So, I am an avid reader of fanfiction in general and am very much into the arcane community right now as I’m sure all of you can tell. However, my attention span and current job does not allow me to sit down and write a fully fleshed out story. BUT, what I do have are many ideas and little plot bunnies. Think I’m going to use this account to post them and ya’ll can use them for inspiration for your own fic if you’re at an impass. Those of you that have writers block can drink your fill and use them as you like. I don’t care because I’m honestly never going to use them but you guys can if you so choose. You can bet there’s gonna be a fuckton of Reader x Silco ideas because I am currently frothing at the mouth for that gorgeous pancake assed man.
Thank-you to all of my new Internet stranger friends for being so gracious about having my post shoved onto your dashboards. I loved reading all of your kind tags and comments! Both Martin and Bosco have been gone for several years now but for 24 hours, they felt very present in my life. I greatly appreciate this gift. ❤️
you know a joke that never EVER gets old is when a character says smth like “I will NOT go to [place] and that is FINAL” and then it cuts to them in that place I eat that shit up every single time
summary: a lesson in stillness becomes a confession in skin. you give him the answer he’s been starving for.
tags: NSFW! MDNI!, fem!human!reader, no use of Y/N, lowkey touch starved legolas, menace reader, semi-public sex, dom!legolas, light dom/sub dynamics
a/n: not my best work but definitely the horniest. wrote this on sleeping pills and i hope it shows
read on ao3 or below the cut
Your jaw clenches as you work to steady your breathing. Your blood simmers hot in your veins, muscles taut as you fight your body to remain calm. An earlier disagreement with the group left you tense and unraveling, a coil in your gut that just would not leave.
Time. You just need some time and space, some breathing room from the people you’ve seen every day for weeks, some of whom know how to get under your skin far too well.You sit away from the group under the pretense of keeping watch, steadying your breath, a light breeze cooling the back of your neck.
Until you feel a prickle. You’re being watched; an unmistakable calm intensity you feel in your bones that could only be one person.
Legolas sits beside you on the rock you claimed as your watchtower. Close but not touching. A respectable distance.
“You are still tense.”
You do not answer, jaw clenching.
“It unnerves me to have such feelings between our companions.” he says, matter-of-factly.
“I’d like to be left alone. Please.”
He looks at you from the side, eyes scanning your taut posture, set jaw. Your spine straightens out of reflex. He sighs.
“Your anger needs a way out. Try to breathe evenly.”
“You think I haven’t tried that?” you snap, and regret it instantly.
He does not seem to mind. “Your anger is misdirected.”
You look at him. He looks back at you patiently, soft sapphire eyes meeting your blazing ones.
He stands. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” you ask, standing hesitantly.
“Somewhere quieter.” he says over his shoulder, leading you into the nearby forest.
Light filters through the leaves in dappled smudges of molten gold. The forest, ancient and quiet, speaks only in rustles and birdsong.
He stands behind you, close but not touching. You feel the heat radiate off his body.
Voice low, near your ear, he says: “Still yourself. Breathe with me.”
The forest goes still, just the two of you and your breathing. You match the inhale and exhale of his even breaths, breath syncing.
“Close your eyes. Focus on the air around you, feel the breeze.”
You do as he says. Except your breathing stumbles for a beat as his mouth is dangerously close to your pulse. You keep your eyes closed, hoping he did not notice.
He hears it. Of course he does.
Internally, he nearly curses in Elvish about it. This is a calming exercise, but you seem to be having the opposite reaction.
“Perhaps it will be easier if I show you how elves calm each other without words.”
He steps a little bit closer. Your back is almost flush against him, steady and grounding. His hands hover near your arms without fully touching.
“Here,” he murmurs, fingertips barely grazing your forearm, “this means presence.”
His touch is feather light, but your pulse jolts as if struck by lightning.
He feels it.
He tries to pretend he doesn't.
You force your breathing to even out, steadying yourself but he is so close you can feel the pine and amber of his scent enveloping you, masking your brain in a thick haze. All you can focus on is the featherlight fingers on your forearm and the heat at your back, every one of his steadying breaths sending shivers down your spine. He pretends not to notice those too.
“You are still not calm.” His voice is low, but there’s an edge to it now you can’t place. “Let me show you more.”
He leans a little forward, and two delicate fingers brush against the bone on the inside of your wrist. “Trust.” His breath fans the shell of your ear.
Your body reacts before your brain does.
You exhale.
A little too sharply.
Your pulse leaps under his fingers like you’re being hunted. The coiled tension in your gut transforms into a new beast entirely. One that you don’t know how to control.
Behind you, he goes entirely still, a marble statue of self-restraint. He knows. You know he knows. The facade of a calming breathing exercise is cracking faster than you or him can manage.
Valar help you both.
He breathes into your ear, lips almost touching your heated skin. “Again?” he asks, voice dangerous, testing you.
Your breath hitches. The back of your neck heats, cheeks and face flushing.
You offer him your wrist without a second thought.
“I’m afraid I didn’t learn it the first time.” you whisper, testing him back.
He presses two long fingers right to your thundering pulse. His breathing shallows out, and just for a moment, his careful self control chips. His golden hair brushes against your neck with the breeze, sending goosebumps along your feverish skin.
“And this,” he brushes his thumb in a delicate circle against your hammering pulse, “means you may come closer…if you want.” He breathes right against the shell of your ear, shallow and tense.
The tension in your gut coils tighter. Instead of moving, you return the touch on his wrist.
Slow. Deliberate.
He freezes.
Then he steps closer. A slow, careful step that closes every inch of distance. You feel the rise and fall of his chest with every breath, pressed right against your back.
“You know what that means,” he says, barely above a whisper.
Come closer.
“Yes.” Propriety all but forgotten, you repeat the touch on his wrist, and you could swear you heard his breathing stutter.
He steps around you – slow, controlled, composure stung together thin as spider silk. He hooks your jaw with two fingers, lifting your face delicately.
“This,” he murmurs, voice of velvet on steel, “means look at me.”
His gaze meets yours and for the first time you see how dark his sapphire eyes had gotten, pupils blown wide. The air you share could set a fire ablaze.
Legolas closes the distance between you, chest flush against yours. Breathing ragged, he says: “There is one more.”
“Show me.” you say.
“I should not.” he whispers.
“Show me.”
His soft fingertips ghost along the side of your neck, following the shape up to just behind your ear. Electricity follows his reverent touch.
Your breath shudders. His does too.
“I think you can guess the meaning of that.” His barely restrained hungry stare ruins every scrap of self control you have. Your knees go weak under the force of his ocean gaze.
You nod, not trusting your mouth to speak.
He leans in, lips a hair’s breadth from your jawline, hot breath fanning across your face.
“Tell me to stop,” he says.
You say nothing.
He cups your jaw with his hand, and closes the distance between your lips.
It is slow. Deep. Wrecking.
His other hand slides to your waist, pressing your hips flush against his. You pull him in even closer by the collar of his tunic, and it snaps any remaining restraint he had left. His lips move against yours like he’s been holding back for centuries, a creature awakened, and you feel his pulse, his heat, his barely-contained desperation.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to breathe your name against your skin. Your breath heaves in sync with his.
He trails his lips down to the crook of your neck, mouth slow and hot against your burning skin – intent, devout – teeth just barely grazing in a warning that sends heat pooling between your legs.
You dig your nails into his shoulders and the sound he makes is sinful. Possessive.
He backs you against a tree, lifting you up with the ease and grace only an immortal prince could hope to do. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, hands caging around his strong shoulders. You feel every muscle, every sinew, of the centuries of training beneath his tunic.
His hands settle at your hips, thumbs stroking slow arcs that make your stomach twist and the heat in your groins simmer.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your throat, “what you’ve been saying to me with every touch.”
You answer by pulling him even closer, fingers tangling in his gossamer hair.
He groans, soft and wrecked, his composure forgotten entirely.
Lips pressed to your neck again, he shifts between your thighs and you feel him fully. His need, his want, his intent. His tongue traces slow circles in the sensitive crook of your neck and you arch into him, stifling a soft moan.
“I want to hear you.”
Your chest heaves, head spinning, clinging to him with the remaining strength you have.
“I said,” he bites down, in the delicate space between your neck and collarbone that sends a jolt down your spine, “I want to hear you.”
The moan that leaves you as he marks you is unholy, and entirely against your best judgement. Your arch into him again and he presses back.
“Good.” he breathes into your ear. “More.”
His tongue traces the shell of your ear, one hand gripping the back of your neck, tangled in your hair and angling your head how he wants it, the other keeping you pinned against the tree. You roll your hips into him, and he groans into your ear, whispering something in Sindarin. You don’t know the translation but the tone alone could melt stone.
He trails his kisses along your jawline, his hips grinding into yours. He kisses you again, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth, wrenching a deep moan from you that he stifles with his lips. It’s deeper, hungrier, and your brain goes blank, thinking only of him and the heat between your legs.
Your fingers curl into his hair, your thumb brushing along the edge of his ear and the sound that escapes him could only be a growl.
He pulls back from the kiss, face flushed, hair undone by your fingers, and presses his forehead to yours, breathing ragged.
“Do that again and you will not leave this clearing being able to walk.” His breath fans your face, and you look him dead in the eyes.
You bring your lips right to his ear and whisper: “Please.”
You trace your tongue slowly around the shape of his delicately pointed ear, teeth grazing lightly, and you feel him shudder, pressing into you harder. Ever so slightly, he angles his head to give you access; and you take it.
Your tongue works around the shell of his ear. You pull it gently between your teeth, following it with more of your tongue and mouth, and he makes a sound he never intended for you to hear.
Your hand drifts lower until it reaches his belt, undoing it, and you feel him. You moan into his ear, a shiver running down his spine.
Half moon eyes and pupils blown, his hand tightens around your neck with a delicious pressure, the other finding the heat between your legs, toying with the band of your underwear, a finger slipping behind the fabric teasing you in lazy, languid circles. You whine into his ear softly, and your head rolls back against the tree, breathless and dizzy, unspoken begs for more of him threatening to spill from your swollen, bruised lips.
You arch into him with every movement of his fingers. “Show me what you learned.” He mutters against your lips between kisses.
Half aware of what you’re doing, the haze of him blanketing you like a fog, you trace your fingers along the shape of his neck to behind his ear.
Want.
“Good.” he smirks against your lips, soft, lethal.
You are very aware of every inch of Legolas as he slides himself into you.
You arch into him and feel him groan as his hips align fully flush with yours. You welcome the ache he leaves between your legs, the feeling of fullness as the pace he sets rewires your very being.
“You learn fast.” he whispers into your mouth, between groans and heated, ruinous kisses. Your nails rake down his back, undoubtedly leaving scorching red marks; a discovery for later.
His grip around your neck tightens as the other continues circling your most sensitive spot. “I told you,” he says, voice velveteen, “That I want to hear you.”
You mewl his name with every push of his hips, a breathless benediction, a sinful prayer, over and over again. Every movement reaches a deeper part of you that unravels you to your core, your toes curling at the heat.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he breathes, “So well.”
Your thighs cage him, pulling him closer instinctually, wanting–needing more. He answers it, breath laborious, with every stroke. His hand leaves between your legs to cup your thigh, adjusting your position so he can go even deeper, hitting the spot that shoots white hot electricity up your spine and heat pooling in your core.
“My pretty star,” he groans into your mouth, “come undone for me.”
It’s as if your body obeys him.
You gasp his name as you feel the wave rush over you, molten and overwhelming, and for a moment you see only him, golden hair haloed in the dappled daylight like stars dancing in your vision through half-lidded eyes.
His pace falters and you feel him twitch, as he sinks completely inside of you, his hands bruising your neck and thigh as his own release catches up to him.
“I think,” he whispers, his forehead against yours, “that you learned how to release your tension.”
-
taglist: @durinssdaughter
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Warnings: This will include dark elements. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.
Character: Tommy Shelby, maid!reader
Summary: you've adapted to your employer's moods, but you don't realise how attached he's become to you .
Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋
When you first arrived at the Shelby household, the thumps would make you flinch. The yelling would make you tense. The steady in and out of men in caps and jackets had you uneasy. Now it is merely routine.
Your eyes roll up lazily as the heavy bang is followed by a holler. A word which might be 'bugger' or something worse. You take the kettle and put it on the burner. Time for tea.
You hum to keep your patience at bay. You take down a saucer and cup. The blue paint trims the white porcelain in scenes of wilderness. Wild deer between leaning pine. Fine china. The kind you might covet knowing you could never afford it.
You balance the silver strainer over the brim of the cup and carefully measure out the leaves. When the water boils, you pour it over, the steam pluming up. As you wait for the steep, you hear footsteps on the stairs. The men leave without a word, though you feel as if you can hear their disappointment rippling in the air.
You lay out the tray. Teacup on saucer, sugar bowl, small jug of milk, and some biscuits freshly baked that morning. The latter will likely remain untouched but you are mindful to be thorough.
You carry your lot calmly through the spacious foyer of the house and up the stairs. You near the arched wooden doors and slow. You clear your throat and call through.
"Mr. Shelby."
"In," he demands tersely.
You look at the tray then the doors. You turn and use your elbow to push down the handle. You lean into the door to open it and turn.
Your employer looks up. "You could've said your hands were full."
"Sir."
You bring the tray over and set it on the small table near the leather settee. He's at his desk. He puffs on a cigarette.
You step away from the plume of smoke as he blows it out. His eyes follow you. He looks at the cigarette then you. He tamps it out in the tray and takes up a pen instead.
"Cinnamon," he says through the last of the smoke. He puts his attention on the ledger as his pen scratches.
You nod. "Biscuits, sir."
He doesn't look at you. He continues to write. You know better than to expect further. It's the most said between you on any occasion.
You close the door behind you. If he needs you, he'll ring the bell. He doesn't often. Not when there isn't company. You are always on time. Breakfast, lunch, tea. You never miss your cue.
Now, you must sweep away the dirt those men tracked in with them. You assume they fled at the roar of your boss’ ire.
🚬
You don't get much sleep, nor do you expect it. It doesn't come with the work, nor your station in life. Those without money do not rest. Not often.
Even so, you are disturbed by the noise scuffing in the back of your mind. That constant that keeps you from a true sleep. You are hovering on the edge, not able to get to the other side.
You fall onto your back and cover your mouth. You yawn. It isn't stopping. It's more than the wind. More than the house creaking with its own weight.
You get up. In the dark, you find the wool housecoat hung on the back of the door. You don't bother with a lamp. You ration your oil and wick.
There's more light in the corridor. You peer out as slats of moonlight pour in through the window panes, limning those drapes drawn together. There it is. The noise. Footsteps, back and forth, a soft mutter now and then.
You step out into the chill of the corridor. You shuffle along the wall as you follow the sound. You stand at the bottom of the stairs and peer up.
The yellow blaze of an electric light glares against the wall in the shape of a doorway. A shadow passes before it. An arm bent, hand curled, head tilted. Mr. Shelby rambles quietly as he weaves back and forth.
You watch for a moment then retreat.
Tea time. Saucer, cup, strainer, leaves... You work quietly. You forgo the tray. Touch of milk, no sugar. You know this.
You do your best not to clink the porcelain as you climb the stairs. You stop at the top as Mr. Shelby stands before the large portrait of himself. His silhouette is dark against the light of his open bedroom door.
As you near, you can see his jaw is set. He glares at his likeness. You pass him and enter his bedroom. You place the cup and saucer on the night table near his bed.
You return to the corridor. "Sir, your tea will get cold."
He flinches. He slowly looks at you. You step away from the door.
"Sir." You utter.
He nods and strides toward you. He is in his night clothes. His hair is mussed and his eyes are shadowed with dark circles. He does not look at you.
You don't move as he passes. He goes through the open doors. You take one step.
"You will join me." He says.
You pause and turn. You don’t expect the invitation. You don’t often see your boss in this state, if ever. No one does. He is private. Cautious, with good reason.
You follow him. He crosses the room and stops before the unlit fireplace. He grips the mantle.
"You may shut the doors. There's a terrible draft." He bids.
You obey and linger by the doors.
"Sit. Have the tea." He insists.
"It is for you--"
"I'm aware. You will have it." He traces his fingers along his jaw and pinches his lower lip as he stares into the fireplace. "I do not like waste."
"Yes, sir.” You relent. “Shall I stoke a fire while I let the tea cool?”
“I said sit.” He sighs.
You retrieve the tea and sit on the settee. You hold the cup and saucer over your lap. He bends his knees and grabs the split wood from the iron rack next to the fireplace. He stacks them inside the brick cove.
He works methodically as he stuffs kindling under the wood and lights it. He blows on it until it catches. He stands as the amber glow blooms around his robe. The satin ripples behind him, giving a peek of his linen night clothes and thick-soled slippers.
You cool the tea with your breath and sip. He plants a hand on the oak mantle above the fire and hangs his head. You sit in the silence, patient, waiting for your dismissal.
He straightens and rolls his shoulders. He shuffles across the wooden planks and onto the rug. He spins and sits on the other side of the settee. He exhales and leans his head against the cushion.
“You will purchase yourself a new robe. I will not have my staff walking around in patches.” He growls at the ceiling. You glance over at him. His eyes are closed, long lashes stark above his cheeks.
“Yes, sir.” You reply. You will be short some pence after the expenditure.
He takes another deep breath. You wait. He says nothing. You drink to keep from restlessness.
A low groan draws your attention back to your dour employer. He remains as he was. His chest rises and falls steadily. Another low drone rises from him. He’s snoring.
You turn to set the cup and saucer aside then stand. You take the woven throw from over the back of the settee. You put it over Mr. Shelby’s lap.
He needs rest. You do too. Once you dump the dregs of the tea, you’ll find some.
pairing: farmer!bucky barnes x city girl!reader x farmer!steve rogers
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, threesome, pining, alcohol, banter, touch starved stucky, sexual tension, lots of pent-up sexual frustration, the boys are clingy attention whores, manipulation (they want you to stay), breeding kink, oral (m receiving), size diff, m!masturbation, overstimulation, jealousy, degrading, praising, dirty talk, pet names: "pretty girl" "sweetheart" "darlin'" "baby"
word count: 18k
masterlist
a/n: what's better than one touch starved farmer boy? TWO touch starved farmer boys who are best friends!!!!! it gets kind of dark at the end (steve and buck are desperate.) so please tread carefully.
synopsis:
Bucky and Steve live in a town filled with an endless stretch of green, animals, and their only company is other strong men and elderly women. When an attractive, young woman visits town for a research project, the touch-deprived boys can't help but want to play with the new piece of candy.
Steve threw the last log onto the flatbed of the good ol’ truck, a thing that had seen more rust than oil changes in its life.
