir," Is your pleased response to his bare chest's reception, and Tim chuckles.
And in the spare moment of silence, you two help each other remove the remaining of whatever clothes are left on. Then, he gives you one last kiss to your agape lips before brushing his fingertips lower and lower until he reaches the curves of your ass. With a shuffle for comfort, Tim wraps his hands around his cock, and you're hovering just enough to allow the tip to tease your entrance.
Your next few heartbeats quicken as you look down at Tim-
-Only to find he's looking back at you. Hungry, needy, breathless.
You allow gravity to do it's work when you lower yourself until the head is inside you.
The first initial contact is electrifying.
It feels better than any messed up dream you've ever had of your sister's sergeant.
...And you feel fucking full already.
Holy shit.
"Oh my god." You choke out.
Tim immediately clocks onto the strain of your voice, a wave of concern, "You okay, pretty girl?"
"You're-" You furrow your brows, pushing through the stretch as you sink yourself more, trying to accept every thickness of him. "-massive. I'm...fuck, it's too much."
Your forehead meets Tim's shoulder- it's all too overwhelming; the room feels just that bit stuffier, and Tim's hands are hot against your ass, your breath isn't catching right and he's too. Fucking. Big.
"Oh." ...Does he take that as a compliment? "Okay, okay. Let me help, baby."
You're nearly there, only a couple more inches until you're at the bottom, but, Tim takes the lead from there.
Once he bends his knees to gain support, Tim firms his hands beneath your glutes as he holds you against gravity's push. Then, he's ever so gently and slowly lifting his hips, his cock moving up into you through each exhale Tim hears you shakily let out on his skin. And while your nails dig into his sides, and he's surprised by the occasional bite from your teeth into your skin, it all morphs from pain to pleasure.
It only takes a few more other breaths until you're finally buried deep into him. There, he allows some time for you to adjust to his size inside your wet, welcoming warmth.
God, you feel so good. But, Tim can be patient, and he will be just for you.
Though, the second that you lift your head off his shoulder and sigh out a "You can move." Well, Tim's never been happier.
His first thrust is careful and deliberate - a slow grind of his hips as he meets inside of you again - but, it still has your lashes fluttering and your mouth parting into a gasp.
Tim can't help but think about how mesmerising you are right now; the sounds you're making like a siren's calling, the glide of your warm fingers gripping his shoulders, your hair loose around your face with strands that fall forward.
Tim doesn't stop himself, because as he thrusts in again, he's lifting one hand to reach out and tuck your hair behind your ears.
"You're so pretty," Tim murmurs, moving his hips again to push his cock inside you again, "so fucking beautiful."
You stutter. Not just from how Tim's cock is hitting your walls at a perfect angle at a teasingly slow pace, but also because...he called you pretty?
The compliment hits you hard, blush raising to your cheeks and God it's getting hard to think when he keeps fucking himself up into you, "You can't..." You moan as he drives his thick length inside you, "that's not fair. You can't say that while you're fucking me."
"Sure I can," He responds, a glint to his baby blues as he begins to fasten his thrusts, "You think I'm lying?"
You shake your head with a swallow, "No, Sir." And your exhale comes out rather erratic when you feel his cock coming into you quicker than before, and the beat of your heart is following his pace. "Just...you're gonna make it harder to leave after this."
There it is. The truth.
Lucy. Ashley. Everything.
Tim's hips falter at your words.
He's trying- he really is, trying to avoid the painful truth of this all. Because as much as you two won't want to stop this, Lucy Chen will never forgive him or you for this once it's been told. It's no use fighting it either, lying to Lucy about fucking her little sister is something that can't be swept beneath shallow waters. Tim Bradford would never forgive himself if he had to work with Lucy everyday with guilt overriding his thoughts because he selfishly couldn't admit his wrongdoings.
"Yeah," But despite the sigh that comes out, he continues his thrusts, "I'm sorry, baby."
You don't plan on stopping either, instead, offering him a comforting smile and a kind kiss to his lips, "Don't apologise, we'll figure it out later. For now though..." You look down, overtly studying how his length moves in and out of you with attentive measures, "I want us to fuck. Hard."
And any thoughts of 'figuring it out later' are thrown ashore.
Because fucking you hard sounds a lot better than emotional conversations.
So, Tim takes that for his cue to quicken his pace, pounding in and out of you to the point that both of your mouths fall open.
"Shit," You shakily breathe out, nails scratching his shoulders as you listen to the squelching of your juices with every thrust, leaking down his length. Then, because your greed is far predominant that anything else, your hips move just once to meet with his cock as it drives into you.
You both moan.
"Fuck, baby," Tim curses out, feeling you swallow him whole, "Keep going."
With his orders, you obey and do it again, and he allows you to change the rhythm so you're both moving at the same time.
The room is getting filthier- the loud slapping of skin on skin, the bed creaking with an intense warning of snapping, and the heavy breaths that heat your bedroom.
But, amongst all the noise, Tim still hears your quiet whimper of his name from your pretty lips.
He groans, even your name is enough to get him fucking aroused.
"Fuck, pretty girl, ride me," He encourages you with the tilt of your ass, squeezing with excitement, "You can take it."
You nod, bracing yourself more as you allow your hands to feel supported by the strength of his broad shoulders. You give it your all, bouncing and grinding down on him with eagerness and hunger, and every time you bury yourself with his cock, your clit drags against his base for friction.
"Oh my god," You moan, shutting your eyes with how good it feels, how full you are.
"Doing so well, sweetheart." He whispers out, gripping your ass tighter as his hips roll up into you, "Fuckin' Hell, just look at you."