“That should be the last of it,” he announced from the back, closing the tailgate and giving it a solid slap to make sure it held. “Start her up, Buck.”
Bucky turned back to the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition. The truck answered with a loud rumble before sputtering out. He tried again, resulting in another shake that rattled the cab, and then… nothing.
Steve came up to the driver’s window, resting an arm on the sill as he wiped sweat from his face with a dirty towel.
“Lucy’s not startin’?”
“Does she ever?” Bucky sneered, turning the key once more as the truck grumbled in protest. “I thought you were supposed to look her over last night.”
“I was—then I got a call to round up some loose, wild chickens. After that I got sidetracked, and, uh…” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, guilty. “I fell asleep.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Perfect.”
“Hey,” Steve said, nudging his shoulder roughly through the window. “While I was being productive last night, maybe you could’ve spent that time fixing her up instead of jerking off.”
Bucky shoved the door open without warning, forcing Steve to stumble aside. He gave him a sharp side-eye glare.
“I was not jerking off,” he muttered, heading for the front of the truck and popping the hood to peer into the engine.
Steve barked out a laugh as he stepped up beside him, clamping a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You keep tellin’ yourself that. The walls are paper thin, you know?”
“Shut up,” Bucky mumbled with a flushed face. He reached down, jiggled the loose battery cable, then tightened the clamp with a huff.
“All right,” he said, wiping his hands on his dirty jeans. “Try it now.”
“You sure that’ll—”
“Just get in the damn truck, Steve.”
With a shrug, Steve climbed back into the cab and turned the key. The engine coughed in front of Bucky, then rumbled to life, making the whole truck shaky but steadily idle.
Steve grinned out the open window. “Well, would you look at that. It’s our lucky day.”
“And we don’t get much of those,” Bucky agreed, not wasting a second as he slammed the hood shut and jogged around to the passenger side, yanking the door open.
“Don’t admire her too much now,” he warned, climbing in. “Start drivin’ before it gives out and we have to push this damn thing ourselves again.”
The truck rattled its way down the dirt road, tires crunching over gravel as the town came into view—if you could even call it that. The ‘town’ had a handful of weather-beaten buildings, a leaning water tower, and more livestock than people. Chickens scattered as Steve eased off the gas, the engine making a suspiciously loud noise that couldn’t even be ignored if they turned the radio up higher.
Fury’s place sat at the center of it all. A squat, sturdy building that had once been a general store several years ago, then a post office, and now served as whatever the town needed it to be. Meetings, supplies, paperwork.
Basically, everything important that no one else wanted to deal with.
A faded sign out front still read “COMMUNITY OFFICE,” though half the letters were missing.
“Made it,” Steve said, turning the engine off as he glanced at Bucky with a smile. “Told you Lucy had one more trip in her.”
“One,” Bucky huffed, hopping out. “Don’t get greedy.”
They climbed onto the flatbed and started unloading, tossing logs into a neat pile beside the building. The door creaked open halfway through, and Fury stepped out, cane in one hand. His good eye flicked over the truck, the wood, then the two of them.
“You’re late,” he said calmly.
Steve lifted his head as he tossed another log. “Truck trouble.”
Fury snorted. “That truck is trouble.” He eyed the woodpile with approval, though. “Still—this’ll last us through winter if rationed right. The town owes you.”
Bucky threw another log. “Town’s been owing us a while.”
Fury shifted his weight, tapping the end of his cane against one of the logs. “When you’re done,” he said, already turning back toward the door, “I’m gonna need you boys to come inside and sign the delivery papers. Wood tally, fuel credit, the usual nonsense.”
They both gave each other a look. Anything involving paperwork, pencils, and pens was well outside their familiar territory. Their comfort zone was muscles, strength, and work done with their bare hands.
The boys were… really good with their hands.
They finished stacking the last of the logs in relative silence, the only sounds being the dull thud of wood and the distant lowing of cattle.
Steve hopped down from the flatbed and dusted off his hands. “You ready, Buck?”
“Ready to skim the papers and not read a word of it?” Bucky wiped his hands on the dirty towel before tossing it through the open passenger window. “Sure.”
Inside, the building was way cooler, the air was filled with the smell of old paper, dust, and faint bitter coffee. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with binders, ledgers, and boxes labeled in Fury’s neat handwriting. A single desk sat near the back, buried under forms.
The two men lingered by the front door, leaving a trail of dirt and mud beneath their boots as their eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight to the dim interior.
“Come here, boys,” Fury called, circling around his desk.
Steve stepped forward—but Bucky stopped short, his attention snagging on something off to the side of the office.
“Uh,” Bucky raised a finger to point, not even trying to hide it. “Who the hell is that? She lost?”
There you sat, prim and composed, one leg crossed over the other, a newspaper folded neatly in your hands. Your clothes were clean, your shoes never touched by dirt, and the two suitcases at your feet looked like they cost more than what Steve and Bucky made in a day.
You looked like you had stepped off the wrong bus, yet decided to stay anyway.
Steve turned at Bucky’s voice, nearly breaking his neck to get a better look. His gaze trailed from your face down to your legs, the way you subtly bounced your foot as you were absorbed in whatever dull headline held your attention.
Your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip, and Bucky’s breath hitched.
“Damn…” he muttered.
“No.” Fury emerged from behind the desk, glancing between the three of you. “She’s right where she’s supposed to be.”
You finally looked up when Fury tapped the side of your bench with his cane. Lifting your head, you pulled the earbud from your ear.
“Nick?”
“These are Rogers and Barnes,” Fury said. “They run the livestock operations on the outskirts.” Then he turned back to the two men. “And this is—” he paused, nodding to you, “—a family friend from the city, a couple hours away. She’s here for a research project.”
Steve stepped closer, raising a brow. “Research?”
You folded the newspaper and tucked it under your arm before standing. “Animal productivity,” you explained. “Sustainability in isolated farming communities. Breeding patterns, yield consistency, that sort of thing.”
Both of the boys tilted their head in sync, and Fury shook his own, looking at you. “You’re speaking a whole different language to these cave animals.”
Bucky crossed his arms, ignoring the jab. “And you picked this place?”
“I insisted she come here,” Fury said, raising a brow at him. “Why are you making it sound like this place is bad?”
Steve shrugged. “Well—”
“Don’t answer that,” Fury cut in with a sigh, waving a hand as he turned back to his desk. “Sign these. And once you’re done—” his gaze flicked to your suitcases, “—help her get settled in the farmhouse out back.”
“The farmhouse?” Bucky met Fury at the desk, planting both hands on the edge as he leaned over him. “You’re not stickin’ a girl like that in some dirty farmhouse, Fury.”
It seemed like every farmer you’d met so far was loud and painfully straightforward. You glanced down at yourself—your clothes, so different from the muted dresses the handful of elderly women wore around town. Since stepping off the bus, you’d been surrounded by the smell of manure, too much testosterone, and a growing sense of self-consciousness.
Fury looked up at Bucky with his good eye. “I already told her about our very limited lodging options.” He turned to you for backup. “And she was okay with it. Right?”
You were not okay with it.
You were used to a queen-sized bed in your comfortable city apartment, right in the heart of everything. Not a farmhouse.
“Yup,” you said anyway, forcing a nod and a smile.
For research. Right?
Bucky scoffed and clamped a hand down on Steve’s shoulder, pulling him closer hard enough that Steve nearly stumbled.
“You know, We’ve got Sarah’s old house right next to our farm—the one that’s been collectin’ dust,” Bucky said, giving Steve a firm slap on the back to rope him in. “What do you say, Stevie? Take us a few hours to clean it up, pull the mattress outta the closet, get it all nice and tidy for our little friend here.”
All three men turned to look at you, and you suddenly felt very small beneath their attention—especially under Steve and Bucky’s eyes.
“I… wouldn’t want to intrude,” you said gently, scratching at your temple. “I’m not sure how Sarah would feel if I just moved in—”
“Sarah—God rest her—wouldn’t want an impressionable young woman like you sleepin’ in a cold, dirty farmhouse,” Bucky cut in, flashing Steve a grin.
Steve let out a slow, patient breath through his nose. “I suppose you’re right. My mother wouldn’t want that.”
Bucky turned back to you, a charming smile tugging at his mouth. “How about it, pretty girl?”
You glanced at Fury, searching his face. He was the only person you trusted here, and as long as he trusted them, that would have to be enough.
Fury let out a quiet, weary sigh and gave you a small shrug. “They look like troublemakers,” he said, “but they’re the ones keeping this town running.”
He pointed at Steve while looking at you. “You can trust this one.” Then his finger moved slowly to Bucky. “But be careful with this one.”
“Hah. Hah,” Bucky replied dryly as he crossed the room, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his heavy boots. He bent down, grabbed one of your suitcases, and tossed it toward Steve, who barely caught it off guard.
Bucky picked up the other bag and flashed you a smile.
“Our truck’s right outside. Come on.”
With one strong hand gripping the strap of your suitcase, his other hand—surprisingly respectful—settled at your lower back as he guided you towards the front door.
On the way out, he gave Steve a look, nodding once to signal him to follow.
“You two better take good care of her,” Fury called after them. “She’s a family friend. Remember that.”
Steve paused, glancing back at Fury with a sigh.
“Yeah, noted,” he muttered as he stepped outside with the luggage, following you and Bucky.
Fury waved you off, then turned back to the desk, eyeing the untouched stack of paperwork still waiting for signatures.
“Goddamnit,” he muttered.
Outside, Steve and Bucky tossed the luggage into the flatbed haphazardly. The heavy thud of your expensive bags made you flinch, especially knowing your laptop and notebooks were inside.
Bucky swung the passenger door open wide and motioned you over with a hand. “Come on in,” he said. “Lucy don’t bite.”
“Lucy?” you huffed a small laugh, hesitating as you stepped closer. Leaning inside, you saw the floorboards caked with dirt and mud; one step in and your shoes would be ruined in an instant. “Uh, I don’t think there’s room for me—”
“Sure there is,” Bucky interrupted.
Without warning, his rough hands found your hips and lifted you easily, setting you down on the passenger seat. “Scoot over,” he said. “You’re gonna have to be the middle man.”
Before you could even say anything, Bucky planted one heavy boot inside the cab and hopped inside, rocking the truck and forcing you to scramble over as he slammed the door shut. You barely had time to find your balance before Steve opened the driver’s door and climbed in, settling behind the wheel with a huff.
Now, you found yourself wedged between two broad, very dirty men who smelt like sweat and sun.
And suddenly, the cab felt very, very warm.
“Let’s see if she’ll turn,” Steve muttered, twisting the key in the ignition.
“What do you mean, let’s see?” you asked warily, tugging at the collar of your shirt. “And does this thing have air-conditioning?”
Steve pressed his lips together. “Air-conditioning would be the very thing that puts Lucy in the ground.” He tried again—the engine sputtered, then died. “She’s a little rough around the edges, but… she should come around.”
Your eyes fluttered shut as you focused on your hands folded in your lap, realizing what you had gotten yourself into. You were in the middle of pretty much nowhere, with spotty service, no sleep, wedged into a truck with two men you had never even met, headed for a house where who knew what kind of bugs were waiting for you.
“Oh my god,” you whispered to yourself, voice shaky.
Steve glanced at you, his expression softening just slightly. “Hey—don’t panic. She’ll start. Just gotta—” he turned the key again, then once more. The engine finally roared to life, rattling violently as the truck shook beneath you.
“There we go.”
Bucky rested his arm out the window, flashing Steve a grin over your head. “Our lucky day, you said?”
The corner of Steve’s mouth tugged into a smirk as he shifted into drive. “Don’t get greedy.”
As Steve pulled onto the road, the truck rattled and shook over every rock and rut. You reached for the seatbelt, tugging at it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Seatbelts don’t work, sweetheart,” Steve said, glancing over at you with a reassuring smile before returning his focus to the road. “Just try to hold on tight.”
That did very little to calm you.
That was a safety hazard and straight up illegal.
You pressed your palms flat against your thighs, shoulders rigid. Your eyes switched between the flaws of the old truck— to the web of cracks in the window, to the dust on the dash—and the unfamiliar stretch of land rolling past. The farther you got from town, the quieter it became. Fewer houses, fewer people—just fields and fences stretching on forever.
Bucky could feel how tense you were from the faint brush of your shoulder against his.
“You alright?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. “You look like you’re thinkin’ about jumpin’ out and runnin’.”
You looked up at him and forced a laugh, though it came out thin and brittle. “I’m fine. Just… adjusting, I think.”
“A lot different than city life, huh?” Steve asked from the driver’s seat.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “This is… very different.”
“Well,” Steve said, resting one hand on the window sill and the other on the wheel, “since we’ve got a bit of a drive, why don’t you tell us more about this research project of yours?”
“Yeah,” Bucky added. “You studyin’ cows or somethin’?”
“Not just cows,” you said. “Basically, when communities are geographically isolated, access to veterinary care, supplemental feed, and modern equipment becomes limited. That can unintentionally alter breeding cycles. Livestock may breed earlier or later in the season, fertility rates can fluctuate, and stress levels directly affect overall yield.”
Bucky scratched at his chin, letting out a thoughtful hum. “Breeding…”
Steve glared at him over your head.
You just kept going, oblivious as your hands lifted slightly as you explained, slipping deeper into familiar academic territory.
“I’m also comparing seasonal fertility rates,” you said. “In places like this, breeding windows tend to be less controlled, which can lead to overlap between generations. That affects herd structure, genetic diversity, and long-term productivity.”
Bucky nodded slowly, eyes still on the road ahead. “Uncontrolled breedin’, huh.”
“Buck,” Steve warned.
“What? I’m not doin’ anything.”
You glanced between them, finally catching the smirk tugging at Bucky’s mouth as he fought back a laugh and the disapproving look on Steve’s face, despite the smile he was clearly trying to hide by staring out the window.
For fuck’s sake.
You were realizing now that Dirty Man One and Dirty Man Two were trying to crack inappropriate sex jokes.
“Jesus,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “You men are disgusting.”
“Hey! Don’t lump me in with him,” Steve said quickly. “I’m the one tryin’ to get him to settle down.”
The rest of the drive was surprisingly pleasant. Both of them asked about your school and your research, and every time you answered in more detail, you noticed their slightly dazed and confused expressions. Steve tended to ask the more in-depth questions, genuinely curious, while Bucky nodded along like he understood every word.
The truck bounced and swayed over ruts, rocks, and packed dirt as Steve turned into a long, wide driveway. Ahead stood a large farmhouse, with a smaller cabin-like building off to the side.
Farther to the left sat another structure.
A very, very small one.
Too small to be a house, but just big enough to be a storage shed.
“Here we are,” Steve announced as the truck rumbled to a stop and the engine cut out.
You raised a finger, pointing to the small shed. “Is that—”
Before you could finish the question, both men opened their doors and hopped out of the truck without a word. They grabbed your luggage—now smudged with grime and dirt—and started carrying it to the shed.
You scrambled out of the truck, nearly stumbling as your feet hit the ground, and hurried after them.
“Wait—hey!” you called, jogging to keep up as they headed straight for the shed. “T-that’s not where I’m staying, is it?”
Bucky glanced back over his shoulder, adjusting his grip on one of your suitcases. “That little building over there? Yeah. That’s it.”
Steve slowed a little, giving you a little apologetic look as you caught up. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he promised. “My mom used it as a guest place for a bit. Solid roof, no leaks—”
“And a whole lot better than the farmhouse Fury was gonna stick you in,” Bucky added.
You looked at the structure again as you walked —weathered wood, a single small window, and a door that had clearly seen better decades. Your pace faltered.
“Guys,” you said flatly. “That is a shed.”
Bucky stopped in front of it and set the luggage down, turning to face you with a grin.
“Technically,” he said, “it’s a converted shed.” He lifted a hand just in time to catch the key Steve tossed his way.
“We fixed it up, mostly.” Steve looked down at your expression, the way your teeth caught your bottom lip and the weary, beady eyes you’ve been wearing ever since they picked you up in their truck.
Without thinking, he rested a protective hand at your back, drawing your attention.
“I know this is different from the city life you’re used to,” he said gently. “But I promise, it just needs a few touch-ups. You’ll get comfortable in no time.”
The way Steve looked at you eased the tension in your chest. His smile was warm, his voice patient and kind. And if Fury said this was the one you could trust, then so be it.
“Thank you, Steve.”
The other one, on the other hand…
Bucky unlocked the door with a huff. Dust immediately billowed out, making him cough as he waved a hand in front of his face. He glanced back at you and Steve.
“Oh, by the way,” he said. “There’s no bathroom in here.”
Perfect.
Bucky nudged the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside, his heavy work boots creaking against the frail wooden floorboards. Steve followed, setting your luggage just inside the doorway.
You hesitated at the doorframe before stepping in after them.
The place was ridiculously tiny. One narrow room with a low ceiling, a single window coated in dust, furniture and cabinets that looked like it could barely hold up. It smelled like old wood, hay, oil and something faintly metallic—you didn’t know what.
Back in the city, you had white walls, clean linens, and the oddly relaxing hum of traffic outside your window. Here, you had stained wallpaper peeling at the edges and bawking chickens.
For your research project, you reminded yourself. You chose this.
Bucky looked around with his hands on his hips. “It’s small,” he said thoughtfully, “but I think it’s the perfect size for a girl like you.”
He smiled, and you weren’t entirely sure how you were supposed to take that.
When he noticed your silence, the smile slipped just a bit. “You okay?”
You snapped out of it, nodding a little too fast. “Yeah, I just…” You exhaled, rubbing your arms. “I think I really need a shower. If that’s—uh—even possible.”
“Oh,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Sure. But you’re not doin’ that here.”
You gave Steve a look, almost like a silent plea for backup, but he only shrugged in response as Bucky continued, smirk firmly in place.
“C’mon. Our place is right next door. Real bathroom. Hot water.”
You shifted on your feet, eyeing them both suspiciously. “And the door,” you asked carefully, “it locks?”
The two men exchanged a silent look, and immediately, you regretted asking. Here they were—offering you a ride, a place to stay they’d fix up just for you, even letting you use their shower—and you’d gone and asked if the lock worked, as if you were accusing them of being some kind of creeps.
But then they blinked at each other and burst into laughter.
Bucky let out a sharp bark, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he grinned. “It locks.”
Steve wiped at his face, trying to rein it in. “You know, you’ve got men out here showerin’ in their front lawns with a bucket of water and a bar of soap,” he added. “But I get it. Can’t blame you for askin’. City instincts.”
Your face immediately burned with embarassment. You’ve delt with your fair share of annoying men in the city, but it was something about being surrounded by farmer men that made the teasing feel ten times more insufferating.
“Yeah,” you mumbled, crossing your arms. “Very funny.”
Still smiling, Steve wiped at the corner of his eye and motioned toward the door. “Come on. Follow us—we’ll show you where you can wash up.”
After you quickly grabbed a fresh set of clothes out of your luggage, they led the way across the yard, Steve out front and Bucky hanging back just enough to make sure you were keeping up. The dirt path had been worn smooth by years of boots and tires, and on either side of it the farm stretched out in every direction.
Cows clustered near the fence line, tails swishing lazily. A pair of horses lifted their heads as you passed, ears flicking toward you with mild curiosity. Chickens roamed freely, darting around your feet like they owned the place. Everything felt alive— busy and loud in ways that reminded you of the city, though it couldn’t have been more different.
The farm loomed closer as you approached—big, solid, and weathered, with hay bales stacked nearby and buckets of feed scattered around the yard.
Walking past, you reached the house itself. It was a small, one-story, cabin-like structure built from dark wood. The door creaked as Steve pushed it open, and the scent inside was a stark contrast to the earthy, animal smells outside.
From the doorway, you could smell the soap, clean laundry, and coffee. You were met with heavy wooden furniture. Worn floors. Tools leaned neatly against one wall. A pair of muddy boots sat by the door.
Very manly was the only way you could describe it.
Steve stepped aside to let you in. “Watch your step.”
As you stepped in, dodging the muddy boots, the house felt sturdy and lived-in. Not polished, but definitely cared for.
Bucky shut the door behind you with his heel and jerked his head down the narrow hallway. “Bathroom’s this way.”
You followed, your gaze drifting over the details as you walked by. Family photos tacked messily to the wall—they didn’t look alike at all, had different lastnames, so siblings seemed unlikely, yet there were dozens of pictures of them together from childhood. A calendar hung nearby, crowded with notes about feed deliveries and vet visits, all scrawled in incomprehensible, sloppy boy handwriting.
Bucky paused and pointed at one of the photos—a younger version of him and Steve standing side by side with crooked smiles.
“Handsome, ain’t he?” he asked, tapping at himself.
You couldn’t help but grin. “I’ve seen better.”
Steve snorted while Bucky rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. He stopped at the last door and pushed it open with his knuckle.
“Here we go.”
The bathroom was small but clean. White tile lined the walls, a deep tub sat beneath a real showerhead, and shelves held neatly folded towels alongside mismatched bottles of soap. A narrow window above the sink let in a stripe of late-afternoon light, dust motes drifting lazily in the air.
“Hot water takes a minute,” Bucky said, leaning against the wall. “Gotta let it run first.”
You looked between the two men, clutching your folded clothes to your chest. “Thank you—both of you. I really appreciate this.”
“Don’t mention it,” Steve said with a casual wave of his hand. “A friend of Fury’s is a friend of ours.”
Bucky pushed himself off the wall and stepped aside, giving you room to enter. “Steve and I will clean up the shed while you’re in here. By the time you’re done, it should be ready with the mattress and all.”
Your smile softened as you glanced at him. “You guys are great. Seriously, I couldn’t be—”
“Just make sure you shout us out in that research paper,” Bucky cut in with a grin, resting his hand on the doorknob. “And don’t forget to let the water run. Enjoy your shower, pretty girl.”
The door shut softly behind you.
And on the other side, Steve immediately whacked the back of Bucky’s head.
“Pretty girl? Pretty girl?” Steve whisper-yelled. “Are you kidding me?”
Bucky winced, rubbing the back of his head as they headed down the hall towards the front door. “What? She is pretty, Steve. And don’t act like you’re any better. ‘Sweetheart’? Really?”
“I’m trying to be respectful, Buck,” Steve sighed as he pushed the front door open.
“And I was being respectful,” Bucky clicked his tongue. “You know how rare it is for a beautfiul woman like that to be around here. Gotta make a good first impression.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “Get your head out of your ass. A girl like that would want nothing to do with dirty men like us.”
“Oh—come on, Steve,” Bucky whined, following after him like a bug in the air, “why you gotta be so hopeless, man?”
“Not hopeless,” Steve corrected, pushing the shed door open. “Realistic.”
Bucky scoffed as he followed him inside, heading straight for the closet. He hauled out the folded air mattress and the old hand pump, dropping them onto the floor. “Yeah, yeah. Still—doesn’t hurt to imagine, you know?”
Steve grabbed the broom and dustpan from the corner and started clearing dust and debris. “Imagine what, exactly?”
Bucky grinned, eyes drifting back to the window that faced the house for a second before he caught himself.
“I dunno. Coming home after a long day, boots covered in dirt, back sore as hell—and there she is. Clean, soft, talkin’ about all that smart stuff she knows. Maybe dinner’s on the stove, or she’s sittin’ at the front there with a book, lookin’ all pretty.”
Steve snorted. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“Have not,” Bucky said, laying the mattress out where Steve had just swept and starting to pump air into it. “Tell me you wouldn’t want that—a gorgeous girl like that walkin’ around the house, keepin’ it warm and cozy—barefoot and all.”
Steve went quiet as he lifted an old bed frame and leaned it against the wall. He didn’t answer right away, but the faint pink creeping up his ears gave him away at the thought.
“…I guess,” he admitted slowly, “it’d be nice to have someone to come home to.”
Bucky’s grin turned smug instantly. “Ah. There it is.”
“She’s here for research,” Steve reminded him firmly, snapping himself back to reality. “Not to get hitched to a couple of guys who spend all day haulin’ logs and tendin’ cattle.”
“But picture this, Stevie—” Bucky glanced up as he crouched on the floor, steadily pumping air into the mattress. “You work yourself half to death,” he went on, muscles flexing. “We both do. Up before the sun, down after it sets. Muscles sore, hands cracked, brain fried.” He slowed, leaning his weight against the pump. “Wouldn’t kill us to have someone who… helps take the edge off.”
“Jesus Christ,” Steve groaned, turning to try and hide the blush on his cheeks. “You’re gross, man.”
“Look—” Bucky sighed as he stood, “we haven’t had a woman like that around here in a long time. And she’s not just any woman—she’s smart.” He shook his head, scoffing lightly. “A man’s allowed to dream about comin’ home to somethin’ nice. Maybe even havin’ a smooth pair of legs wrapped nice and tight around—”
His voice trailed off as his eyes caught sight of you through the window.
You stood on the front porch, barefoot, a towel draped around your shoulders as water dripped from your hair. You were dressed in something light and easy—a dress. Nothing fancy, but far more comfortable than what you’d worn when they first met you.
… And somehow, far more domestic.
Steve followed Bucky’s gaze, his breath hitching once he saw you. Bucky swallowed hard. Neither of them spoke.
Then, they finally looked at each other, faces warm, wearing the same boyish, awed grin—just like the ones frozen in those crooked childhood photos on the wall.
“Pretty,” they both murmured at the exact same time.
They watched as you lifted a hand to shield your eyes, squinting against the afternoon sun as you scanned the yard. You took a few steps down the porch, bare feet tip-toeing around the dirt as you tried to squint at the shed.
Bucky straightened immediately, dropping the pump as it hit the wooden floors with a loud thud. “She’s lookin’ for us.”
Steve was already moving, setting the broom aside so quickly it wobbled, then clattered against the wall before falling to the floor. “Well—don’t just stand there!”
They headed for the door at the same time, bumping shoulders as they squeezed past each other, neither willing to give ground. When you spotted them walking toward you with Steve taking the lead and Bucky half a step behind, clearly trying to edge ahead, a small smile spread across your face.
“Oh—there you two are. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to—” you sighed in relief, gesturing vaguely at the farm around you. “—wander.”
Bucky let out a short chuckle, rocking back on his heels as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You can wander all you’d like, darlin’,” he said. “What’s ours is yours.”
The nickname threw you off guard. You felt your face warm, heat creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the sun as you tucked a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Back in the city, men didn’t really talk like that unless they were intoxicated at a bar and trying to get in your pants.
But this felt different. Maybe it was just that gentleman, charming, farmer boy thing.
“Oh,” you said, a little breathless. “That’s—uh… really sweet. Thank you, Bucky.”
Steve gave Bucky a look out of the corner of his eye—a careful look. Bucky, meanwhile, looked far too pleased with himself.
“Just don’t go wanderin’ too far, baby,” Steve added quickly, stepping up onto the porch beside you. “Some of the fences are old, and the horses don’t always respect personal place.”
If you hadn’t been flustered before, you definitely were now.
You didn’t get called things like darlin’ or baby very often, and even when you did, the words had never affected you like this. Not the way they sounded coming from two devastatingly handsome, accommodating men with soft southern accents.
“I—okay,” you said quickly, nodding as you snapped yourself out of it, though the corners of your mouth still tugged into a smile. “I’ll be careful.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he glanced at Steve, then back at you, his own lips twitching like he was biting back a comment.
“We’ve fixed up the shed for you,” Bucky said instead, propping one leg on the porch step and resting a hand on the railing. “Mattress is ready if you wanna rest. You wanna take a look?”
Your attention drifted past the shed, toward the open fields, the fencing, and the animals moving lazily across the land.
“Actually,” you trailed, removing the towel from your shoulders, “would it be okay if I checked out the animals first?”
Bucky tilted his head. “Animals?”
“For my research,” you clarified quickly. “I’d really like to get an initial survey while there’s still daylight. Just some baseline observations—livestock condition, spacing, behavior. I won’t get in the way.”
Steve exchanged a glance with Bucky—a look you’d noticed they shared often since you arrived.
Then Steve smiled back at you. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just—” he gestured vaguely to the fences, “—stay where we can see you. Okay?”
“Don’t worry,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully. “I’m not planning on getting lost.”
As you turned back to the house, already half a step up the porch with the intention of grabbing your shoes, something caught the corner of your eye. Your gaze snapped to the far end of the pasture, where a small cluster of animals had gathered. A few cows wandered lazily nearby, but it was two chickens in particular that caught your attention.
A hen crouched low to the ground, wings spread slightly, tail lifted—while a rooster mounted her from behind.
Your eyes went wide.
“Oh—wait, wait, wait!”
Shoes forgotten entirely, you pivoted on your heel and hurried back down the porch steps, already digging your phone out of your dress pocket. “This is perfect timing! Hold this—please—”
Behind you, Steve barely had time to react before the towel was tossed his way, landing squarely over his head.
“Hey—” he started, but you were already jogging barefoot across the dirt, eyes locked on the breeding chickens.
Your hair breezed through wind and they got a good whiff of the pleasant scent before you ran off. Despite using the same shampoo as them, it smelled surprisingly soft and very feminine. A smell they weren’t used to, but one they’d easily grow fond of.
You slowed as you got closer, steadying your hands, snapping a few quick photos as discreetly as possible, and crouching slightly to keep from startling them. Your lips moved as you narrated under your breath.
Bucky stared after you, incredulous, before letting out a low whistle. He nudged Steve in the arm just as Steve pulled the towel off his face.
“What’d I tell you?” Bucky murmured with a crooked grin. “Barefoot—” he nodded inside the house, still warm and humid from your shower, “—and already keepin’ the house warm.”
“Alright. Enough gawking,” Steve warned, though his eyes were still still fixed on you. “Just ’cause we’ve got a pretty girl livin’ with us now doesn’t mean we don’t have work to do.”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, keep tellin’ yourself that while you stare even harder.”
For the rest of the afternoon, until the sun laid low and the sky began to darken, the two men worked diligently around the farm. And despite Steve’s warnings not to gawk, their eyes found you anyway—again and again.
You crouched near the animals, scribbling notes into your journal, occasionally lifting an expensive-looking camera—one in far better condition than their own damn truck—to snap photos of the cattle. And even after they’d warned you about the fences, you climbed up onto the railings anyway, the wood creaking beneath your toes as you leaned forward, determined to get the perfect shot of the horses.
Wood was getting stacked, hay bales tossed aside, tools scattered and gathered again as needed.
Still, every so often, Steve would glance up from his work to try and look at you, but only to catch Bucky leaning against the farmhouse doorway, eyes trailing shamelessly in your direction.
“Whatcha starin’ at, Buck?” Steve grinned as he tied off a rope around a hay bale.
Bucky didn’t look away from you. His smile softened as he watched the way you held the camera carefully, how your toes balanced on the fence rail, the breeze tugging gently at your hair and dress.
“Just admirin’ the view.”
Steve’s gaze followed his, and he let out a low groan as he stood up. “She’s gonna fall off that fence if she keeps leanin’ over like that.”
“And we’ll be there to catch her,” Bucky replied with a grin, pushing off the doorframe to help with the bales.
You had no idea you were being watched so closely.
Unbeknownst to them, you had been sneaking glances of your own towards the farm. Their white tank tops—streaked with dirt and darkened with sweat—clung to their muscular bodies. Broad arms and strong backs flexed and tensed every time they lifted something heavy. Each hay bale toss came with a grit of teeth, a scrunched brow, and a low, rough groan.
And afterward, they would both exhale deeply, chests rising as they wiped sweat from their foreheads with thick forearms.
They were both strong, capable men—reeking of masculinity, so sure with their hands with what came from years of real work.
Men you’d never meet in the city.
Night had fully settled in now, the sky stretched dark blue and wide, scattered with bright stars. From where you stood, you watched Steve and Bucky just outside the house, pumping water through the pipes as they rinsed off their hands and faces.
Water trickled from their chins, disappearing into the deep lines of their firm chests beneath worn tank tops. They wiped their faces with towels, murmured something to each other—and then both turned your way.
Two sets of eyes found yours that stared at them shamelessly.
You immediately looked down at your camera screen, pretending to be fixated on the chickens you photographed as you tried to play it cool.
Then you heard footsteps, two sets of heavy footsteps treading through the grass and dirt and closer to you.
Fuck.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve approached, crossing his arms while he looked down at you. “We were gonna grab some food in a bit. You hungry?”
“Oh,” you hummed, your stomach already answering with a rumble. “Yeah. I could eat.”
“Every Friday night, the town heads down to the bar,” Steve continued. “More of a saloon, really. Beer, cheap whiskey, food. Sometimes there’s live music if Gary brings his guitar—or the jukebox, if it decides to work.”
“And line dancin’,” Bucky added. “Bad line dancin’.”
“I’m not sure if you have that kind of thing in the city,” Steve went on, resting a hand against the fence as he hovered over you, “but if you wanna tag along for a bite, you’re more than welcome.”
You closed your journal and slipped the camera strap from around your neck, standing with a small groan as you stretched. You were here for research, yes, but it wouldn’t hurt to see what the town had to offer beyond livestock and open fields.
“That sounds fun,” you said, smiling. “I’ll come. I just need to rinse up real quick and I’ll be right out.”
Your gaze dropped to your feet, dirt caked between your toes, bits of grass still clinging to your skin. Then you glanced down at your clothes.
“Is… what I’m wearing okay?” you asked, a little self-conscious as you smoothed the fabric down.
Steve’s eyes dropped before he could stop them, taking in the way the dress fit you—how it followed and hugged your curves, how the neckline framed your chest just right. Realizing how intensely he was staring, he snapped his gaze back up to your face. His jaw tightened as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Yeah,” he nodded quickly, standing up straight. Then he cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s— it’s fine. You’re fine.”
Bucky, on the other hand, took your question as an invitation to check you out shamelessly. His eyes roamed over you—appreciating your chest and legs. Liking what he saw, his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip, teeth catching it afterward.
“Real pretty, doll,” he said lowly. “Wearin’ a dress like that around here… almost makes me wanna keep you to ourselves.”
You rolled your eyes, hoping the silver moonlight didn’t betray the flush on your cheeks or the way your lips twitched into a reluctant smile.
“You two are unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head as you stepped past them towards the house.
Halfway to the porch, you called back over your shoulder, your voice playful. “Do you flirt with every woman who crosses your path, or am I just lucky?”
Bucky’s mouth snapped open—a smart-ass remark already locked and loaded—but Steve cut him off instantly, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “Hey now! Don’t look at me. It’s him. He’s the problem.”
The sound of your light, airy laugh drifted back to them—a sound so soft and gentle, it seemed to knock the air right out of their lungs.
“I’ll be back in a minute!” you called with a wave, jogging up the porch steps and disappearing inside.
“Don’t take too long!” Bucky shouted after you. “Or else all the food will be gone by the time we get there.”
As the screen door clicked shut and you vanished from sight, their laughter trailed off. The silence of the countryside came back, broken only by the faint chirps of crickets in the distance.
Steve let out a heavy exhale, rubbing the back of his neck.
“…We gotta get a grip,” he muttered.
“I’m being serious, Stevie,” Bucky said, giving his friend’s arm a sharp nudge.
His flirtatious smirk was gone, now replaced with a protective look that Steve had only seen him give to their horses.
“I mean—look at her. If she shows up at the bar looking like that, every bastard in the county is going to be breathing down her neck.” He crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the door where you had just been.
“…Yeah,” Steve huffed quietly. “I know.” His gaze stayed on the house, tracking your silhouette as it moved past the lit windows.
“Hell, half the men in this town would get worked up just seein’ a lady show a bit of ankle,” Steve added dryly. “I still can’t believe Fury told her to come to this dump.”
Bucky let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Listen to us—soundin’ real territorial all of a sudden.”
Steve scrubbed a hand down his face, his palm rasping against his stubble. “It’s just—she’s our responsibility while she’s here. Fury trusted us to look out for her. That’s all it is.”
“Yeah,” Bucky hummed. “That’s all.”
They stood in the yard, watching you move past the glow of the house windows.
In the long silence, they both realized how dead wrong they were. Truthfully, they weren’t all that much better compared to the sleazy, overworked men in town.
When they first laid eyes on you, they immediately wanted to keep you to themselves. And despite only having you here for a couple of hours, they were going to make sure to keep it that way.
Steve started talking lowly to Bucky, quiet enough to make sure you couldn’t hear—even though you were already inside.
“We stick close tonight. No one bothers her. No one gets handsy. And if anyone does—” Steve stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. “—we shut it down. Calmly.” He emphasized.
“Right.” Bucky nodded. “Calmly.”
“That means we don’t start fights, Buck.”
“Hey—I don’t believe in startin’ fights,” he mumbled, crossing his arms defensively. “Just… finishin’ ‘em.”
“Alright, enough loitering. Let’s start up Lucy.” Steve slapped a firm hand on Bucky’s back, nudging him towards the truck.
Bucky mumbled grumpily but trailed behind anyway, yanking the hood latch and propping it open while Steve climbed into the driver’s seat. The keys jingled as Steve turned the ignition.
The truck clicked, chugged, whined, and gave them nothing.
He tried again. Another cough, a weak sputter—and then silence.
“… You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Steve muttered, giving Bucky a flat look through the windshield.