You open yours eyes and smile to his praise, despite your thighs burning and your hair all messed up with your bobby pin lost somewhere in it. But you can't stop now, won't stop. Not when Tim's eyes are staring into you with blow-out pupils and shining with intimacy, and not when the stretch is making your toe curls and the spot his cock hits inside you feels so amazing.
And he's helping you too, God, he's helping you out as you ride him. He's moved one hand to your lower back while one has gone to your hips, keeping the rhythm alive and in beat to your breaths and his thrusts so you get the most of it all- the depth, the stretch.
Then, you feel it.
The pressure brews within you, swirling with a feverish it's hard to miss when every bounce on his cock.
"Sir," You exhale sharply, "Sir, I'm close."
"Good." He answers with another roll of his hips, feeling his own orgasm reaching, "Good, baby. Me too."
It's too much, way too much. You throw your head back as you close our eyes again, your climax building dangerously with every second that passes that you concentrate on it.
Tim stutters when his baby blues can't find yours, only the exposure of your throat. So, with a soft embrace, his palm grounds itself to the frame of your jaw.
"Please," His voice is gravelly and raw and your eyes immediately flutter open and your attention moves to look back down at his, "Look at me when you come."
You widen your gaze, vision blurring and blown wide. Then, you quickly nod, "I will. I will. 'm so close."
"I know, baby," And he leans forward to kiss your swollen lips, "You can do it."
That's when you feel the shake in your thighs and the tremble in your body. With the pressure tightening, you hold tightly onto Tim's shoulders.
Then, it all snaps.
With a broken sob, you feel wave upon wave of your orgasm, and the way your pussy clenches around Tim's cock and your eyes that roll to the back of your head - struggling to maintain eye contact - has his own climax encouraging to follow.
"Fuck, fuck," He grunts, pulsing inside you with his own spill as he chases his own crash before he's burying you to the hilt with a final thrust.
...You both collapse.
Catching breath after breath has never felt so hard- drowning in sweat and ecstasy and fucking guilt. But, you place a bandaid over your emotions when your body yearns for his embrace.
You rest your forehead against Tim's sweaty shoulder, and he mirrors your actions too, hands reaching around your waist. Both of you trace splashes of aimless patterns on each other's backs, lengthening time you know you'll never get back.
But, it's comforting, soothing, and it's quiet.
He's still inside you.
You're still on top of him.
There's no use talking. Not right now, at least.
Your heart is still hammering, though not from the intense level of intimacy you and Tim just displayed to each other.
You know this is different because it's about the inconclusive depths of the ocean- the fear of the unknown. What happens from now on is something you aren't too sure you're ready to even explore.
But, for what you do know, Tim's body is nice to hold and his aroma still lingers within yours. His chest rises and falls between your own like a gentle swell of the tide, steady and deep.
And the both of you find that if you stay still enough, if you hold your breaths enough, maybe the world can stop in this moment too.
i’m so so sorry bc i started writing this on the day you sent the ask and this has been in my drafts for like two months for no good reason 😭 hopefully you find this anon!
the quietest morning 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
warnings: fluff, the feels, dad bucky is an absolute sweetheart, who just loves his wife and daughter so fucking much. wc: around 2k
bucky always woke up first. it wasn’t even something he tried to do anymore. it was just the way his body moved, wired to the rhythm of mornings long before either of his girls even stirred.
he lay there for a long moment, head turned toward the little figure sprawled between you both. your daughter slept with her cheek pressed to the pillow, one tiny hand curled into a fist under her chin, the other flung wide as though she’d claimed the bed as her empire.
he just couldn’t help but smile. he’d never imagined mornings like this. definitely not after everything he’d gone through.
but here she was, her soft hair sticking up in six different directions, her lips parted in the deepest sleep, and you, still under the blanket, your face turned toward her.
he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. the two of you, his whole world.
a rustle beside him made his eyes dart back down. she shifted, her small nose scrunching before her lashes fluttered against her cheeks.
and there it was— that tiny hiccup of breath she always made right before waking, like her dreams were reluctantly letting her go.
he saw it happening in real time, the stirring that always came a minute before the real waking. he moved quickly, sliding his arm under her tiny body before she could fully rouse and wake you too.
she was warm, heavy in the way only sleeping children could be, as he gathered her into his chest.
she smelled like baby shampoo and the faint sweetness of last night’s strawberries, and for a second he just held her there, face buried in her hair, breathing her in like she was the only clean thing left in the world.
“dada,” she was barely audible, the word thick with sleep. her first word of the day, which had also been the first word of her life.
“shh,” he whispered against her hair, pressing a kiss there. “mama’s still sleeping, baby. let’s let her rest, hmm?”
she gave a soft hum, head dropping against his shoulder, and he carried her out of the room with the utmost care.
her weight always surprised him. how could someone so small feel like the heaviest thing he has evercarried?
heavier than steve after a mission gone south, heavier than the shield when it wasn’t his to carry, heavier than all the ghosts he still woke up swinging at some nights.
it just surprised him sometimes that he gets to have her as his daughter.
in the bathroom, she blinked awake more fully, eyes squinting up at the harsh light. he set her on the step stool that had been wedged under the sink just for her and reached for her tiny toothbrush. the pink one she’d picked it out herself.
he crouched down to her level, knees popping like an old man’s, and watched her tongue poke out in concentration.
“alright, c’mon,” he coaxed, handing it to her. “little circles, just like we practiced.”
her small hand wrapped clumsily around the handle, and she shoved it into her mouth without much ceremony.
he watched with amused patience as she wiggled the brush, half-hearted at best.
she was mostly chewing on it, if he was being honest. but fine, it was close enough for him.