Bucky leaned over the engine bay, bracing one hand on the frame. “Don’t look at me like that. She was runnin’ fine earlier.”
“Well, she’s got real bad timing,” Steve shot back sassily, twisting the key once more, like sheer will might help. The engine answered with a pathetic hiccup and died again. “We can’t invite her out and then tell her the truck’s dead.”
“I didn’t invite her,” Bucky said, poking at a hose. “You did.”
“Oh, don’t start.”
Bucky adjusted a loose wire, fingers blackening with grease. “Try it now.”
Steve turned the key, and still… nothing.
Steve leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling sharply. “Unbelievable. First night she’s here, and we’re about to tell her we can’t even get her into town.”
“Relax,” Bucky said, though his jaw was tight. “Lucy’s temperamental. Always has been.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and bent closer to look inside the engine. “Could be the starter. Or the battery. Or—”
The screen door slammed shut, and both men froze at the sound.
You stepped back out, shoes on this time, hair neatly fixed, looking entirely too put together for a place like this. You jogged towards the truck, a smile already on your face.
“Hey!” you called brightly. “You guys ready?”
Steve’s head snapped up so fast he nearly cracked his neck. Bucky straightened, narrowly missing the hood as he stood.
“Yeah—uh—we’re ready,” Steve said quickly, turning the key again. “C’mon…” he muttered under his breath.
Then the engine finally roared back to life, loud and rumbling, sounding like music to their ears. Both men looked at each other in disbelief.
Bucky slowly lowered the hood and gave it an affectionate pat. “Atta girl,” he murmured. Then he glanced at Steve, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Our good luck charm, ain’t she?”
Steve shook his head, trying to hide his own smile. “Yeah. She is.”
And you couldn’t tell if they were talking about the truck—or you.
Lucy rattled beneath you like she was held together by sheer luck alone.
The ride into town was loud and bumpy, the streets dark and lit only by the truck’s dusty high beams and the occasional window light from passing houses.
The windows were down, warm night air rushing through the cab, drifting in the scent of dust, grass, and something smoky from farther ahead. Steve drove with one hand on the wheel, relaxed now that the truck had decided to cooperate, while Bucky leaned back in his seat, elbow hooked out the window.
Town came into view slowly—a handful of buildings clustered under string lights and old streetlamps. It looked far more beautiful than it had in the broad daylight when you first arrived. The bar stood near the center, a squat wooden building with a faded sign swinging above the door. Even before Steve cut the engine, the twang of banjos and guitars met your ears.
“Well,” Steve said, hopping out and extending a hand to help you down. “We made it.”
The moment you stepped inside, you were greeted with the sounds of loud music, laughter, and the smell of cigarettes.
Glasses clinked, boots thudded and scraped against the old floorboards. A few men with weathered faces leaned against the bar with their sleeves rolled up, while a group of elderly women sat at a corner table with playing cards spread out before them. Someone whooped near the jukebox, and a few people were already on the floor, dancing and sweating.
One pair of eyes landed on you, then several.
Soon enough, nearly everyone in the damn bar was staring.
Conversation grew a little quieter. Curious, surprised, and a few openly appreciative glances lingered on you longer than they should’ve. You crossed your arms defensively on instinct, suddenly very aware of yourself.
And both of your boys noticed.
Steve stepped up beside you, resting a protective hand on your lower back that somehow managed to soothe you. Bucky moved to your other side quietly, his broad shoulders subtly boxing you in as he glared at everyone else in the room.
Most of the crowd looked away and returned to their drinks, but the younger men kept their eyes fixed on you.
“Don’t mind them,” Bucky murmured, leaning in so only you could hear. “Town don’t get many new faces. Especially not pretty ones.”
Before you could respond, someone at the bar shouted, “Rogers! Barnes! Thought that was Lucy I heard coughin’ her way into town!”
Steve laughed, lifting his other hand in greeting. “You know she wouldn’t miss a Friday.”
The elderly men at the bar chuckled, and one of them leaned back on his stool to get a better look at you. “Well, don’t just stand there hoggin’ her, Rogers,” he called out. “Come on over and introduce us to your new friend.”
You hesitated, your eyes darting between Steve and Bucky. Despite the protective hand on your back, Steve’s expression remained calm and gentle, clearly intent on not starting any trouble. Bucky, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to fight anyone who even dared to look your way.
“They’re alright,” Steve reassured you quietly. “Promise. Half the fellas at the bar are married.”
Then a burst of laughter exploded from a table near the back where a group of women sat hunched over cards and half-empty glasses—clearly the wives in question. One of them slapped the table. “That’s because you earned it, Marie!” another shouted back. “Now stop yellin’ and play your damn hand!”
You couldn’t help but smile.
Steve gave you a gentle nudge. “C’mon. Let’s say hello.”
They led you toward the bar, Steve’s hand relaxed and guiding at your back while Bucky stalked half a step behind you, mugging everyone who looked your way. The older men adjusted their stools, flashing friendly smiles as they made space for you.
“This is Frank,” Steve said by way of introduction, and you reached out to shake his hand.
“So,” Frank raised a brow, looking between the three of you. “Who’s the young lady?”
You returned his greeting with a polite smile. “I’m a family friend of Fury’s. I’m here for a research project.”
“Ohhh, Fury’s girl?” the bartender whistled, wiping down a glass. “Well, hell—someone warn the whole town not to lay a finger on this one.”
A few men barked a laugh, the scent of beer wafting from their breath, as Frank waved a finger between Bucky and Steve.
“Specially you two,” he said, looking at you. “These guys are the ones causin’ most of the trouble around here. Fury actually trusted you with them?”
“Hey, we’re perfect gentlemen,” Steve countered. “Ain’t that right, Buck?”
“Right,” Bucky muttered, his arms crossed as he glared at someone across the bar. “Gentlemen.”
You shrugged lightly, smiling. “They’ve been nothing but nice. They even fixed up a shed for me to stay in.”
“A shed?” one man barked, spit nearly flying. You took a subtle step back. “Rogers, Barnes—you stick a girl in a shed and call it hospitality?”
“Don’t sully my ma’s house like that,” Steve joked, reaching over the counter to grab himself a beer.
“Y’know, when Sarah was alive, she didn’t call it much of a house, either,” Frank added, stifling his cigarette in the ashtray as a cloud of smoke drifted toward you.
Steve reached over the counter again, this time snagging two more bottles and sliding cash to the bartender with a nod of thanks.
“Alright, alright,” he said good-naturedly. “Before you all start fillin’ our girl’s ears with nonsense, we’re gonna grab a table.”
Bucky tipped his chin to the back corner. “There’s an empty one over there.”
Steve nodded in that direction, gesturing for you to lead the way.
“Oh, so she’s your girl now!” the men teased, their laughter following you. As the three of you walked away, they called out their goodbyes. “It was nice meetin’ you, sweetheart!”
You looked over your shoulder, giving them a quick wave.
“And it was nice talkin’ to you too, Barnes!” Frank shouted sarcastically. Bucky didn’t even look back, simply raising a hand in a dismissive wave as he guided you to the booth.
Bucky stood aside, letting you take the inside seat of the booth. As you slid in, the cushions felt worn and soft—broken in by years of Friday nights exactly like this one. Once you were settled and had set your beer set on the table, Bucky slid in right next to you.
“I’ll grab us somethin’ to eat,” Steve said, standing at the edge of the table and scanning the chalkboard menu. “Place may be small and reeks of cigarettes, but they do grill a mean burger.”
You smiled up at him. “I’ll trust your judgment.”
Steve turned back toward the bar, weaving his way through the crowd. It was just you and Bucky now, surrounded by the loud music and people nearly tripping over themselves. You took it all in with curious eyes while Bucky leaned back against the booth, his arm draped lazily across the top of the seat behind you, beer resting casually in his hand.
“So,” Bucky huffed after taking a sip. “How’re you likin’ the small-town nightlife? Real glitz and glamour out here.”
Your eyes continued scanning the room—the scuffed, dirty floors, the dartboard with three crooked darts still stuck in it, and some burly men arm wrestling in the opposite corner.
“Oh, yeah,” you agreed sarcastically. “Definitely glitz and glamour. We do this all the time back in the city.”
“Yeah?” he laughed softly. “Definitely just like the champagne-and-rooftop parties you have every night. Uh-huh, got it.” He smiled at you before taking another swig of his beer.
You watched the lines crinkle attractively at the corners of his tired eyes—evidence of long days and too little rest. His tongue swept across his bottom lip to catch a stray drop, and the simple motion made your stomach flip, your pulse ticking up a notch.
You took a quick sip from your own bottle to hide your reaction, then cleared your throat.
“Anyway,” you started lightly, “what’s with everyone telling me that you two are trouble?”
Bucky let out a playful scoff. “That’s just old-timer slander. We’re model citizens.”
You gave him a skeptical look. “Right. So innocent that every person I’ve met has warned me about you two,” you added dryly.
“Absolutely,” he said, lifting his beer in a small toast. “Wouldn’t hurt a damn fly, darlin’.”
“Does that explain why you’ve been scowling at every man in here like you’re ready to fight since we walked through the doors?” you taunted.
He set his beer on the table and leaned in closer; you could catch the scent of it on his breath. “Look around you, sweetheart,” he rasped.
You did. The room was full of weathered faces, grease-stained flannel shirts, and men who had clearly seen better days. Most of the women were gathered at the cards table—all silver hair and loud, gravelly laughter.
“See any other woman as young and beautiful as you?” he asked. His eyes trailed over your face, down to your jawline and your neck while you were too busy scanning the bar to notice. “Stevie and I are just protectin’ you, that’s all.”
Protecting you?
Your face warmed, and the second you turned your gaze back to him, you found he was already watching you, leaning in dangerously close.
“That so?” you asked softly, your eyes searching his.
“That’s so,” he repeated lowly. You watched as his gaze dropped slowly from your eyes to your lips.
In the city, independence was everything; women were expected to take care of themselves. But here, it felt like those modern rules had been stripped away in favor of the old ways. It was traditional—strong, capable men protecting and providing while the women held down the home. It was a lifestyle that didn’t—couldn’t— exist in the city where everyone was always on the clock.
Just then, Steve approached, setting down plates piled with burgers, fries, and ribs. He had a wide grin on his face. “Eat up, princess.”
As you looked at the food and then back at the two of them, you realized that maybe you didn’t mind being taken care of—especially by them.
You all dug in, the smell of grilled meat and greasy fries making your stomach rumble. Bucky took a massive bite of his burger, already smearing sauce across his chin. He glanced over at you, smirking while he chewed.
“Bet you don’t eat this kind of slop back in the city, do ya?” he teased, nodding at your hands as you tried to steady a burger the size of your head. “Probably don’t even know how to eat with your hands.”
You rolled your eyes. “I do know how to eat with my hands,” you said, adjusting your grip. “I’m just eating with manners—something you two should try learning.”
“Hey, don’t be afraid of a little mess,” Bucky said, swiping a finger over a barbecue rib until it was coated in sauce. “That’s part of the fun.”
Steve gave him a disapproving look across the table. “Buck, no—”
But Steve’s warning went in one ear and out the other. Before you could react, Bucky reached over and swiped a thick line of barbecue sauce right over your lips and chin.
“Hey—!” You recoiled, pressing your lips tight to keep his finger from slipping into your mouth. Bucky sat back in his seat, letting out a roar of laughter at your reaction.
“Oh my god, Bucky! You are trouble!”
You reached for a napkin, but Steve snatched it away before you could grab it, snickering along with his friend.
“Steve, you too?!” you frowned dramatically, dropping your burger back onto the plate. You stood up, reaching across the booth to grab it, but Steve held it further back, laughing at your sad attempt. “How could you do this to me? You literally told Bucky no!”
“I know, I know,” he laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. “But look at you—you look so damn cute, sweetheart.”
With a groan, you leaned over the table, stretching just far enough to snatch the napkins right out of Steve’s hands. You immediately started dabbing at the mess on your chin.
“Jesus,” you said, shaking your head playfully. “Nick was right about you two.”
All three of you were still recovering from the laughter when two large shadows fell over the table, blocking the warm overhead light.
“Well, well,” a slurred voice drawled, catching the guys' attention. “Ain’t this a pretty picture.”
Bucky looked up, and it was like a dark cloud loomed over him; his smile was instantly replaced by a hard, dangerous frown. “Get lost, Mike.”
‘Mike’ didn’t even glance at Bucky. Instead, his bleary gaze raked over you, slow and hazy in a way that made your skin prick uncomfortably. You sank back into your seat, subtly trying to hide yourself behind Bucky’s frame.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” Mike said, leaning his hands on the edge of the booth, trying to keep himself from toppling over. You could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath from across the table. “Didn’t know Buck was harborin’ such a pretty little secret. Take a look at this prize, Dave.”
His buddy, ‘Dave’, snickered beside him, resting a lazy arm around Mike’s shoulders. “Oh, what a pretty thing you are. City girl, right? You bored with these two yet? You know, we could show you a real good time.”
Steve shot you a careful look. “Just ignore them—”
“I’m good where I am, thanks,” you answered sternly, the words out before you could even register Steve’s warning.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving Mike’s. “I said get lost.”
They ignored him again.
Mike tilted his head at you, a lopsided, ugly smirk on his face as he adjusted his footing, nearly stumbling. “You’re probably gettin’ real tired of being stuck with these two nobodies,” he scoffed. “Why don’tcha hang out with real men like us?”
That was when Bucky’s hand curled into a white-knuckled fist on the table.
Steve reached out, his fingers brushing Bucky’s forearm as a warning. “Buck.” Then, he faced the men, his voice calm and level. “Alright. That’s enough. She’s with us. Go stick with your arm wrestling and leave us be.”
Dave laughed—a mean, loud sound—and reached over to give Bucky a mocking nudge on the shoulder. “Yeah, listen to your boy-toy, Barnes. Like the loyal dog you are.”
Steve’s brow twitched. “What the hell did you just say to him?”
You rested a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, leaning in with a worried look. “Bucky, I think we should just go—”
But before you could finish the sentence, Steve moved in one quick, explosive motion—his boots hit the floor hard as he lunged out of the booth. A blur of movement followed as his fist cracked straight across Dave’s jaw. The brutal, clean punch of skin-against-skin echoed through the bar, followed by a startled gasps of people who stood nearby.
Mike blinked in shock, watching his friend drop, then let out a roar and swung at Steve. The punch caught Steve high on the cheekbone, snapping his head to the side.
People jumped out of their chairs, wood scraping against floorboards as they shouted and lifted their drinks. “Fight, fight, fight!”
“Jesus Christ!” you gasped, quickly getting up. You nudged Bucky in the shoulder hard. “Bucky, grab Steve and let’s get out of here—!”
But Bucky was already standing, and he had absolutely no intention of ending it.
His blue eyes were filled with fury as he closed the distance to Mike. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, spinning him around just to deliver a devastating blow straight to his face—then another immediately to his gut, sending Mike doubling over.
“Fuckin’ Barnes!” Mike wheezed.
A circle formed around them almost instantly, leaving you trapped inside the booth with no escape. People cheered, laughing and whooping as if this were a Friday night show rather than a real fight.
“Knock ’em silly, Rogers!”
“Your punches are gettin’ sloppy, Barnes!”
Your heart thumped fast in your chest as punches flew in a blur and blood splattered the floor. You twisted in your seat, scanning the room desperately for anyone who might step in—a security guard, a bouncer, any responsible grown-up.
The bartender just threw his head back and laughed, wiping the counter with a rag. “Ah, hell,” he called over the noise, sounding more amused than concerned. “Didn’t think it’d only take two drinks tonight.”
A few men near the bar raised their glasses, toasting to the chaos.
“Hey! Can someone stop them?!” you tried again, but no one heard you. Or, more likely, no one cared.
A couple of the older women at the card table barely glanced up from their game, still laughing among themselves.
“They’ll walk it off,” a guy at a nearby table said casually, taking a slow sip of his beer.
“Barnes always did have a temper,” one of the elderly women added from the card table, her voice sounding almost fond of the memory.
You watched in horror as Bucky and Mike stumbled into a nearby table, knocking it over and sending beers flying as they exchanged heavy blows. Next to them, Steve had Dave in a chokehold while Dave repeatedly drove his elbow into Steve’s gut, making him recoil with every hit.
The bartender noticed you trying to push your way out of the booth, your hands waving in frantic, useless circles as you tried to get him to stop the madness.
“Don’t try to fix it, city girl!” he called out, his booming voice carrying over the crowd. “They’ll be done when they’re done!”
Your shoulders slumped in defeat. Just then, the room erupted into cheers as Steve delivered a massive hook to Dave’s jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. Dave groaned, spitting blood onto the floorboards as he tried to push himself back up.
Steve stood over him, chest heaving as he adjusted his stance. “You done?”
Dave wiped his mouth. “Not even close.”
“Good,” Steve huffed, raising his fists again. “I could do this all day.”
Oh.
Despite the panic, a snort escaped you at how ridiculously corny that was. Yet for some reason, the line seemed to amp up the crowd even more—as if he were a pro wrestler and that was his legendary signature catchphrase.
“That’s it, Rogers!”
“Yeah! Show ’em!”
“Knock his teeth out!”
As you looked between the men, your shoulders eased just slightly. You realized Mike and Dave were in far worse condition than Bucky and Steve.
They weren’t losing.
They were in complete control, moving like they’d fought like this a plenty of times before. It was as if this bar floor had been their training ground since they were kids.
With a defeated sigh, you tipped your beer back and took several long swallows, emptying the bottle in one go. The cheap alcohol hit your system, mixing with the leftover adrenaline and replacing your earlier panic with a sudden, sharp spark of excitement.
You slammed the empty bottle down on the table, cupped your hands around your mouth, and shouted over the roar of the crowd.
“Kick his ass, Steve!”
A few heads turned—some giving you surprised glances—while other men cheered along with you.
“Come on, Buck—you can do better than that!” you yelled.
Bucky blinked at you, a surprised smile ghosting over his bloodied face before he used your voice as fuel to keep going.
Steve ducked a sloppy swing from Dave, landing a clean hook that snapped the man’s head to the side. Dave staggered backward, fighting to stay upright as the crowd erupted. Meanwhile, Bucky had Mike pinned against the floor, each punch making the wood rattle and creak.
You watched, breath caught in your throat. You were worried about their safety, but God—they were good at this.
And they looked good doing it.
Their hair was damp with sweat, trailing over their faces as they grunted and delivered heavy blows. You couldn’t help but notice the way their muscles flexed or the way the veins stood out on their large, powerful hands.
The brawl continued until more tables were upended and bottles shattered, glass spraying everywhere as the locals scrambled to avoid the crossfire.
Finally, the bartender slapped his rag onto the counter with a sharp, fed-up sigh.
“Alright! That’s enough!”
Steve grabbed Dave by the shirt, his fist cocked back, while Bucky buried another punch into Mike’s stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. The bartender’s patience finally snapped for good.
“I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH!”
The room finally fell quiet.
He jabbed a finger towards the entrance. “Barnes. Rogers. OUT. And take Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum with you before you bleed all over my damn floor.”
By the time you all made it back to the farm, the night air had cooled significantly, the crickets still humming lazily just as they had before you left. Lucy rumbled to a stop, and the three of you climbed out in silence.
As you approached the house, the porch light flickered on with a weak, twitching buzz.
In the dim yellow glow, you finally saw the extent of the damage.
Steve’s cheekbone was already swelling, a dark bruise blooming beneath the skin, while dried blood traced a path from his split lip to his chin. His knuckles were raw and scraped open. Bucky didn’t look much better—one brow was split, a smear of red trailing down his temple, and dust was ground so deeply into his clothes it looked like he’d rolled through every inch of the town’s dirt.
“Well,” Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we’ll turn in. Big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Bucky added, brushing dirt off his shirt like that would somehow fix anything. “Let us know if you need anythin’, doll. We’ll keep the door unlocked for you.”
They both turned to the door, but your voice made them stop.
“No,” you said sternly.
They both looked back, Steve tilting his head in confusion. “No?”
“You guys are not going to bed like that.” You gestured wildly between their bruised faces. “You’re both bleeding. You’re filthy. And—God, both of your knuckles look like ground meat.”
Bucky glanced down at his fists and mumbled, “It’s not that bad…”
“It is,” you insisted.
He shrugged. “Fine. We’ll rinse off with some cold water and soap. Done.”
“Not done,” you corrected sharply. “You’ll wake up with infections and crusted in blood. You guys were rolling all over a floor covered in God-knows-what.”
They exchanged a glance, not really knowing what to say. You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest.
“Inside. Now,” you ordered.
Steve opened his mouth, holding up a hand. “Honey, we’re fine. You should get some rest—”
You ignored him, pointing firmly past him toward the house. “Go.”
Inside, you guided them to the kitchen table like scolded schoolboys. Steve sat down, his posture stiff and awkward, while Bucky leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. He was trying to play it cool, though he clearly had no idea what to do with himself.
It had been years since they were in this position—not since they were kids and Steve’s mom was patching them up after a rough day of playing in the dirt and getting into scrapes. Back then, they’d have wide grins on their faces as she kissed their "boo-boos" goodbye.
But now, as grown men with a beautiful woman in their home tending to them, they were both as stiff as a load of bricks.
They watched in silence as you filled a bowl with warm water, found a clean cloth, and grabbed the small first-aid tin they pointed out in one of the cabinents.
You sat down in front of Steve. “Alright,” you murmured, dipping the cloth and wringing it out. “You’re first.”
You pulled your chair closer, tucking yourself between his knees as you gently tilted his face toward the warm overhead light. The bruise across his cheekbone looked even worse up close. When you pressed the damp cloth to his skin, he flinched.
“Sorry,” you whispered, softening your touch.
“S’okay,” he murmured back. “It feels nice.”
Bucky watched from the counter, his jaw clenching. He couldn’t quite place the feeling in his chest; all he knew was that he wanted the same focused attention Steve was getting.
So, when you said, “Bucky, come here. I’ll do you next,” his feet moved without hesitation.
He grabbed a chair and dragged it right up behind you—perhaps a little too close in his eagerness. He settled in as he impatiently waited his turn, sandwiching you between the two of them.
“Both of you,” you said, setting the bowl down and picking up the gauze. “Watch me. That way, when someone’s not here to take care of you, you can take care of each other the next time you get into a bar fight.”
You took Steve’s hand, and he shuddered at the contact. As you carefully wrapped his split knuckles, your fingertips grazed the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, making him swallow hard.
You could feel Bucky’s presence right behind you. He leaned over your shoulder, watching your hands work. Seeing how softly you cared for Steve hit him with a deep sense of longing he couldn’t hide anymore. He sighed softly, resting his forehead against your back, his rough hand finding your waist to give it a gentle, needy squeeze.
“I… need attention, too,” Bucky mumbled.
You finished wrapping Steve’s hand, snipping the excess gauze with a pair of scissors. A soft chuckle escaped you at Bucky’s blunt admission.
“Well,” you teased. “Maybe if you two hadn’t started a fight, you wouldn’t be in such desperate need of my attention.”
“We had to defend you, baby,” Bucky sighed. His hands palmed your waist, making you gasp softly.
For Bucky, there was something grounding about your proximity—the way you felt under his hands was relieving for him after the chaos of a long day.
“They were lookin’ at you with bad intentions, sweetheart,” Steve added, leaning in even closer as his eyes bored into yours. “We were just tryna protect you.”
You picked the towel back up, looking deep into Steve’s gaze. He was staring at you so intensely that it made the air feel thin. If you leaned in just an inch further, you could have kissed him.
And judging by the way his gaze dropped from your eyes to your lips, he was thinking the exact same thing.
“I’ve been stared at and talked about by plenty of nasty men in the city,” you explained softly, wringing the towel over the bowl. “But not once did anyone defend me the way you two did. You’ve both done so much for me since I got here, and I don’t know how to pay you back.” You lifted the damp cloth. “This is the least I can do.”
“You being here, taking care of us… that’s more than enough,” Bucky rasped.
You turned in your chair to face him, your brow furrowing as you took in his split skin. When you dabbed the towel gently against the cut, he hissed.
“You might need a butterfly bandage for your brow.” You frowned.
Despite the sting, Bucky let out a rough chuckle. “You’re speakin’ a different language, darlin’.”
You rummaged through the tin and, to your surprise, managed to find one. You held up the bandage; it was still in its wrapping, though the edges were a bit frayed.
“How long has this been in here?” you asked.
Steve shrugged. “I dunno. We don’t really use the kit. Not since my ma passed.”
“It should be fine,” you shrugged. “Better than nothing.” Because of Bucky’s height, even with him sitting, you had to stand up to get a clear look at the wound.
“Hold still,” you whispered, reaching out to push a few long, dark locks of hair out of his face.
Bucky’s hands didn’t stay still, they continued to roam around your waist, originally with the intention to steady you as you stood over him, but his touch was growing bolder.
He let out a low shudder as your fingers trailed over his forehead, smoothing his hair out of the way. The sensation of being taken care of by you finally broke through him as his palms slid from your sides toward the small of your back, pulling you just an inch closer.
Bucky looked up at you, his eyes dark and heavy—and it had nothing to do with the exhaustion of the day.
“You feel so warm underneath my hands, baby,” Bucky rasped, his thumbs grazing the hem of your shirt. “I like this sight. You takin’ care of us. Ain’t that right, Stevie?”
You felt the floorboards creak as Steve rose from his chair. A second later, his presence loomed behind you, solid and warm. You were completely trapped between them now—Bucky’s hands at your waist and Steve’s shadow falling over your back.
Steve leaned in, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His breath was hot against your skin, sending a shiver straight down your spine that made your hands tremble as you held the bandage.
“You’re right, Buck,” Steve murmured against the smooth skin of your neck, resting his hands on your hips. “I like this. Very much.”
You stood frozen as Steve’s nose brushed against the sensitive spot behind your ear while Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened, his thumbs tracing slow, and smooth circles over your hips.
“You guys…” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper—breathless and trembling. You tried to focus on Bucky, your fingers shaking as you finally pressed the butterfly bandage over the split in his brow.
He leaned his face into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he let out a long, heavy exhale.
“Shhh,” Bucky murmured, his voice vibrating. He shifted his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to the palm of your hand. “Just stay here, baby. Let us hold you. We’ve had a long day.”
Behind you, Steve’s hands slid fully around to your front, his large palms splaying across your stomach as he pulled your back against his broad chest. He buried his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin as he spoke.
“Buck’s right,” Steve rumbled, his arms acting like a warm, heavy anchor. “Just for a minute. Stay right here.”
The silence of the night outside amplified the low, gravelly tones of their voices. They both spoke as if you weren’t there—or as if you were a prize— talking over and around you while their hands continued their slow, possessive exploration of your body.
“Fuck, she’s so soft, Stevie,” Bucky groaned.
His eyes were still closed, his forehead resting against your stomach as his hands slid lower, his calloused palms molding to the curve of your backside. “I didn’t think skin could be this soft.”
“Smells so good, too,” Steve murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating through your spine. He took a deep, shaky breath as his stubble grazed your neck. “Like vanilla… something sweet.”
Bucky let out a dark, huffed laugh, his grip tightening to let you know he wasn’t letting go. “What’d I say? A pretty girl taking care of us… ain’t this the dream? Makes you wanna keep her all to ourselves.”
Your breath hitched and your gaze dropped, looking down at Bucky as he sat between your legs. Through the thin fabric of your clothes, you could feel the heat of his body, but it was the sight of his heavy denim that made your heart skip a beat.
The friction of your bodies pressed together had clearly taken its toll because a prominent, hard bulge was straining against the fly of his jeans, mere inches from your legs.
Before you could even process the sight, you felt Steve shift behind you. He leaned his weight into your back, his large hands firmly placed on your hips. Then, he gave a subtle and slow rock of his hips, pressing his own growing hardness firmly against you from behind.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Steve whispered against your ear, his deep voice making your legs tremble. “You’re shaking.”
“It’s just… you guys are—” you swallowed nervously, embarrassment rushing to your face. “Hard.”
Bucky chuckled lowly, his hand coming down to palm himself through his jeans.
“Do you want us to stop, baby? We can stop—” he groaned, palming himself even harder as he looked at you with hungry eyes. “We’re good boys. We’ll stop if you want us to. We can behave. Right, Stevie?”
Steve was behind you, getting bolder with his movements as he rocked his hips deeper against the curve of your ass.
“Yes,” he grunted. “We’re good. Very good boys.”
Their hands continued roaming over your body eagerly. Bucky’s breath grew heavier as he touched himself through his pants, and the feel of Steve’s rock-hard erection pressing against you while he planted soft kisses on your neck was enough to make your head spin.
The whole kitchen reeked of lust, like there was spell in the air that only made you want them more and more.
“D-don’t stop,” you breathed, your eyes hazy with desire. “This is the least I can do to pay you guys back, right?”
Steve let out a sharp sigh and Bucky groaned so deeply—it was practically a growl.
Bucky pushed himself off his chair, his movements powerful and sudden as he crowded into your space. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe before his mouth crashed onto yours.
His kiss wasn’t gentle or patient; it was hungry and demanding, and you could taste the faint, bitter tang of the beer from earlier. His tongue swept against yours, a low, possessive sound vibrating in his throat as his hands moved from your waist to cup your face, his calloused thumbs brushing over your burning cheeks.
Now that Bucky was standing, Steve was able to press even closer, his large body a solid wall of heat against your back. His hands, now wrapped in the gauze from your careful work, slid upward from your hips.
One hand splayed across your stomach, bunching the fabric of your dress beneath his fingers as he pulled you firmly against his hips, rocking into you. Meanwhile, his other hand moved higher, his fingers groping your tits through the thin material.
Steve buried his face in the crook of your shoulder. “So good,” he murmured against your skin. “You fit so perfectly between us, sweetheart.”
You were drowning between them—lost in the friction of Bucky’s tongue and the way Steve’s hands explored your curves from behind. Your senses were completely overwhelmed. Every time Bucky tilted your head to deepen the kiss, Steve would find a new patch of skin on your neck to mark with his lips, leaving you gasping into Bucky’s mouth.
“Shit, baby,” Bucky groaned against your lips.
His hand slid down your arm, his fingers locking firmly with yours. He guided your hand down between your bodies, pressing your palm directly over the hard, straining heat of his denim. You could feel him twitch beneath your fingertips.
“Touch us, baby,” Bucky groaned, rocking his hips into your hand, his voice desperate. “Don’t be shy now. You wanted to take care of us, didn’t you?”
The friction of your palm against him made his eyes roll back for a second. Steve let out a low, approving growl against your neck. He reached around, his own hand covering yours, adding his strength to the movement as he pressed your hand even firmer against Bucky.
“That’s it,” Steve encouraged, his breath hitching as he watched your hand work. “Look at how tiny your hand looks against him. You like that, don’t you? Feeling so small and helpless between us?”
Bucky’s head fell back, his jaw tight as he fought for air. “God, Stevie…” he moaned. “Help her—guide her hand against me—fuck, just like that…”
Steve’s hand tightened over yours, his movements guiding the friction of your palm against Bucky’s heat. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear; his voice was a gravelly, commanding rumble.
“Get on your knees and take care of my best friend, would ya?”
“O…okay…”
You sank to the floor, the wood cool and hard against your skin as you settled between Bucky’s boots. He let out a ragged breath, his hands immediately finding your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head back so he could look down at you with raw, uncontrollable hunger.
But you weren’t alone on the floor for long. You felt the floorboards groan as Steve knelt directly behind you, his massive frame shielding you from the rest of the room. His large hands slid under the hem of your dress, gathering the fabric upward until it was bunched around your waist, leaving your skin bare to the kitchen air.
As you reached for Bucky’s belt, your fingers fumbling slightly with the heavy leather, you felt Steve’s hand slide between your thighs. His thumb dragged across your clothed clit with a slow, agonizing pressure that made your back arch and your head drop onto Bucky’s lap.
“Focus, sweetheart,” Steve taunted from behind you with a low, condescending laugh. His other hand came around to cup breasts—teasing your nipple through your dress, holding you steady as his thumb continued to work you. “Take it off him. He’s been waiting all day.”
With a sharp tug, you finally eased Bucky’s jeans down. When he finally sprang free, the sight made the air leave your lungs in a sharp gasp. He was thick and heavy, his skin taut and pulsing with a heat you could feel even before you touched him.
Bucky let out a low groan at the sensation of being exposed, his hands tightening in your hair. He seemed to preen under your shocked gaze, his hips giving a small, instinctive twitch towards your face.
Steve chuckled darkly behind you. His hand was still buried between your thighs, and as his thumb made another slow, heavy pass over you, he felt the sudden, hot gush of moisture through your panties that coated his fingers.
“Fuck, Bucky. Look at that. It’s like she got even wetter just seeing how big you are.”
Bucky reached down, his fingers trembling as he cupped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.
“Is that right, darlin’?” he chuckled, his thumb catching on your bottom lip. “You like what you see?”
“Think you can fit me in your tiny little mouth, baby?” Bucky challenged. You watched as his cock throbbed, the tip already leaking and eager to be inside your mouth.
You swallowed hard. You weren’t sure if you could; you had spent a handful of nights with men in the city, but none of them were of… this size.
“I don’t know,” you admitted embarrassingly, your hand coming up to circle his shaft. “But I’ll try—”
Growing impatient, he pressed the head of his cock against the seal of your lips, the warmth making your heart beat faster.
“It’s okay,” Bucky reassured, breathing hard above you as he began pushing past your lips. “Steve will help you. Ain’t that right, Steve?”
You weren’t sure what he meant by having Steve help you, but he didn’t give you much room to think or ask anyway. He probed his length more firmly against your lips, forcing you to open up. You began taking in as much of his thick length as you could manage, your tongue swirling around the broad head as you started to bob your head rhythmically.
“Fuuuuck, that’s it,” Bucky hissed.
His hands stayed firmly anchored in your hair, his knuckles white as he held you in place. Behind you, Steve became even more relentless. You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them aside until he could slide two fingers deep into your slick heat.
“God—you’re accepting me so easily, baby. Bet you’ve been wantin’ this from the moment we picked you up, huh?” Steve whispered, kissing your ear as he continued to work his fingers inside you.
“Jesus—Steve, I wish you could feel how warm her fuckin’ mouth is,” Bucky moaned, tossing his head back while giving you shallow, sharp thrusts. “This—this is incredible…”
The dual sensation was a sensory overload of pleasure—the feeling of Bucky stretching your mouth while Steve’s fingers curled inside you, hitting your sweet spot with every rhythmic movement of his hand.
“More… more…” Bucky groaned, his voice breaking as he tilted his hips up to meet you halfway. He was desperate, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches.
“You hear that, baby? He wants more,” Steve said.
He wasn’t just watching anymore.
His desire to see his best friend satisfied was overriding his patience.
You let out a small, muffled whimper of protest against Bucky’s shaft, your eyes watering as you reached your limit, but Steve didn’t let you pull away. He placed his large, heavy palm on the back of your head and…
… firmly pushed you down against Bucky’s cock.
Your eyes went wide as you took Bucky deeper than you thought possible, his length hitting the very back of your throat. He let out a sound that was half of a groan and a sob—a loud, desperate moan that echoed through the kitchen. He bucked his hips upward, losing all composure as he finally found the depth he’d been craving.
“Fuck—oh my god,” Bucky gasped, his eyes rolling back. “Just like that—keep her head down, Stevie—shit. Feels too damn good!”
The kitchen was filled with the lewd sounds of his ragged, uncontrolled breathing and the wet slide of your mouth working over him. Steve’s fingers were moving just as frantically inside you now, his rhythm matching the desperate pace of Bucky’s thrusts.
“That’s it, sweetheart, take it all,” Steve growled from behind you. “Keep your eyes open. Look at him. You’ve got him falling apart. Give him everything.”
Bucky’s eyes were blown wide, staring down at you with overwhelming lust.
“Fuck, Steve… she’s perfect. Her mouth—so tight… so warm,” he gasped, his voice cracking. He began to thrust more wildly, his hips snapping forward as he searched for that final bit of release.
“I’m gonna—fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum. Don’t you dare stop. Steve, hold her head. She’s gonna swallow every drop for me.”
“Do it, Buck,” Steve encouraged, his thumb hitting your clit with a press that sent sparks through your vision. “Fill her mouth up. Show her how much we needed this.”
Bucky finally snapped.
He bucked his hips hard against your face, his entire body shuddering as he began to pulse deep in your mouth. You whimpered, your hands gripping his thighs for balance as you felt the hot, heavy waves of his release hitting the back of your throat, making you choke around his shaft.
“Christ—God, her mouth is so warm… shit, Steve. You hear her chokin’ around me? She can barely swallow it down!”
“She’s fluttering all over my fingers too, Buck,” Steve groaned. “She’s gonna cum—I can feel it.”
Bucky finally pulled his cock out of your mouth with a wet, sloppy pop, his release dribbling down your chin as you fought for breath. Your head was dizzy from how brutally he had used your mouth and how deeply Steve was fingering you.
“Steve,” you gasped. “Don’t stop—please. Don’t stop—!”
But Steve didn’t give you the release you were begging for.