“that’s good. keep going,” he encouraged. “gotta make those teeth shine. show me.. aah.. big smile.”
she pulled the toothbrush out and beamed at him, foam dripping from her lip. her two front teeth had a tiny gap he was secretly obsessed with. he was going to be devastated when they falll out.
bucky chuckled. “that’s my girl. alright, back in, finish it up.”
it took a little more coaxing from him, but eventually she spit into the sink with dramatic effort, missing the drain entirely.
he sighed but also laughed, wiping her mouth with a tissue. but she just giggled, like she was proud of herself. she had your laugh, the same bright and unapologetic laugh, the kind that started in her belly and burst out like she couldn’t contain it. every time he heard it he felt like he’d won something.
by the time they made it to the kitchen, she was more awake, clinging to his arm with one small hand. he set her on the counter, right where he could see her, and tied an apron around his waist.
“you hungry?” he was now pulling pans from the cabinet.
“mhm.” she nodded keenly.
“what are we making?” he asked, like she had a choice in the matter. he’d already pulled eggs from the fridge.
“cake.” just cake, of course.
bucky grinned, cracking an egg into the pan. “cake, huh? first thing in the morning?”
she nodded like it was obvious, as if he was the dumb one for even asking clarification. “yeah.” her little voice carried so much certainty, as though she didn’t see the flaw in her logic at all.
he tapped the spoon against the edge of the bowl, glancing over at her. “you gonna tell mama we ate cake for breakfast?”
her brow furrowed, like she was weighing it out. then, she shook her head solemnly, “secret.”
she even put a sticky finger to her lips, shushing him with all the gravity of a toddler who definitely planned to sell him out the second you walked in.
he bit back a laugh. “good. it’s our secret.”
he would last approximately thirty seconds before he’d tell you himself.
he handed her a slice of apple while the eggs cooked, watching her gnaw on it with dedication. she chewed for a long while before declaring, “it’s crunchy.”
“mm, it is. that’s how you know it’s fresh.”
she chewed and swallowed, then held the rest of the slice out toward him. “wanna bite?”
his heart swelled, and he just leaned forward to take a small bite from her hand. she giggled when the juice dribbled down his chin. he let it stay there longer than necessary, just to hear her laugh again.
her laugh is always always worth it.
“daddy, you’re messy.”
“yeah, yeah,” he muttered, wiping it with the back of his hand, though his lips were curved the entire time.
while he moved around the kitchen, flipping eggs and pulling toast from the toaster, she narrated in broken little sentences, her own brand of little commentary.
“hot.” she pointed at the stove.
“very hot. that’s why you don’t touch it.”
she nodded seriously, like she was filing it away in her little head. “i won’t touch.”
“that’s right.”
she kicked her little feet where they dangled from the counter. “i can help?”
“you’re already helping,” he told her. “keeping me company.”
truth was, he needed her there. needed the running commentary and the sticky fingers and the way she looked at him like he hung the moon even when he burned the toast.
when the food was nearly done, she lifted her head suddenly, her little eyes narrowing toward the doorway. her hand smacked against his arm, urgency behind it. “mama.”
bucky turned his head, frown forming. “mama’s sleeping, baby. we’ll wake her up when we—”
“no no, dada,” she insisted, still pointing. “mama.”
her radar was uncanny. she could sense you from three rooms away like a bloodhound with separation anxiety.
and there you were, standing in the doorway. you leaned against the frame, watching the two of them.
your hair was a disaster, one of bucky’s old army t-shirts hanging off your shoulder, and you were still half-asleep, but god, you were beautiful. he forgot how to breathe for a second, like he did every morning.
you leaned there drinking it in, afraid to move and shatter whatever fragile magic let you witness them like this—bucky soft and laughing, your baby glowing like she’d swallowed the sun, the two of them like some small world you’d stumbled into instead of built yourself.
bucky’s gaze softened at the sight of you. he hadn’t realized how badly he wanted you there until he saw you. his morning already felt full, but with you standing there it became whole.
he needed to remember this exact moment. the light, the noise, the smell of slightly burnt toast. but above all, you two.
he still woke up some mornings convinced it had all been a dream. that he’d open his eyes and be back in a cryo chamber or a hydra cell or worse—alone. then he’d feel tiny hands smacking his face demanding “up, daddy, upppy” and know it was real.
“hey,” your voice brought him back, it was still rough from sleep, but warm with affection.
your little girl nearly toppled off the counter in her rush to point harder, bouncing where she sat. “mama! mama!”
you laughed, crossing the room. “i see you, baby.”
bucky turned back to the stove briefly, trying to disguise the tug in his chest. but he couldn’t resist. when you reached them, he bent just slightly, brushing his hand over your back in greeting before focusing on the eggs again.
“she spotted you first,” he murmured. “didn’t even give me a chance.”
“well, you were occupied,” you kissed the top of your daughter’s head before reaching out to stroke her cheek. “good morning, sweetie.”
your babygirl leaned into your touch, “mama sleeps long.”
“yeah? did daddy wake you early?”
bucky smirked without looking up. “volunteered herself. said we needed cake for breakfast.”
you raised a brow, shooting him a look. “cake?”
“shh,” he tossed her a wink that made her giggle all over again. “that was supposed to be a secret.” like he didn’t just out it himself.
you settled against the counter beside your daughter, and leaned your hip against the cabinet, and just watched. the way his shoulders moved under the thin t-shirt, the careful way he flipped the eggs so they wouldn’t break, the way he kept one eye on your daughter at all times like she might vanish if he blinked.
there was something almost unbearably domestic about the sight of him moving through the kitchen, his voice gentle as he coaxed another bite of fruit between her tiny fingers.
it was a soft sort of ache, the kind you could live in forever. it made you reach across and brush his arm as he passed you the plate, a silent thanks.
your fingers lingered on the warm skin of his forearm, tracing the raised scars you knew by heart. he leaned into the touch without thinking, the way he always did now—like your hands were the only ones allowed to map the damage.
“go on,” he told your daughter, lifting her down from the counter carefully. “sit with mama. breakfast’s ready.”
she scampered off, clambering onto a chair with difficulty before tugging at your hand until you too sat beside her.
then without preamble, she climbed into your lap instead of her own chair, sticky fingers immediately in your hair, narrating the entire morning like you hadn’t just witnessed most of it.
bucky set the plates down, sliding into the chair across from you.
“toast is crunchy,” she announced, holding it up like evidence. lately everything has been crunchy to her. she’d started ranking foods by crunchiness. apples were a ten. bananas were “zero crunchy, very yuck.”
“best kind of toast,” bucky replied.
he was eating his own toast plain because she likes hers with extra butter. he didn’t even complain. just watched her with that soft look that made you want to climb across the table and kiss him stupid.
bucky leaned back eventually, stretching his legs under the table so they brushed against yours. his eyes flicked from you to your daughter, lingering in a way that made your chest squeeze.
you felt the weight in his gaze. the way he looked at her, then at you, like he was still waiting for someone to snatch it all away. you wanted to tell him it was safe now, that he didn’t have to keep bracing for loss, but the words got caught in your throat. instead you pressed your foot against his under the table, hoping he’d feel it and understand.
he would.
his hand found your knee under the table, thumb tracing absent circles through your pajama pants. a silent conversation in touches
he still didn’t believe it some days. still waited for the other shoe to drop, for someone to come take it all away. but then your daughter would smear jam on his metal fingers and demand he “make it go brrr” like a robot, and you’d laugh with your mouth full of coffee, and he’d think—maybe this time the universe would let him keep something good.
this was everything he’d ever wanted. and he gets to have it forever.
The first time Superman meets a telepath and nearly gets his secret revealed.
cw: 18+, smut, situationships, mutant telepath!reader, flirty teasing/banter, f!receiving oral, clark eats her out while talking to her through her mind-reading ability, movie content is mentioned, but not big spoilers (2.3k wc)
Jimmy was halfway rambling to Clark when you peer in from the receptionist area.
"You're here! Give me one second. Let me brief Perry and we'll go." He's fumbling around for his files, throwing a quick, "keep her company for me, Kent!" over his shoulder.
Clark is momentarily taken. You were radiant in a way that made everyone do a double take. Not particularly because of what you were wearing, but because you were carrying an easy, carefree warmth that seemed out of place in an office that was caffeine-run.
Definitely not the sort of girl anyone would assume Jimmy Olsen hung out with.
He offers you a tight smile, as he stands, about to introduce himself when your hand extends out, palm down, wrist tilted. A princess shake. Clark takes a second, and awkwardly grabs both your hand to shake your hand. The sheer size of him has you craning your neck all the way up, eyes widening a fraction.
"I've…heard that you're a pretty good help to Olsen." He begins, watching as you retreat your hand with an intrigued quirk of your brow. "Says you're something of a mind freak."
You frown immediately. Tucking your hair behind your ears and looking around for Olsen. It's clear he's lost your attention. "He calls me a freak?"
"No! Gosh no, something like, you know…a mentalist of sorts." The man seems flustered, and his attention draws to the commotion outside. You tip your head back, squinting to see a plume of smoke and shrieks from afar.
Your don't pay much attention to it. Except, you hear something.
(Crud. Doesn't look like a fire. Could be an explosion?)
You turn your head to look around, pin pointing the source of the thought. Then, another one —
(Need to get there before the second floor collapses.)
Clark's grabbing at his bag, not quite looking at you. And finally, he says out loud this time, "Uh — I have something to tend to."
"Like stopping that building from collapsing."
His eye twitches. "What…do you mean?"
(She can't possibly know, can she?)
"You're Superman." You affirm. With a bemused grin.
Clark hand snaps out around your mouth immediately. You're muffling your giggles against it before he's grabbing and pivoting you out of the bullpen and into the fire escape stairways.
He turns you into the the rusty & rain-scented stairwell. Cornering you close enough for your back to hit the wall. You're still muffling your laughter over his palm — not because you were scared, but because he was trying to hide what you already knew.
"Who sent you?"
You leaned back, licking a strip up his palm. Clark staggers back, in pure and utter shock, his voice increasing a pitch. "Woah what the — what the hay was that?!"
"You were smearing my lip gloss."
He looks at you in exasperation, shoulders stiff and wiping the remnants of pink gloss off on his slacks. But his gaze trails over you, and back to his hand. There's a variant of thoughts flittering through his mind, but you isolate one particular one.
"You think I'm pretty."
It doesn't register in his head fully, a busy mind it was, so he answers without thinking, "what? gosh — yes, that goes without saying." He gasps, snapping his head back at you when you announce the most loud thought in his mind.
"Stop that." Clark points at you accusatorily, "but wait — how on earth are you…"
It takes a solid second, before his shoulders go slack.
"You're…a mutant."
You grin with a shrug, "Jimmy doesn't know." Clark visibly winces when you 'answer' him. "He just thinks I'm reeaaal good at reading people." You're rocking on your heels, filling up with an intense curiosity for this revelation — this befuddled man, turning out to be one of the best discoveries of her life.