He abruptly curled his fingers and pulled them out of you with a sharp, wet sound that left you feeling cold and aching. You let out a cry of frustration, your hips twitching involuntarily to the space where his hand had just been.
Steve stood up, the floorboards creaking under his massive weight. He didn’t look satisfied. If anything, watching Bucky use you had only made him look more predatory. His hands went straight to his belt, the leather creaking as he unbuckled it impatiently.
“You don’t cum until you please the both of us first, darlin’,” Steve commanded.
“Steve, please,” you whined, turning around so that your hands tugged at his jeans. “I was so close.” You looked at Bucky next, frowning. “Bucky?”
“He ain’t gonna help you, baby,” Steve said. “On the table,” he ordered, nodding to the sturdy wooden surface where the medical supplies had been scattered. “Get up there and show us how much you want it. Lay on your back for me.”
Bucky was still catching his breath, leaning against the counter with a dazed, satisfied smirk.
“You heard him, baby,” he rasped, his voice still rough from his climax. “Better be a good girl and please him well.”
With your face burning in embarrassment and two sets of eyes watching your every move, you crawled onto the table, your panties soaked and dripping between your thighs. You slowly settled down on your back, with Steve standing before you and Bucky making his way to the other side.
Steve stepped up, reaching down and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your panties, stripping them down your legs and tossing them onto the kitchen floor.
As soon as you were bare, he stepped into the space between your thighs, the heavy, scorching weight of his cock poking against your entrance. He was even longer than Bucky—not quite as thick, perhaps, but still more than big enough to stretch you to your absolute limit.
“Look at you,” Steve murmured, staring at you with hazy eyes as he stroked his length. “Look how ready you are for me.”
Bucky stepped closer, jeans still around his ankles, as he gripped his own half-hard length. He jerked himself off with slow, heavy pumps, his gaze fixed on Steve as he prepared to take you. With his free hand, Bucky grabbed the hem of your dress and hiked it all the way up to your neck, exposing your breasts to the cool air and their burning gazes.
“So pretty,” Bucky whispered in awe, as if he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
He leaned over, his fingers gently playing with your nipples as you whimpered and squirmed on the table, caught between the two of them.
Your heels dug into the wood of the table as you arched your back, the friction of Steve’s heat against your entrance making you whine. You were desperate for the fullness, your body burning with an unfinished ache that Steve was intentionally prolonging.
“Please,” you whimpered, your hands reaching out to grab Steve’s muscular forearms. “Steve, please... I need it.”
“Jesus,” Bucky rasped, his eyes dark with a mix of affection and hunger. “She’s so damn cute when she’s begging like this. Make it last, okay? I want to see our girl come apart nice and slow.”
“I’ll try,” Steve managed, his voice strained. He slowly pushed the broad head of his cock past your folds, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp before he pulled back, teasing the very edge of your sanity.
“Steve—please! Stop with the teasing, I can’t—” you begged, “I can’t take it anymore.”
Steve’s jaw clenched tight as he hissed through his teeth. “I know, baby girl. I know.”
Deep down, he wasn’t intentionally trying to tease you. The feel of your wet tightness already clamping down on him made him remember how long it had been since he’d fucked anything other than his own hand.
And it meant that, despite Bucky’s request, he likely wouldn’t be lasting nearly as long as he wanted to.
He slowly pushed in deeper and deeper, each inch making you gasp and arch your back off the table as you tried to adjust to his size.
“F-fuck, Steve!” you moaned.
Finally, he bottomed out completely inside you, his massive weight pressing you down into the sturdy wood of the table. Every time he slammed his hips forward, the medical supplies rattled and the table groaned under the force.
“Fuck, too tight,” he hissed.
His big arms circled your frame, holding you tightly as he began fucking you with a desperate, frantic hunger.
“God, you’re so tight,” Steve repeated, “so fucking warm.”
Bucky was right there, leaning over the side of the table to catch every detail. The sight of Steve losing his usual composure—seeing his best friend’s broad back muscles tensing and rippling as he drove into you—had Bucky’s cock snapping back to full attention for a second round.
He jerked himself off faster, his eyes darting between your flushed face and the place where Steve was disappearing inside you.
“Tell me how tight she is, Steve,” Bucky urged.
“Like you wouldn’t believe, Buck,” Steve groaned. “She’s squeezin’ me so good—it’s just like you said… a nice, smooth pair of legs wrapped tight around my waist. Fuck—it’s going to be so hard to pull out.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened at Steve’s words, the blue turning to a stormy midnight black. His cock was twitching and pulsing in his hand, slick with his own pre-cum and the lingering wetness from your mouth as he watched Steve’s massive body hammer into yours.
“Pump her full, Steve,” Bucky growled. “Breed her. Fill her up so damn deep she can’t think about anything or anyone else—until she thinks only about us.”
“B-breed…?” you whimpered, your eyes rolling back.
Your head spun at the words. The thought of Steve’s cum filling you— of that thick, heavy seed flooding your core while Bucky watched—sent a violent jolt of overwhelming pleasure through your body.
You felt your walls contract, clamping down on Steve’s length—milking him so hard that it made him choke on his own breath.
“B-Buck…” Steve gasped, his pace becoming erratic. He was losing the fight for control. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he felt your climax beginning to roll over him. “She’s so close… God, I’m gonna—”
“Cum inside her,” Bucky urged, leaning in close until his breath hitched against your ear. “Fill her up and make her our girl, Stevie. Pump her so full she’ll never want anyone else.”
The command from Bucky was the final blow to Steve’s restraint.
With a low, hungry roar that vibrated against your chest, Steve bucked. He rocked his hips into you one last time, pinning you to the table with his full weight as he bottomed out.
“Christ, take it, sweetheart! Oh—fuck, take it—”
His body went rigid as he began to pour himself into you. You felt the hot, thick jets of his release hit the very back of your womb. It felt like he was never going to stop—years of pent-up sexual frustration finally rearing its head.
Your mind fractured. The internal pressure of him, combined with the mental image of being bred, sent you over the edge.
“Oh my god, Steve! I’m—I’m gonna cum—!” you screamed into the crook of his neck, your walls seizing and pulsing in a violent, uneven rhythm that milked him for every last drop.
“Fuck—yes—take it all, baby,” Steve groaned, his voice jagged as he shuddered against you, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder.
Bucky stood before you, panting as he watched the liquid evidence of Steve’s climax begin to seep out and coat your thighs. Seeing you stretched and filled by his best friend was too much; with his own cock already hard again, he was more than ready for round two.
And this time, he wanted to be the one inside.
Steve slowly pulled out of you, the sound of the wet, suctioning release loud against the heavy breathing between the three of you. You let out a broken gasp, your body feeling hollow and sensitive as the cool air hit where his heat had just been. A thick trail of his release began to spill over your thighs, coating the wooden table beneath you.
Steve leaned down, his eyes a bit softer than they were before, reaching out to hook his arms under yours to help you up. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned—”
“Move aside, Steve.”
Bucky’s voice was like a whip crack.
He stomped over, his boots heavy on the floor, and physically brushed Steve’s hands away from you. There was no gentleness left in him now; his jaw was set, and his eyes were fixed on the mess Steve had left behind.
“Bucky?” you asked softly, trying to catch your breath. “Are you okay—?”
“I’m not done with her,” Bucky growled.
Before you could reply, he grabbed your hips and flipped you over. Your face was pressed down into the hard, cool wood of the table, your cheek flat against the surface as he forced your ass up high.
“B-Buck—!”
Without warning, Bucky lined himself up against your puffy slit, and in one aggressive motion, he buried himself deep in your overstimulated heat. You let out a muffled shriek against the table as he began to fuck you doggy-style, one hand pinning your head down while his other gripped your waist tightly.
“Fuck!” Bucky barked, biting his lip. “She is tight, Steve. Fuckin’ hell… like a tight, warm and wet fist wrapped around my cock.”
“Bucky—haaah, I… It’s too much—fuck—oh!”
The friction was almost too much to bear. You were a babbling, overstimulated mess, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas against the wood of the table.
With every heavy, bottoming-out thrust, you could feel Bucky physically pushing Steve’s cum deeper into your core. It was a strange, overwhelming sensation—the feeling of being claimed by one man while the other’s mark was forced even further inside you.
Steve stood by the side of the table, his chest still heaving as he watched. He looked genuinely surprised, a small, breathless huff of laughter escaping him as he watched Bucky go to work. “Christ, Buck... you're still going? Fuck. You’re ruinin’ her.”
Bucky only grunted like an animal in response as he gripped your waist tighter, rocking his hips even harder.
You were a drooling, slutty mess on the table, and the pathetic sight made Steve smile softly at you in sympathy. He reached out, his large hand stroking your sweat-dampened hair away from your face. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your temple while Bucky hammered into your hips from behind.
“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, his voice a soothing balm against Bucky’s relentless pace. “Just let him in, darlin’. Such a good girl, taking him so deep for us. Just breathe through it for me.”
“Stevie,” you whined, your voice pitching higher. “He’s so th—thick… he’s stretching me so much…”
“I know, baby,” Steve murmured. You weren’t sure if his words were meant to soothe you, but his tone was shifting, becoming almost condescending—as if your overstimulated state was exactly where he wanted you.
He watched with a possessive sheen in his eyes as Bucky’s hips continued to batter against you. “Cum inside her, Bucky. Fill her up.”
Bucky let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh between the loud creaks of the table. “Shit, Stevie… you want me to knock her up too?”
Steve just kept stroking your hair, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. “It’s just like you said—a pretty girl like her staying home and takin’ care of us. Don’t you want that, Buck? To see her round, glowin’, and barefoot? Somethin’ about keepin’ the house warm?”
The rhythm of Bucky’s thrusts faltered for a split second before becoming twice as violent. A low, needy sound escaped him.
“Fuck… I want that so bad. More than anythin’. Shit.”
Bucky leaned down, his chest crushing against your back, his voice sending tingles down your spine. “I’m going to breed her. She’s stayin’ here with us, Stevie. We’re makin’ her ours for good.”
The thought should’ve terrified you, but as you lay there pinned between them, lost in a haze of pure, unadulterated lust, the idea only turned you on even more. Your only concern now was whether you could even contain Bucky’s release inside you.
“I—I don’t think I can,” you babbled against the table, your words slipping out between broken gasps. “…take it… take Bucky’s cum… I—”
Steve didn’t let your panic spiral. He leaned down further, his large, warm hand moving from your hair to cup your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head so he could look you in the eye.
“Yes, you can, sweetheart,” Steve cooed. “You’re made for this. You’re made for us. Just relax those pretty muscles and let him in.”
He then pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his thumb stroking your cheekbone even as Bucky’s pace turned frantic.
“Look at her, Buck,” Steve whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. “She’s worried she can’t hold it all. Tell her what you’re gonna do.”
Bucky let out a choked, desperate sound, his fingers digging into your hips. “I’m gonna fill her to the brim,” he rasped, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “I’m gonna fill her so full she’ll leak all over the table.”
Another needy moan tore from his chest. “G-gonna knock her up until there’s—fuck— atleast one brunette and one blonde baby runnin’ around the house, Stevie.”
At Bucky’s nasty words, your walls spasmed, clenching around him as your second orgasm finally shattered. You let out a high, broken cry against the table, your vision sparking white as you came right along with him—completely spent, completely undone.
With a final, sloppy, and shaky thrust, Bucky fucked into you one last time. He groaned your name as his body locked up. You felt the first hot stream of his release hit you, and your eyes went wide as he began to pump himself empty.
He held you pinned to the table, his weight crushing you down, ensuring that every drop of his heat was forced deep into the space Steve had already claimed. “Yes, yes—that’s it…!”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Steve praised, his voice thick with pride. He watched the way your body jolted with every pulse of Bucky’s climax. “Takin’ it all, keepin’ it all inside for us. Such a good, fertile little thing.”
Bucky stayed heavy against you for a long time, his chest rising and falling in deep, heavy breaths.
Slowly, he eventually began to pull out. You let out a small, needy whimper at the loss of his heat, your body feeling heavy and thoroughly used. A thick, creamy mixture of both men began to spill out of you, making a mess of your inner thighs and dripping onto the dark wood of the table. He hooked his arm under your waist and gently pulled you back against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
“Look at that,” Bucky rasped, his voice rough with post-coital bliss as he looked down at the mess they had made of you. He pressed a firm, possessive kiss to the top of your head. “You’re ours now, pretty girl. Every inch of you.”
Steve moved in from the side, his expression soft as he watched the two of you. He leaned down and wiped a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb before pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.
“Our best girl,” Steve echoed softly, his large hand coming to rest over your stomach, splaying wide and possessive.
“We’re gonna take such good care of you. You’re never going anywhere else.”
I am so sorry about the massive wordcount. I got carried away at the end w/ all of the smut 🚬 anyways, credits to @earthsmightiestbenders for helping me come up with this massive filth of a line:
“G-gonna knock her up until there’s—fuck— atleast one brunette and one blonde baby runnin’ around the house, Stevie.”
thank you for taking the time to read my work, and I hope you enjoyed!
pairings: peter ballard x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI!!, depictions of violence, sexual content, abuse (not detailed or from pairings!), angst, jealousy, slow-burn, emotional manipulation, steamy
chapter summary: a new presence enters the lab in the form of Dr. Blair Woods, whose confidence and proximity to Brenner quietly shift the balance of power. as she’s placed above you and Peter, subtle tensions surface: unspoken jealousy, careful politeness, and Peter’s unintentional warmth toward her that leaves you aching.
a/n: hi guys!!!! i hope you guys are loving this fic so farrrrr i LOVEEEE reading your comments!!<333 also im so sorry i didnt mention this earlier but if you'd like the be in the taglist pleaseee comment<33 this chapter took longer to write SO SORRY but its mainly fluff that needs to happen first. thank you so much and happy reading<333
part 1, part 2 & part 4
taglist: @lauramooij05
You take another step inside.
The laugh fades into something quieter, murmured words, the low cadence of a man responding. Familiar. Controlled. Dr. Brenner’s voice, softened in a way you rarely hear.
You don’t see her at first.
Just the heels. Still standing there, immaculate. Like punctuation.
Then Brenner comes into view, emerging from the side of the office with that same faint smile still on his face. He’s angled toward someone just out of sight, posture relaxed, hands folded loosely behind his back.
“-not at all,” he’s saying. “Adjustment periods are expected.”
She follows him a second later.
Tall. Confident. Effortless.
She moves like she knows she belongs in every room she enters, like she’s never once had to ask permission to take up space. The heels are hers, you realize that immediately, and now that she’s wearing them, they make sense. They don’t slow her down. They don’t make her cautious. They only add to the sharpness of her presence.
Her hair is jet black, twisted up into a messy bun that looks intentional rather than careless. Loose strands frame her face just enough to soften it, though there’s nothing soft about the way she carries herself. Fair skin. Dark features. Big, bold brown eyes that flick briefly around the room before landing–finally–on you.
They don’t linger.
“Oh,” she says lightly, lips curving as if amused. “One of them?”
Your fingers tighten around the papers.
“Yes,” Brenner replies, pleased. “One of our lab workers.”
He turns his attention to you then, fully. “You’re early.”
“Yes, sir,” you answer, stepping forward automatically.
“This is Dr. Blair Woods,” he says. “She’ll be assisting on a provisional basis.”
Blair smiles, warm and polished, the kind of smile that looks practiced but still convincing. “Temporary,” she adds easily. “If my work meets expectations, I’ll be staying on.”
Her eyes flick back to you, quick, assessing–before sliding away again.
You nod. “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” she replies. The politeness lands hollow.
Brenner gestures toward the files in your arms. “Those are the summaries?”
“Yes.”
He takes them, flipping through the pages with quiet efficiency. “As thorough as ever,” he says. Then, as if remembering something, “Peter Ballard handles the other set. Similar age. Very quick-witted. Consistently punctual.”
Your stomach dips.
Blair’s interest sharpens just a fraction. “Ballard,” she repeats. “I think I passed his office earlier.”
“He’s reliable,” Brenner says. “Both of them are.”
Both.
The word presses in on you, strange and heavy.
“Starting today,” Brenner continues, “all reports will go through Dr. Woods before reaching my desk.”
Blair steps closer, resting her fingers against the edge of the desk. “I’ll take care of organizing,” she says smoothly. “You can leave them here when you’re finished.”
Not please.
Not if that’s alright.
You nod anyway. “Of course.”
She smiles again– shorter this time.
Brenner checks his watch. “I’ll leave you to it.”
When he exits, the room shifts.
Blair exhales softly, shoulders relaxing as if she’s been holding a performance in place. She glances at you, then back to the papers, already flipping through them.
“You’re very good at these,” she says casually. “Clear. Clean. Dr. Brenner likes that.”
You don’t know whether it’s a compliment or a warning.
“Thank you,” you say.
She hums, noncommittal. “You’ve been here a while, I assume?”
“A few years.”
“That explains it.” She looks up then, smile returning, pleasant, practiced. “You learn how to survive places like this.”
The word survive lands harder than it should.
There’s a pause.
And in it, your thoughts drift, traitorous, automatic–to Peter.
You wonder if he’s heard her voice yet. If he passed the office and noticed it the way he notices everything. If he knows Brenner isn’t alone today.
You push the thought away before it can root.
Blair taps her pen once, then looks back down at the files. “You can go,” she says. “I’ve got it from here.”
Dismissed.
You turn to leave, the sound of her heels clicking softly behind you as she moves around the desk, confident, unbothered.
As you step back into the hallway, the door closing quietly behind you, the feeling returns.
That sense of something shifting, like the lab has decided to rearrange itself.
And you’re not sure where you fit anymore.
The hallway feels longer on the way out.
Your footsteps echo too loudly against the tile, every sound magnified now that Brenner’s door is shut behind you. You don’t look back. You don’t need to. You can still see the way Blair stood behind his desk, heels planted like she’d already claimed the space.
You force your shoulders to relax.
Work. Just work.
The lab hums around you as usual: machines whirring, carts rolling, voices low and indistinct, but something has shifted in the rhythm. You feel it in the way people glance up as you pass, the way conversations dip just a little quieter.
You sit at your desk and pull out another stack of reports.
Your hands move automatically. Muscle memory. Years of practice smoothing over details, choosing words that say enough without saying too much. Observation logs. Behavioral summaries. You write like your life depends on it, because in places like this, it sometimes does.
Still, your mind drifts.
You catch yourself listening for footsteps you know by heart.
Peter’s stride is distinctive. Measured. Unhurried, but never slow. He walks like someone who knows exactly where he’s going and how long it’ll take to get there.
You don’t hear him.
You glance at the clock.
He should be finishing up by now.
The thought comes uninvited: What would she say when she meets him?