Clark wants to ask more. Head tilted, the words on his lips — but the roar of the building collapsing in the fire has his expression changing into something less Clark & more Superman.
"I gotta —" He groans. Running his hand through his hair while side-stepping you. Clark gestures at you with both palms, and then pointing between the two of you hastily while slow-jogging backwards.
"This — we, this isn't over!" He rasps, while sprinting full speed out of the corner.
The speed leaves your dress fluttering, a look of amusement etched onto your features.
Clark doesn't see you again for a few weeks.
Not that he was avoiding you. (Okay, well, maybe a little.) You had a habit of popping up in the weirdest places. Once, in the lobby of The Daily Planet asking concierge if people could claim insurance for super-hero related accidents. And the other, when he was mid-interview with the mayor and you were waving all perky at him, mouthing the words — "He's thinking about meeting his mistress."
You were airy, to put it simply. The sort of person who said whatever floated first into her head, or his. That was the problem, he supposed. You'd so brazenly slipped past the polite wall he kept in place for everyone else. After you were officially a civilian consultant for the paper you were around constantly. Which also meant you'd often catch him mid-thought.
It should annoy him. And gosh it had. Except it loosened something in him. Because with you, there wasn't a need for him to act the part. You got to know every one of his chaotic, burdened and messy thoughts — you didn't run away from it, you'd just leaned closer into it.
The first time the lines were blurred, it's raining impossibly heavily. And you're standing in his doorway, hair damp, clinging to his neck. Before he can even ask you what you were doing here, you're smiling.
"You're thinking about kissing me."
Clark groans, dragging his hand down his face. "I wasn't — you seriously need to stop doing that."
"You were. And now you're thinking about more. I'm down if you are." You skirt past him, leaving behind a trace of your rain-washed perfume, while you hop out of your strappy heels.
He exhales slowly, shutting his door behind you. "That's not — …it isn't a good idea." He mutters, softer.
"Yet you're still thinking about it."
It wasn't a bold declaration, or even something the two of you officially talked about. Sex just happened — once, and over and over again.
Enough times that you both had a slipped into an unsaid arrangement.
Krypto was missing.
Clark had been pacing his apartment since Lois had left. Muttering plans that were flimsy at best to himself. Jaws & shoulder tight. He's halfway to the door when a rustle from his couch has him spin.
There you were, shoes in hand, setting them to the side of his table. "How did you get past concierge — actually, no. Forget it. I'm not in the mood right now." Clark lets out a deep exhale, not wanting to let it show that he was just a little relieved to see you.
"Was that your girlfriend?"
His eyes narrow with a shake of his head. "What? Who, Lois? No. She's…someone close." Clark grabs around your elbow, and then pauses to think, looking at you offended. "And do you really think I'd be doing…what we were doing…with you, If I did have a girlfriend?"
You shrug slightly, letting yourself be walked closer to the door while his thoughts were loudly thinking about how you'd managed to sneak in and overhear his conversation with Lois. And then, he thinks about Kara's dog again.
"…I can help you, you know."
That seems to stop him in his tracks, and he studies you for a moment too long. "This isn't a game."
"When did I say it was? I'm offering because I can."
He almost considers it. But he shakes his head. "No." It was resolute. He backs away from you, arms folded and tense. "I'm not bringing you to Lex Luthor."
(I'm not putting you in danger like that.)
You don't point it out this time. Merely leaning back onto his counter tops, cheeks warming at that. You mirror his posture, folding your arms. "Superman." And you tone drops, a gently lilt to it, "Clark."
"We're perfect together. It's a shame you don't wanna accept it."
He takes in your words, and then his head lolled to the side in thought. But you don't hear a thing.
Clark steps closer, trapping you where you stood, before his palm curls around your hips to set you on the counter. His palm holds the top of he cabinet, so you wouldn't bump into it.
Then, his hold on you eases, turning his attention to dragging his thumb mindlessly along the edge of the tiles.
"I..don't need the added headache."
"Au contraire." You gasp out, melodramatically while you tip his jaw to face you. "If anything, i'm a head-ease. You don't even have to open your mouth." Clark's letting out a exhale when your fingers card through the back of his head as he steps between your thighs.
"They really let anyone be Superman these days. Not exactly man of steel right now. Man of kiddy-bedsheets, maybe."
He quirks a smile at that, and looks up at you. "You're…really just a goddarned Swooper."
"What the hell is a swooper?"
"Something…my parents used to warn me about when I was a kid. A scary lady that would swoop me up if I'd wandered out in the farm on my own in the dark — hey. Don't laugh."
He croaks in exasperation, cheeks flushing at the sound of your laughter. "I'm not!" You protest. Raising your palms in a mock surrender. You lean in, pressing a quick peck to his cheek. "It's endearing. I like it. I'm your swooper."
Clark groans. "Don't even joke about that. I've had nightmares over it." His eyes soften when he looks at you, letting your lips meet his again, and again. You mumble in annoyance when his glasses bump into you. Frowning, you slip them off his face.
"Ohhh lookit. It's Superman."
"Hardy har har."
He leans in and noses at your cheek, kissing down your neck. And back on your lips. Clark closes the distance,tugging you to the edge of the counter top. "I promise, I won't get hurt." You offer, catching his quick glance at you when he kisses down your chest.
"I can be places without being seen. Part of the…mentalist stitch." Clark thumbs at your cheek, kissing the apple. "I'm not keeping you around just so I could use you."
"You might just be the only man who doesn't."
Clark huffs out a laugh at that, taking a knee while he ruched your skirt up your hips. "What happened to not using me?" He looks up at you with a lopsided smile, kissing up your ankles before pulling your thigh closes to his edge.
"You're not exactly the one being used in this scenario." You jolt against his face when he kisses up your inner thighs, his thumb skirting the string of your thong. A soft content sigh leaves your lips, lifting your hips just enough for him to tug at your underwear down.
"For someone who refuses.. —mhh—…to cuss, your mind is sure…full of filth.." You mutter, and Clark drags his tongue over your soft pussy. Sucking at the bud. You whine louder.
"Why say things when I can just do them?" He mutters low into your cunt, tongue dipping into your hole with a teasing intensity. Your hand grips around his curls, nudging his face just a little closer. "Oh—shit." You curl your thigh over your shoulder, seeking the friction of his curls against it.
(Greedy little thing. Do you plan to suffocate me?)
You jolt when you hear him, letting out a huff of laughter. Looking at him with a glint in your eyes. "Isn't…Superman able to hold his breath for super long?" You're biting your lip when he drags the curve of his nose along your slit.
(So you did your research. Cute)
"Jesus…I-I can't believe I'm saying this but shut up." Clark laughs against your pussy, the reverberation of it having you clutch around his head to drag him back. He hooks his arms underneath both your thighs, burying his head into your pussy. The kitchen fills with an obscene mixture of noises, his sucks, grunts, and your moans that were only growing more intense.
"Clark —" You rasp out, hips already moving to grind on his face.
(Yeah, baby?)
"T-Talk to me."
You feel him smirk at that, alternating to a deeper suck, lapping at your clit until they lift from the counters.
(Always knew your pussy would be fuckin' divine.)
Your cheeks grow warmer at his use of a curse word for the very first time. Your other palm snaps to grip around the counter, your pussy instinctively pulses around his tongue.
(Clenching around my tongue like that, dirty girl.)
You choke out a strangled cry, and Clark notices your chest rise and dip at a faster pace. He adjusts you rougher, manhandling you tad until you're curling your thighs around his neck. Clark doesn't stop, despite you trying to squirm away, he lets you hump at his tongue, all up till' you're gasping. "Yes, god, yes!" Your hips arching in heavy, forceful jolts into his mouth at the final suck of your clit.
He continues his assault on your pussy, making eye contact with you while you gush into his mouth. And then, only then, does your body finally go slack. Falling lip against the cabinets. Clark pulls away slow, his hand holding you entirely up right while he rises. Cradling your jaw until they rest on his cheek. Your pussy throbbed in the wake of loss, letting your head fall to the safety of his chest.
"How's that for using someone?" He murmurs into the side of his head, as he lifts you on the counter. The slick of your pussy smearing against his chest with every movement.
summary: you and logan live together in the canadian mountains. he wakes up in the morning, but you're not beside him.
content: SMUT, implied age gap (reader calls logan "old man"), possessive logan, rough sex, riding, logan has a huge d, anal play, creampie, tiny bit of cockwarming, fluffy ending
word count: 2.7k
author's note: i struggled writing the summary pls but it is basically soft dom logan! i envisioned origins logan and it makes the most sense with the story but whatever logan makes your heart happy. i hope you guys enjoy!
Logan wakes up to the sound of birds chirping outside, the sun streaming in through the dainty white curtains that line the large bedroom window. He smirks and stretches out his long limbs, reaching over to grab you. His favourite way to start the day is with his head between your thighs, not stopping until you’re a sobbing mess beneath him.
But to his surprise, you’re not there. His ears perk up, but he can’t hear you either. He sniffs, his brow furrowing. You’re outside…but not alone.
You woke up before Logan, a rare occurrence. You’re a night owl, usually choosing to stay up while your boyfriend crashes beside you. But this morning, you awoke to the sound of his soft snores still echoing around the room.
You had crept downstairs with the intention of surprising Logan with breakfast in bed, but you got distracted when you saw a baby bear lingering by the garden outside. Without slipping on shoes, still dressed in a sheer nightgown, you stepped outside and approached it. It didn’t run from you. Your heart hammering in your chest, you watched the cub with curiosity. The wildlife in the Canadian mountains fascinated you.
Logan knows something isn’t right the moment his feet hit the floor. That cub – wild animals don’t just linger like that unless they’re sick or something else worse is nearby. And if there’s a baby, there’s a momma not far behind. His instincts kick into high gear as he yanks on a pair of jeans and storms towards the door.
Barefoot himself, he steps onto the porch, nostrils flaring as he catches the faintest whiff of danger in the crisp mountain air. And there you are, standing too close to that thing, looking like some ethereal woodland creature yourself in that piece of silk, all shimmer and delicate limbs. Christ, you make him crazy.
“Sweetheart,” he growls, voice low but sharp enough to cut through your trance. “Step back.” His claws itch beneath his skin, ready if needed.
You jump slightly at the sound of Logan’s voice, turning wide-eyed towards him. The movement spooks the bear, who scurries off into the trees. For a second, disappointment flickers across your face – you’d been mesmerized by its presence – but then you register the tension in Logan’s stance.
“Oh! Sorry! I just…it looked so sweet,” you murmur as you start shuffling back, bare feet caressing the dewy grass. You tuck a strand of messy hair behind your ear, suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze. “I didn’t mean to worry you.” Then, softer, “Were you gonna stab a baby bear?”
Logan exhales sharply through his nose, half-amused despite the adrenaline still humming in his veins. He strides towards you, closing the distance with purposeful steps. “Didn’t want to, but I would if it meant keepin’ ya safe,” he mutters, catching your wrist to tug you closer. His thumb brushes over the bone there. Your skin is cold from the morning chill, and he frowns. “You’re shakin’. And barefoot. In the goddamn wilderness.”