You shake it off immediately. Stupid. Unfounded. Peter hasn’t even met her. You remind yourself of that firmly, like repeating it might make it permanent.
Still, the image forms anyway.
Blair’s smile. Her confidence. The way she speaks like she’s already being listened to.
You press your pen harder than necessary.
When your break comes, you don’t go to the break room.
You don’t want to sit at that small table alone, staring at the chair across from you that usually belongs to him. Instead, you take your coffee and lean against the counter by the observation windows, eyes unfocused as you pretend to read a clipboard.
A voice passes behind you–light, amused.
“-and then he actually apologized.”
Blair.
You don’t turn, but you don’t have to. You recognize her cadence immediately. Easy. Confident. The kind of voice that doesn’t expect interruption.
“I told him not to worry,” she continues, laughing softly. “Men in positions like his tend to overthink.”
Someone murmurs a response you can’t quite hear.
Your jaw tightens.
You take a slow sip of coffee. It’s too hot. You welcome the burn.
A few minutes later, you see him.
Peter steps out of a side corridor, sleeves rolled just slightly, posture relaxed in the way it only ever is when he’s deep into his work. His eyes scan the room automatically, cataloging, orienting–
They land on you.
Something soft flickers across his face before he smooths it away. Relief. Barely there. Still unmistakable.
He doesn’t come over.
Instead, he stops near one of the workstations, hands folding loosely in front of him like he’s waiting.
Blair appears moments later.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“Peter,” she says, bright and easy, like she’s already decided she likes the sound of his name. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m the one who had you paged.”
She offers her hand.
He takes it without pause.
Your breath stills.
“Peter Ballard,” he says, meeting her eyes fully. His grip is firm but careful. “And you are?”
“Blair Woods,” she replies. Her smile widens when he doesn’t look away. “Temporary oversight.”
It’s the eye contact that does it.
Peter listens the way he always does–fully, attentively, like nothing else in the room exists while someone is speaking. His gaze doesn’t wander. He doesn’t fidget. When she talks, his focus stays on her, steady and open.
Blair’s posture shifts almost immediately.
She tilts her head. Her shoulders roll back slightly. She smiles with more intention now.
“I’ve heard good things about you,” she says.
He hums quietly. “From Dr. Brenner?”
“Yes,” she says. “He says you’re… efficient.”
A faint smile tugs at Peter’s mouth. Unthinking. Unguarded. The kind you usually get when he’s relaxed. When he’s with you.
She laughs at something small he says next–something not even meant to be funny. Her fingers brush the edge of the desk. She leans just slightly closer.
From across the room, you watch him respond the way he always does–with calm, with distance, with that careful politeness he keeps like armor. Still, something twists low in your chest anyway.
Not because Peter is doing anything wrong.
But because he isn’t doing anything to stop it.
Blair gestures toward a clipboard. “You’ll be routing your reports through me for the time being.”
He nods immediately. “Of course.”
“And yours are usually on time?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation, then adds, “So are hers.”
Her gaze flicks to you for the first time.
You look down at your clipboard.
“Yes,” Blair says. “Dr. Brenner introduced us.”
Dr. Brenner’s voice cuts in smoothly, appearing at her side. “Yes. One of our most reliable. Her summaries are… exceptional.”
Blair smiles again–but this time, it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Something about his tone makes her smile wider.
“I see,” she says. “Well, efficiency seems to be a theme here.”
Peter smiles at that.
Actually smiles.
Not wide. Not flirtatious.
Just warm.
Blair notices.
Her eyes linger on him a second longer than necessary.
“Interesting,” she says quietly.
Peter doesn’t hear the edge beneath it. He never does.
“I should get back to my work,” he says politely.
“Of course,” Blair replies. “I’ll see you around, Peter Ballard.”
He inclines his head. “I’m sure.”
As he turns away, his gaze flicks to you instinctively–quick, searching, grounding.
There’s a question there.
You answer it with a small nod.
Your chest aches in a way you don’t have a name for yet.
Later–much later–when the lab begins to thin, and the lights dim just slightly, you finally pass each other in the hallway.
He slows, just enough.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking once toward the corner camera before returning to you.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He studies you for half a second longer than necessary. “Good.”
He hesitates. “She didn’t say anything to you, did she?”
You shake your head. “Nothing that matters.”
He exhales slowly. “Good.”
You walk on, side by side but not touching.
Behind you, somewhere deeper in the lab, heels click softly against tile.
And for the first time, the space between you and Peter feels watched.
pairings: peter ballard x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI!!, depictions of violence, sexual content, abuse (not detailed or from pairings!), angst, jealousy, slow-burn, emotional manipulation, steamy
chapter summary: when peter ballard doesnt meet you where he always does, the lab feels colder than usual. Reassigned floors, stolen moments, and a stairwell that knows more than it should.
a/n: hi again!!! thank you so much for all the support on my fic!! you have no idea how happy it gets me!! this chapter was quick to write because your likes and reblogs motivated me! let me know how you guys are feeling so farrrr... thank you again and happy readings!<3
part 1
The clipboard is waiting for you where Peter usually stands.
That’s the first thing that feels wrong.
It’s propped against the edge of the desk, papers clipped neatly in place, blocking the spot where he leans in the mornings: arms folded, expression unreadable until he sees you. You slow without meaning to, eyes lingering there for half a second too long.
He isn’t there.
“Temporary reassignment,” a voice says.
You look up. An older woman you recognize but don’t know by name is already pointing at the paper. Efficient. Detached. “Third floor today. Different supervisor.”
Your mouth opens, then closes. “Different…?”
“Just for the shift,” she says, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.
Just for the shift.
You nod, because that’s what you’re supposed to do here. Because questions turn into notes, and notes turn into things you don’t want attached to your name
You take the clipboard and step away, the lab swallowing you whole as you move down the corridor alone.
This didn’t happen yesterday.
This didn’t happen this morning.
This happened after last night.
It’s strange how quickly absence becomes noticeable.
Peter doesn’t walk beside you. There’s no low murmur in your ear, no subtle check-in disguised as a question about files or session times. No shared look when someone passes too close. No warmth at your side.
You catch yourself glancing toward his office before you remember.
He’s not there.
The door is open. The desk–untouched. No neatly stacked files. No quiet presence leaning against the frame, waiting for you to look up.
The lab is louder without him.
Machines hum. Lights buzz. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattles over tile. You sit at a new desk identical to the last one, same dull surface, same rigid chair and get to work.
Paperwork first.
Observation summaries. Transcriptions. Notes that say everything and nothing at once. You type until the words blur together, until the rhythm of it becomes mechanical. You pause once, fingers hovering, instinctively glancing toward the clock.
Break time.
You don’t move.
Your coffee sits untouched beside you, steam curling faintly before dissipating into the cold air. Peter usually notices when you forget. He nudges the mug closer with his knuckles, murmurs something dry about caffeine being a necessity, not a luxury.
You swallow and take a sip anyway. It tastes wrong.
Hours pass.
Every time footsteps approach, you look up before you can stop yourself. Every time, it’s not him.
The thought creeps in slowly, unwelcome and persistent.
Did someone see us?
Your fingers tighten on the pen.
You replayed last night without meaning to, the hallway, the kiss, the way he held you like the building couldn’t touch you while he did. It felt safe then. It always does with him.
Too safe, maybe.
Did Brenner notice?
You glance at the ceiling instinctively, at the corner where a camera sits just out of your direct line of sight. You look away just as quickly. You type faster, as productivity might save you. Like, compliance has ever been enough.
And then the worst thought settles in, quiet but sharp.
Did Peter ask for this?
You hate yourself for thinking it. Hate the way it makes your chest ache. The idea settles heavily in your chest. Not because you think he’d betray you, but because you can imagine him doing it to protect you. To put distance between you and whatever invisible line you might’ve crossed.
And not telling you, because that’s how he is. Careful. Quiet. Always carrying things alone if he thinks it’ll keep you safe.
That’s what scares you most.
By the time someone asks you to take files upstairs, your head is full of noise.
The stairwell greets you with cold.
Concrete walls trap it there, making the air feel heavier, sharper. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, one flickering like it’s tired of pretending to work properly. Your footsteps echo too loudly as you climb, the sound bouncing back at you in a way that makes you feel exposed.
Halfway up the landing, you slow. Not because you hear something, but because you feel it. That familiar awareness, as the air itself has shifted.
You turn the corner and nearly walk straight into him.
“Oh–”
“Sorry,” Peter says at the same time.
You stop short, heart lurching painfully into your throat.
He’s right there. Close. Real.
Then his eyes lift to yours, and the tension in your chest snaps into something sharp and almost painful.
He looks different today. Still composed, still immaculate in white and black, but there’s tension in him you don’t remember seeing yesterday. His jaw is set. His eyes are sharp, tracking, flicking briefly upward before settling back on you.
Relief hits first, so fast it almost makes you dizzy. Then fear, curling in behind it.
You follow his glance, catching the camera mounted above the landing.
When you look back at him, he’s already shifted barely. A step down. A subtle angle of his shoulder. Nothing anyone would notice unless they knew what they were looking for.
“You’re okay here,” he says quietly.
You search his face. “You’re sure?”
A small nod. “I checked earlier.”
Earlier. Not now. Not obvious. The thought of him watching the feeds, mapping timing and loops and blind spots with that careful precision sends warmth blooming low in your chest.
That thought warms you in a way the stairwell never could.
He reaches for you before you can stop yourself from doing the same.
Your hands meet, fingers threading together easily. His skin is warm, so warm it almost surprises you, the contrast stark against the cold concrete and your chilled fingers. You breathe out, shoulders relaxing as the heat seeps into you, grounding you instantly.
“I missed you,” he says quietly.
The words undo something tight inside you.
“I thought something was wrong,” you admit softly. “I didn’t see you all day.”
His thumb brushes your knuckles, slow and absent, like muscle memory. “I didn’t ask for the change,” he says. “I promise.”
You nod, relief washing through you. “Okay.” He squeezes your hand once. “I missed you, too.”
The stairwell hums around you, distant and unimportant.
He steps closer, closing the small gap between you. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him now, and when he pulls you into him, it’s gentle. Careful. His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid of holding too tight, chest solid and warm beneath your cheek.
You melt into him immediately.
This, this warmth–this steadiness, is what you’ve been missing all day. His chin rests briefly against your temple, his breath warm in your hair. You feel him relax only once you’re there, like he’s been holding himself together until this moment. His chest is solid beneath your cheek, his breath steady and warm as it moves you slightly with each inhale.
When he pulls back, it’s just enough to look at you.
His eyes search your face. Checking. Always checking.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “I am now.”
Something soft crosses his expression. Then he leans in.
The kiss is unhurried, soft, warm. Familiar in a way that aches. His lips are familiar against yours, fitting like they always do.
It’s not desperate or hungry.
It’s reassurance, pressed gently into place. You kiss him back the same way, lingering, letting it stretch until the sadness threads through it too.
You missed each other.
Even in the same building.
His breath shudders faintly against your mouth. You can feel the sadness there, too, threaded through the comfort. The ache of missing each other even when you’re in the same building. Even when you’re only floors apart.
When he rests his forehead against yours, you let yourself stay there for a second longer than you should.
“I’m on monitoring today,” he says softly. “Temporary. Longer hours.”
Monitoring.
That explains the tension. The watchfulness.
“I saw your route,” he adds quietly. “Waited until the timing lined up.”
You huff a quiet, breathless laugh. “Of course you did.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Of course.”
You smile faintly. “You’re impossible.”
A ghost of a smile answers yours.
The moment breaks reluctantly. He steps back first this time, hand slipping from yours with clear effort.
“You should go,” he says. “He’s… not alone today.”
Your stomach tightens. “Not alone?”
He nods once. “Be careful up there.”
You hesitate, then nod. “You too.”
He turns and heads down the stairs, disappearing one step at a time.
You watch until he’s gone.
Then you turn and continue up.
Brenner’s office is quiet when you step inside.
The first thing you see is the shoes.
A pair of heels stands neatly near the desk: glossy, black, narrow at the heel, and clearly not meant for lab floors or long hours standing. They look expensive. Intentional. Out of place.
They’re upright. Waiting.
Then, from somewhere beyond the doorframe, you hear it.
A laugh.
Soft. Young. Feminine.
Unfamiliar.
Your fingers tighten around the papers as you step further into the room.
And suddenly, the lab feels like it’s holding its breath.
pairings: peter ballard x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI!!, depictions of violence, sexual content, abuse (not detailed or from pairings!), angst, jealously, slow-burn, emotional manipulation, steamy
chapter summary: working at Hawkins Lab means silence, routine, and rules. It also means Peter Ballard: quiet conversations, lingering touches, and a closeness that was never meant to be noticed.
a/n: hi guysss!!! i've missed you all so much!! I also missed writing, and this is my first-ever Peter Ballard fic with chapters! i've only written oneshots, but was inspired to write my first ever fic!! as always, let me know what you think of the first chapter-- chapters will be released ASAP, but should be max 2 days. thank you guys, and happy reading!<3
part 2
The first thing you hear when you step into Brenner’s office is the clock.
It ticks too loudly for a room this big. You’ve learned to tune it out most days, but tonight it feels like it’s counting something down.
Peter’s already there.
He’s standing by the tall window with his back half-turned, hands folded behind him like he’s waiting to be inspected. White button-up, tucked too neatly. White slacks, crease razor-sharp. Black shoes, spotless. He looks the same as he did this morning, and yesterday, and every day before that—untouched by time in a place that eats people alive.
“You’re early,” he says without looking at you.
You drop your bag on your chair. “You say that like it’s a crime.”
He glances over his shoulder, lips twitching. “It might be. Brenner doesn’t like enthusiasm.”
“I’m not enthusiastic,” you say, booting your chair back into place. “I just didn’t want to be in my apartment.”
That gets his attention. He turns fully now, eyes flicking over you; not assessing, not evaluating. Just checking.
“Oh,” he says. Then, quieter, “That makes sense.”
You don’t ask how.
You settle into your desk, flipping on the lamp. The room softens instantly, shadows stretching across the walls. Peter moves closer, setting a file down between you.
“Session notes,” he says. “Brenner wants them typed tonight.”
You frown. “That’s cruel.”
“He called it ‘efficient,’” he teases.
You snort before you can stop yourself. Peter blinks, then actually smiles. It’s small, quick, like he didn’t mean to let it happen.
“There it is,” you say. “I was wondering if you left it at home.”
He huffs quietly. “Don’t get used to it.”
Your fingers brush when you take the file. You let them linger this time. His hand stays.
You hook your pinky around his.
Peter freezes.
The clock keeps ticking.
He looks at your hands, then at the door, then back at you. “We’re… okay?” he asks, like he’s double-checking directions.
You nod. “We’re okay.”
He exhales, shoulders easing like he’s been holding tension since breakfast. His pinky tightens around yours. Just once. Like punctuation.
You get to work.
The tape player clicks and whirs as you rewind. Voices crackle through the speakers; pleading, crying, breaking. You flinch despite yourself.
Peter notices immediately.
“Hey,” he says softly, leaning closer. “You can skip that part. I already summarized it.”
You glance up. “You don’t have to protect me.”
“I know,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I still want to.”
That lands heavier than it should.
At ten-thirty, you’re both fading.
You shove your chair back and stretch, arms over your head. “If I don’t get caffeine in the next five minutes, I’m going to commit a felony.”
Peter watches you with faint amusement. “That’s very specific.”
“I’ve had a long day.”
He taps the file closed. “Break?”
You smile. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The hallway outside the office is dim, the fluorescent lights buzzing unevenly. Your footsteps echo as you walk side by side, shoulders brushing. You don’t bother pretending it’s accidental anymore.
In the break room, you claim the counter while Peter fumbles with the coffee machine.
“You’re bad at this,” you observe.
“I know,” he admits. “It doesn’t like me.”
“It’s a machine.”
“They can still be temperamental.”
You lean in, fixing the settings with practiced ease. “You’re projecting.”
He smiles again. Wider this time.
You take your mugs to the small table by the wall. Peter sits across from you, knees almost touching yours. Almost.
He keeps glancing at the door.
“You’re doing it again,” you say.
“Doing what?”
“Watching for things that aren’t going to happen.”
He considers that. “I don’t like being wrong.”
You reach out, resting your fingers over his knee. “You won’t be. Not here.”
His breath stutters. “You say that very confidently.”
“I am very confident.”
He lets his knee shift closer, pressing into your touch. “You’re… grounding,” he says, like he’s surprised by the word.
You shrug lightly. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He laughs under his breath. “High praise.”
The hallway camera flickers.
It’s barely a thing—just a blink of static—but you see it, and so does Peter. His head tilts a fraction, attention sharpening, instinct kicking in.
You don’t say anything. You just reach for his hand.
He looks down at your fingers threaded through his, then back at you. There’s a question in his eyes. There always is. You answer it by tugging him gently toward the alcove near the storage shelves, where the light doesn’t quite reach and the air smells faintly of dust and paper.
“This is one of the blind spots,” you murmur.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I mapped them.”
You smile despite yourself. “Of course you did.”
The space is small. Smaller than you remember. Peter stands close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, steady and grounding. His hands hover for a second, unsure, before settling carefully at your waist, like he’s afraid of holding too tightly.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod, lifting your hands to smooth them over his chest, feeling his heartbeat under the crisp fabric of his shirt. It’s faster than usual.
“You?” you ask.
He swallows. “I am now.”
The words sit between you, fragile.
Peter leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His forehead brushes yours first, a soft, accidental touch that makes your breath hitch. You can smell his soap, clean and faint, and something warmer underneath.
When his soft lips finally meet yours, it’s gentle, almost tentative. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just a careful press, like he’s checking to see if this is still allowed.
You kiss him back, slow and sure.
His breath shudders against your mouth. One of his hands tightens slightly at your waist, thumb brushing back and forth in a small, unconscious motion. The other comes up to rest at your side, grounding himself.
The kiss deepens. Not in urgency, but in confidence. Peter tilts his head just a little, enough to fit against you better. It’s practiced now. Familiar. Something you’ve done before and will do again.
You step back first.
Not because you want to, but because the hallway hums again, fluorescent lights buzzing, the building reminding you that it’s still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Peter’s hands slip from your waist slowly, reluctantly, like he has to think through each movement. He straightens his shirt without realizing he’s doing it.
“We should,” he says. His voice is quieter now. Grounded. “Before someone notices we’re gone.”
“Yeah,” you agree. “That’d be bad for both of us.”
He hesitates, then smiles faintly. “Mostly you.”
You scoff under your breath. “Wow. Thanks.”
You walk back down the hall together, not touching this time but close enough that your shoulders brush. It feels different after, like the space between you remembers what just happened.