His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, forcing your gaze to meet his. “What were you thinkin’, huh?”
Your cheeks flush under his touch. You lean into his palm, though your lower lip juts out in a small pout – part defiance, part sheepishness. “I was thinking…” You hesitate, tangling your fingers in his. “...that maybe bears aren’t as scary as everybody says? And also…I wanted to make you pancakes. Before you woke up. As a surprise. But then I saw the cub and…I got distracted.”
Logan shakes his head, a rough chuckle escaping his lips. He pulls you tighter against his chest. You’re freezing. Without warning, he scoops you up bridal-style, ignoring your squawk of protest as he carries you back inside.
“Pancakes, huh?” he grunts, kicking the door shut with his heel before depositing you onto the couch. He sits beside you, his hands moving to rub warmth back into your arms, calloused palms dragging gently over goosebumped skin. “Bears ain’t pets, baby. Especially not here.”
You tilt your head as his hands work over your skin. “Mmm, yeah, pancakes,” you mumble. A smirk plays at your lips. “But then you interrupted my adventure. Now how am I supposed to prove I can tame wild beasts?” Your fingers twirl through the hairs on his chest, teasing. “Guess you’ll just have to be my wild beast today.”
That smirk of yours does things to him. “Tame me, huh?” A low growl rumbles in his chest as he leans in close, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Good fuckin’ luck, princess.”
But even as he says it, his hands slide down to cradle the back of your thighs, hoisting you higher against him. The couch creaks as he drops into it, settling you squarely in his lap.
You gasp softly, arching into him. Your fingers twist in his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “Is that a challenge, old man?” Laughter spills from your lips as you shift, feeling the evidence of his desire press against you. “Because I seem to recall you folding pretty quick last time I–”
Your words dissolve into a startled yelp as Logan nips at your neck. His large hands clamp down on your hips, holding you still before you can grind that perfect little ass against him again and really set him off.
“Last time you what?” he rasps. He lifts one hand, a metallic snikt! echoing around you as he extends a single claw. He hooks it under the strap of your nightgown, threatening you to keep running that mouth. “Say it. Or don’t – either way, you’re gonna regret startin’ this before breakfast.”
Not that he minds skipping meals when you taste sweeter than any pancake ever could.
Your pulse thrums, pupils dilating as his claw teases the fabric separating you. You know better than anyone how quickly restraint gives way to raw need with him – how one move could leave you pinned beneath him, begging in seconds.
“Last time I…” You drag your bottom lip through your teeth, watching his gaze track the movement hungrily. When you speak again, it’s barely above a whisper – taunting, triumphant. “...rode your cock until you forgot your own name.”
A feral grin splits Logan’s face as his claw slices through the flimsy straps, your breasts spilling out as the silk material falls around your hips. Logan rips the rest off of you, sending the scraps fluttering to the floor. Your gasp fuels the fire burning low in his core. “That a fact?”
One hand fists in your hair, tipping your head back to expose your throat – his teeth find purchase there instantly, sucking a bruise onto your skin. His arm bands around your waist, flipping you so fast the room blurs. Your back hits the cushions, legs splayed around his hips as he looms over you, breathing ragged.
“Show me then,” he dares you, grinding down hard enough to wrench a moan from your lips. “Prove you got what it takes to tame me.”
The shock of the sudden movement sends a thrill down your spine. Your hands fly up to grip his biceps, feeling the flex of muscle beneath warm skin. He grinds against you and your head falls back, hair fanning around you like a halo – such a contrast to the sinful picture you make sprawled wantonly beneath him.
“Fuck, Lo–” you pant, rolling your hips up to meet his thrusts. The friction is delicious agony, stoking the heat building between your thighs.
The sight of you laid out like some kind of offering – tousled hair, lips swollen from biting them so hard – it nearly undoes him right then and there. His cock throbs insistently against the zipper of his jeans, straining towards your heat like a magnet.
“C’mon, babygirl,” he coaxes, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His facial hair rasps over your sensitive skin as he breathes you in, filling his lungs with the scent of your arousal and something else uniquely you. “Gonna ride me properly, or just lay there lookin’ pretty?”
His words ignite something primal in you – a hunger to dominate, to claim, to mark. With a burst of strength born from desperation, you reverse positions so you’re straddling him again. Your nails rake down his bare chest, leaving red welts in their wake as you grind down hard.
You yank his zipper down, freeing his aching cock. It slaps against your palm, hot and heavy and perfect. Pre-come beads at the tip, smearing over your fingers as you stroke him from root to crown.
His head falls back against the couch with a dull thud, eyes squeezing shut as sensation overwhelms him. The sting of your nails, the slick glide of your hand – it’s almost too much. “Shit–” he grits out, hips bucking into your fist. Every muscle in his body tenses, fighting the urge to flip you back over and pound into your tight little cunt until neither of you can think straight. But no. This is your show. And fuck if he doesn’t love to see you take control.
You drink in every twitch, every strained muscle, every laboured breath that puffs from his lips. Power surges through your veins, addictive and electric. Slowly, you position yourself above him and you sink down. Your walls stretch around his girth, drawing a guttural moan from deep within your chest. “F-Fuuuck–”
It feels like being split open, filled to the brim with pure, molten heat. Your head drops forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder as you adjust to the intrusion. Nails dig crescent moons into his skin, anchoring yourself against the overwhelming fullness. “S-So big…” Whimpers spill from your lips. No matter how many times you fuck him, his massive cock always makes it feel like the first time.
Logan’s large hands fly to your hips, gripping tight. It takes every ounce of his willpower not to slam up into you, to let you set the pace. Sweat beads at his temple, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. “Easy, baby,” he manages. Thumbs stroke soothing circles over your hips, trying to calm the tremors wracking your frame. “Take what ya need. I got ya.”
And you know he does. Always. No matter how wild you get, no matter how far you push – Logan will always be right there, grounding you, catching you when you fall.
You begin to move slowly. Up, down, up, down – the rhythm is stuttering at first, your body still adjusting to the invasion. But with each stroke, your confidence grows. After a few moments, your hips start to circle, grind, and snap in a blur of motion, milking him for all he’s worth.
“Y-Yes–” You throw your head back. The sounds your pussy makes are obscene – wet, sloppy, utterly depraved. “Lo, oh God, Lo–”
Pleading, demanding, begging. All of it. More of it.
Logan’s vision blurs at the edges, reduced to the singular focus of your face contorted in ecstasy. The noises you make – Jesus Christ. You’ll be the death of him.
His hands migrate to your ass, urging you faster, harder. “Ride me, sweetheart,” he growls, teeth bared in a snarl. His hips surge upwards to meet yours, driving deeper, stretching you wider. Fingers slip into your crack, tracing the puckered hole hidden there.
The near intrusion at your rear entrance sends a bolt of lightning straight to your core. You yelp, a high-pitched wail that borders on pain but is all pleasure. “L-Lo, fuck–” Your movements become frantic, bordering on erratic. Hips piston wildly, chasing the high only he can give you.
Logan pulls his hand back to lick his thumb before sliding it back down, breaching your tight ring of muscle and pushing it in knuckle-deep. The dual penetration sends you spiraling, your cunt squeezing him. It’s too much. Too good.
He smirks. “C’mon, babygirl.” His hand tangles in your hair, tugging your head back to expose your throat. His teeth graze the skin. “Come for me.”
The last threads of your control shatter. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, stealing the air from your lungs and the strength from your limbs. You convulse violently, inner muscles clamping down on his length like a silk fist. Clear fluid gushes around his shaft, soaking his groin and the couch beneath you. “I-I’m coming! Oh God, Logan!” you wail, voice cracking on a sob.
Your climax triggers his own. He buries himself to the hilt, grinding his cock against your cervix as he empties himself inside you with a primal groan. His hot seed fills you, painting your insides white and leaking out where you’re joined. His fingertips dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he continues pumping his load into you.
“Fuck, babe–” He throws his head back. Pleasure crashes through him like a tsunami, wiping out all coherent thought. All he knows is the wet heat engulfing him, the exquisite pressure, the way your body yields to him. His girl. His everything.
You collapse against his chest, boneless and spent, heart pounding. “Mmmph…fuck…” you mumble, nuzzling against his neck. “You’re such a fucking animal.” Your hips give a feeble wiggle – but you know better. Logan will stay buried inside of you as long as he damn well pleases.
“Animal, huh?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your ear. A satisfied rumble vibrates through his chest as he wraps his arms around you. His cock twitches inside you, still semi-hard and unready to relinquish its prize just yet. “Maybe you’re right. But you love it.”
His teeth nip at your earlobe, tugging playfully before soothing the sting with his tongue. “Admit it, princess. Ain’t nobody else who can satisfy you like I can.”
You let out a breathless laugh, fingertips trailing lazily across his torso. His ego doesn’t need stroking, but you’ll indulge him anyway.
“Mmm…maybe,” you concede coyly, shifting just enough to make him groan. Your lips curl into a smirk. “But I pity the poor bastard who’d like to try.”
A warning growl builds in his throat at your smartass remark. “Pity,” he scoffs, nipping at your shoulder hard enough to leave another mark among the constellation already decorating your skin. “We both know you wouldn’t last five minutes with some city boy.” A deliberate roll of his hips emphasizes his point. “Nah, princess. You need a real man. Someone who ain’t afraid to put you in your place when you get too mouthy.”
Your breath comes out in a shaky sigh, caught somewhere between a moan and a whimper. The possessive tone in his voice wraps around you like a chain, pulling you under. You want to argue – bite back with something sharp and cunning – but all you can do is press closer, craving more of his dominance, his ownership.
“Shut up,” you mutter half-heartedly. Your nails scratch lightly over his stomach. “You win anyway. I didn’t tame you.”
A deep chuckle rumbles through him as he loosens his grip enough to let you settle against his chest. Your heartbeat syncs with his, steady and sure. “Nope,” he hums, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Not this time, but you came pretty damn close.” His fingers thread lazily through your tangled strands, combing them back into place. “Now quit talkin’ and go make me those pancakes.”
You let out an offended squeak, swatting at his chest as you lift your head to glare at him – with all the authority a post-orgasmic mess can muster. “Excuse me?” Your brow arches, lips twitching. There’s a playful fire in your eyes. “You just used me for sex and now you still want me to cook for you? God, at least put a ring on it then, Lo.”
A flicker of something softer passes by your gaze, but you shake it off with a smirk. “Okay, fine.”
As you start to move, Logan pulls you closer. He tightens his hold on you, rolling you slowly, his semi-hard cock still inside of you, until you’re tucked safely beneath him. He thinks about what is hidden under the floorboards in the bedroom – a place you never think to check, where he hides his cigars and other important items – like the diamond ring he purchased a few months ago.
“Go and make the pancakes, brat,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the tip of your nose. “And when you’re done, I’ll tell you where I’ve been hidin’ that ring.”