Back in the office, you grab your bag, flipping off the desk lamp. Peter shuts the filing cabinet with careful precision. Neither of you rushes.
At the exit, the night air hits you both at once. Cold, sharp, real. The parking lot is mostly empty, the building looming behind you like it always does.
You pause at the bottom of the steps.
“Same time tomorrow?” Peter asks.
There’s something hopeful in it. Careful. Like he’s still learning how to want things out loud.
You smile, easy and genuine. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He nods, hands slipping into his pockets. “Tomorrow.”
- ☆ - a/n: ♧ reposting this fic because tumblr nuked it from the tags. if you ever happened to find the original two-parter floating somewhere lmk :3 ♧ latest project — Shanks ♧
- ☆ - tags: ♧ reader is a member of the straw-hats ♧ light!voyeurism ♧ teasing ♧ fem!reader ♧ some subby!sanji and dom!reader but Sanji-kun is a true switch :3 ♧ panty sniffing ♧ begging ♧ male!masturbation ♧ cum play-ish ♧ leg fetish(?) ♧ body worship ♧ humping ♧ Sanji gets a nose bleed so there will be mentions of blood ♧ idk how else to tag this but reader teases sanji and he's a lil desperate cunt-slut ♧ never had a beta, we die like fools ♧
“Bye, guys! Stay safe!”
Seated on Franky’s mechanical shoulders, Chopper waved back at you. His adorable laughter drifted past the treelines along with their farewells and energetic chaos fleeing towards another mini adventure. One you would not be a part of this time.
The rest of the crew left you on board with the promise to return soon as they scoured for supplies on an inhabited island, but with the way Luffy sped away— and Nami shouted after him— you knew there wouldn’t be much hope reigning in the Captain’s excitement.
You could trust Luffy to disrupt a plan and completely derail a simple situation. His shouts and the crew’s calls for him to slow down faded faster than the dust he left behind.
The seconds ticked.
You held your breath.
Standing alone, you listened intently for the silence to shatter the way you have become accustomed to— only to hear nothing but the squawk of birds resting on the mast. Undisturbed and unthreatened. Without so much as a song or laughter to burst, the ship rocked against the crystal waters of the shallow shore as you stood on the massive boat.
The world quiet, the view serene.
“Yes!” You let out an excited squeal, stomping your feet on the grassy deck in a silly dance of freedom and peace. “It’s finally quiet!” You shouted, laughing to yourself when no one answered you but the flaps of the wind against the furled sails above you.
There were no shouts other than your own, no arguments or explosions— no disturbances of other people. Finally! After five weeks of non-stop excitement and open sea, you twirled, jumped and danced your butt off with no one to interrupt or insult your ridiculous display of glee because you were alone!
“They all left, yes, yes!”
You sang merrily, taking up space with wide arms and a beaming smile.
You loved the straw hats. Travelling with them has been the most thrilling adventure of your life. They were amazing! Incredible, free-spirited— but sometimes, when the songs turn repetitive, and the merriment mutates into mayhem, you just want time to yourself.
Having grown up alone, you had become accustomed to the stillness of an empty room. It was comforting, the calmness of your own company and the hyper-independence it developed. A stark contrast to the life you started with your new makeshift family, and after so long of bumping and sharing space with colourful, loud personalities, you were thankful for the chance to stretch your arms and lay on the soft grass.
A moment to unwind, relax, and hear nothing but the waves below and revel in the tranquillity of solitude.
“Now, iced tea on the deck or a long bubble bath?” You mused out loud, whistling while making your way to the kitchen, “or both?” You paused up the stairs.
You sought to utilise all the time you had with maximum relaxation — with the way Luffy screamed over the odd-looking animal that stole his fruit; reading a book in the bathtub right now would guarantee no disturbances or uncomfortable attention for a while. No long lines or perverted interferences. You could take your time soaking in the warm water, and if they arrived by late dinner, they would find you already sated, happy and relaxed in the kitchen.
Right, decisions finally made, you went back down the stairs.
First, you needed your book back from Usopp, who swore he would finish and return yet never did, so you made your way to the boy’s quarters. They have lockers with their names, so it wouldn’t be too difficult unless he stashed it somewhere else, hopefully, the room wasn’t too messy— “Damn,” you heard someone hiss, a low voice that stopped you in your tracks, followed by inaudible murmurs that most definitely belonged to a man.
Fuck. Just like that, your good mood died, snatching your solitude away before you had the chance to indulge in it fully.
There was someone else here wrecking your fantasy and all the excitement of relaxing alone. No one ever said you would be guarding the ship with another person, yet the sounds of shuffling filled you with instant disappointment as you stood outside the room with the door slightly ajar.
You eyed them carefully through the crack, peeking in to seize a glimpse of who was ruining your day of fun, only to catch a wisp of blonde hair and a streak of smoke before you heard him hum something to himself as he shrugged off his suit jacket, clearly undressing.
Oh.
Swallowing your nerves, you spied from the slim gap through the door— watching smooth, slender hands loosen and tug on the tie around a pale neck until it slipped out and neatly folded on the dresser in front of him.
You paused, disappointment somehow melting as something else fluttered through your body. Something hot. Something wicked and indecent thumped an ache in your core as you watched him unbutton his top collar.
Then the second.
Third.
Unwittingly, your thoughts began to drift. Obliviously slipping into a heated dream envisioning how his strong hands would feel on your hips, your waist, gripping your supple skin when he presses you into his chest. The hot wisps of smoke and spice fogging your perception when he tilts his head down to yours, lips soft and slightly parted…
Sanji rolled his neck, popping the tension that released a low hiss from him, startling you out of the fantasy you unknowingly faded into before a sudden realisation rooted you to the spot— you were watching a man undress.
You were watching Sanji undress.
You only needed your book— a simple noise or shuffle would make your presence known, but you watched Sanji rake his fingers through his hair instead and toe off his shoes, standing in the middle of the room.
You weren’t all that sure about the layout of their quarters, considering you were usually respectful— but you could tell Sanji was closer to the beds and had a medium-sized dresser beside it with a sink and mirror in the corner. The room was spacious, bigger than the girl’s quarters, including a sofa and table in a sunken spot nestled in the middle of their room. It wasn’t as disorganised as you pictured. A lot of colourful knacks matching different aesthetics, but they all had a place that belonged to them. A piece of individuality.
You leaned back, hoping you went unnoticed by the man who often sang for your attention— and Nami’s and Robin’s, and any pretty girl he laid his eyes on. He was shameless, obscene. Yet there you stood, watching him unwind and strip ever so slowly exposing a physique you never expected from the ship’s cook.
The wavering sense of guilt drifted from your consciousness, fading into a vague afterthought with every second you spent gazing into the rift through the door as if it were luring you into depravity.
You wondered why you held your breath when his humming stopped.
Say something before—
His tired groan flushed warmth on your cheeks as you ducked behind the frame, shamefully peering into the room and watching him finish unbuttoning his blue striped shirt with deft fingers. Gingerly unclasping the buttons one by one until the shirt hung loosely on his shoulders. Over soft skin and hardened muscle.
It was almost elegant how he shifted his cigarette with his teeth to avoid the tiny trickles of ashes from falling on his suit, then gently placed his black jacket on the bed with grace you couldn’t fathom as he slid the shirt off his broad shoulders in the same motion.
Brightening the room, hitching your breath.
Sanji... he was beautiful.
In a gentle sort of way, with poise, strength and a style all his own. In an amorous way that kept you fixated on his toned back. His broad shoulders, smooth chest, and the cut of his well-defined abs. In the sense that had you admiring the grace of his movements and all the years he must have spent perfecting them.
You have watched him work while travelling with the strawhats these last few weeks. For no other reason than admiration, at the time, because you respected his power and the regency of his fighting style. But now, in the absence of stubborn rivalry and heart-eyed temptations— to glimpse the softness of his smile for yourself was like witnessing the shimmer of undisturbed water shining in the light of a spring day.
Peaceful.
A smile all his own, no snarky comment or perverted leer to taint the innocence or sincerity of his expression— you could only describe it as pretty.
It had you clutching the hem of your sundress, crouching down slightly when his lithe body sauntered from your sight. Was he preparing to take a shower? Did they have their own private facilities? Or is he about to walk out and catch you and your hidden decadence for unassuming men?
Your mind raced with questions, mixing with a perverted sort of fascination you dared not to admit, leering behind the door that hinged on the stillness of your presence.
Sanji turned back to your frame, humming another tune that was all too familiar when music played merrily on the deck. He sounded at ease, his voice carrying through the room softer than the smoke that swirled around him.
You bit back a smile, unintentionally slanting into the door, craving more than a slim peek into the room. deeper than a glance, especially when his hand inched towards his pants.
His movements were effortless— if it were not for the click of the buckle and the loud snap of leather, you would have missed how he unclasped his belt with one hand and yanked it fluidly with one rough tug out of the loops.
Fuck, that should not have been as attractive as it was, yet heat flushed anyway like it was coursing through your blood vessels, pumping your heart into a sensual beat out of its control. As much as you wanted to deny it, and turn your guilt away, it forced you to realise how difficult it was becoming to justify your presence— and even tougher to care about the intrusion of Sanji’s privacy.
He would have done the same, right? Though Sanji would have been less conspicuous and ten times more audacious, it was still innocent for you. For now.
“Where’s?” He mumbled before a soft aha came right after, a blue towel appearing in your field of vision. Hard muscles and a lean torso shifted through the gap, his back to you as he fiddled with something you could not see.
Your gaze lingered, slinking down every tight ridge and exposed skin you were blessed to witness.
There was a beauty to him you had not seen before, a tenderness to his features you only noticed now through the sliver of light. The colour on his cheeks, the tilt of his lips, the little curl of his eyebrow most people teased him for. There was something feminine about it— a spark of gentility he may have inherited from his mother, not that you knew much about that, just a softness he seemed to be blessed with.
It was admirable how he took excellent care of his things too. Rolling his belt, setting aside his cufflinks, buffing his shoes, even hanging his shirt over the chair to be later washed and pressed— you know he did after Brook thanked him for kindly ironing his shirts as well.
Perhaps there is more to him than silly sexual deviances. More than hazy eyes over full tits and round ass-cheeks. Sanji was diligent. Thoughtful. Tender.
Whereas you were the deviant leaning in a little too intently now, your perverted gaze following the veins on his forearms as he stretched them above his head, emitting low groans when his back pulled tautly and the muscles constricted tight.
You squirmed, the sounds of his groans and sighs making you clench your thighs as you watched him stretch, then admired himself in the mirror, rubbing his chin over the dark hairs you wished he wasn’t thinking of shaving. You liked the facial hair— almost as much as his ass when he leaned forward to splash some water on his face.
“Wait..” you murmured out loud without thinking. When did he snuff the cigarette?
Shame filled you instantly. Sanji’s ass distracted you for too long because now he was wiping his face with a clean blue towel, droplets of water rolling down his sturdy neck before they were selfishly wiped away just when you began imagining licking it off his skin.
You huffed, your feet planted to the floorboards, unable to speak louder than a tortured gasp while your thighs cinched to ease an unpleasant ache when he ran his hand through his hair again, with pretty blonde strands falling wet over his face. Over sweet eyes and high cheekbones.
It was exhilarating, intrusive, and extremely impolite, yet you could not turn away or apologise for the violation, too mesmerised by the physique usually clad in lavish suits. Only witnessing a faint glimmer of the man you had never known before— lurking behind the shadow of the door frame that separated you from him and spared him from your wandering stare.
There was a clink and a small flame before the smell of smoke wafted through the door once again. A thick cloud of vapour swirled around Sanji as he tilted his head back, eyes closed and basking in the serenity of the surrounding silence. Much like you wanted to before you became lustfully distracted, spoiling his privacy. Invading his space. That guilt you previously estranged yourself from inched back into your consciousness as Sanji sighed softly, looking every bit of the peace you intended for yourself earlier.
Your teeth latched on your bottom lip, nervousness churning, desire twisting into a sick delusion— your prying had to end. Even Sanji deserved the politeness of privacy.
So, you turned to leave, determined to ignore all you had seen, just for the floorboards to creak under your weight when your feet shuffled a little too loudly.
Your body stilled, you felt your pulse explode, and excuses and apologies were ready to spill from your trembling lips as you whipped your head back to the door— only to freeze when you caught him unbuttoning his pants.
He stood there, shirtless, hair damp and dark pants low on his hips as the zipper rang louder than the blood rushing in your head.
A smothered gasp escaped behind your hand, an inaudible “Oh god,” choking out beneath the pleasured grunts you heard through the wall. Sweat beaded down your temple, somehow feeling hot and sticky despite the chilling wind that ruffled your hair, tickling the flushed skin of your chest as your breathing quickened.
He was... touching himself— idly, lazily, using the heel of his palm to rub on his crotch as it steadily grew into a heavy bulge pressing into the teeth of the zipper.
“Fuck... ”
You squeaked, thankfully no louder than his own low grunt.
His teeth peaked through his smile, chuckling at something past your sight. His smile was sultry, his laugh airy. Thank God, no one could ever see the creeping blush up your neck over Sanji. Or feel the stickiness that marred your panties over the sight of his erection lewdly shaped beneath the fabric of his dark pants. The man who needed blood transfusions whenever he saw a pretty girl.
You would have felt humiliated if you weren’t so distracted. And breathless, lightheaded, and not to mention wet.
His ridiculousness was why you never noticed these things before, like the slenderness of his long fingers, or how his sharp jaw clenched to keep the cigarette in place— or the elegance of his strides across the room to place his shoes in the locker and hang his suit jacket before stepping into the sunken sofa.
A new light, a new Sanji to you— a voyeuristic secret you could never confess even through the stuttered breaths of your own arousal.
Shit, shit, shit!
He was right there, facing you— yet unaware of the glowering eyes and thundering pulse a few feet away from him. At least, that’s what you hoped as you watched him throw his head back over the couch and rub the back of his neck tiredly— teasing you with a view of his sculptured body and the heavy tent straining against the zip of his pants.
Fuck… he was a vision. Perhaps if he had a fraction of this elegance towards women, he would have them falling at his feet, begging for his attention— panting his name— raking your nails down his smooth chest.
Caressing him the way your fingers unconsciously mimicked on the door as you pressed yourself against it, tits hot and heavily squished into redwood, desperate for cool relief on your flushed skin while straining to see past the hem of his pants. He was so close, yet out of reach, as you watched his hand run down his neck, gliding it on his chest sensually before grasping the chubb that had him sighing lowly into his own touch.
“Just a little,” he groaned, rubbing on his cock lazily, as if he was convincing himself to indulge in his own pleasure, “before they come back.”
Oh god, oh god.
You weren’t in the right state of mind to be making decisions when every grumble and low hum of his vibrated straight between your thighs. Pooling slick in your panties that had you chewing on your bottom lip to sanctify some sanity when heated arousal rushed through your body.
“We have time,” he murmured, shifting in his seat to tug down his pants a little more, dark blonde tufts of hair peeking through, giving himself room to breathe with his underwear sliding just beneath it. His chubb was fat and still hidden, but you could see the tip twitch with every squeeze of his abdomen, teasing himself with the friction rubbing upon his dick. “uhh, yea, please.” He moaned a sweet sound seeped in desperation, his eyes closed and hips jerking, playing his fantasy out loud, his hands clenched by his sides. “Touch me, please, I’ll be good”, he whispered, smiling as he did, a flush colouring his cheeks. “Jus’ for you, yea? All you. Pretty girl, make me so hard.” He choked the last word, taking the cigarette out of his mouth for a steady breath of air before clenching it back in his teeth.
You were a mess.
You had to stop, turn away— breathe.
Sanji was begging, whining to be touched as he bucked his hips, using his abs to move his cock in his pants. Edging himself in a fantasy you only hoped to be a part of— but you could never dare to interfere. Your chest heaved, nipples taut and stroking against the door, gripping the handle so it stayed put even as your legs shook from the pressure to keep you upright.
Leave, you had to leave.
Move your feet, release the grip on the door and shift your weight to the side.
You manually counted your breaths, ripping your gaze from Sanji’s pleading stare.
Leave, just leave.
“Don't leave,” he whined, sitting upright. “at least let me watch you too, it’s only fair.”
It was as if a wave of cold, salty, ocean water dunked on you from the way you shrieked at the sound of your own name.
The door creaked, opening wide, betraying you by exposing the statue you had become and on the brink of collapsing from shame or even darting from his sights if you could have managed to work your knees.
Though his eyes were free from shock or disgust, he looked almost excited. Eager. The cigarette clenched in his wide grin; hair pushed back— you could see how his eyes glowed.
You gaped back at him, shock contorting into a dry wheeze you couldn’t control while his smile curled into a light chuckle, amused by your flustered expression.
“Don’t leave,” he repeated, the invitation sounding almost kind coming from his lips, a charming smile hidden behind an obscene request while tugging on his pants when his hard cock pressed too tightly in its confines. “Watch me, please.”
Sanji asked you not to leave.
Sanji said your name while asking you not to leave— not to leave watching him masturbate.
Your breath fell past your lips, frozen just outside the bedroom door, your blood still humming through your body. You were stuck. Mortified. No matter how many times you rephrased or repeated it in your head, you could not move or answer him in anything but a squeak. “Why?”
“Why not?” He countered, striding towards you, bulge still prominent. “You’ve been watching me the whole time. Why stop now?”
“No! I-I didn’t mean to—”
He nodded teasingly, “you liked it.” Sanji snickered when you snapped your mouth shut, your denial ruined by the searing shame choking your words as he stalked closer. “I liked it too,” he said lowly, “made me so hard.”
“I wasn’t—” you huffed, desperate to explain yourself despite the way your gaze flickered down at his chest with every pathetic stammer. “I just wanted- and then you- it’s only—”
Sanji laughed, waving his hand dismissively with his cigarette pinched between his fingers, twirling a ring of smoke between you. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. No harm in a little peeking,” his teeth flashed prettily, excitement shining at your bashful glances towards his shapely crotch. “If you want, maybe you can make it up to me. I’d hate to tell the rest of the crew what you did.”
“How?” You hated how timid you sounded, so you cleared your throat and stood straighter, only taking a small step back when he got closer, heart thundering and not at all bothered by his proximity. “It’s not like I’d let you watch me. I know what you’re like.”
“Do you?”
“Y-yes.”
His curly brow quirked up, amusement glossing his tone, “You don’t sound so sure, dearie.”
“I know you’ll just brag about me looking at you as if I’m some horny perv lurking around the boy’s room—”
“But you are,” he interjected, taking a slow drag of smoke and blowing it downwind. “I wasn’t the one caught lurking—”
“This time!” You bristled from the accusation, digging an accusatory finger at his firm, muscled chest, lingering a second too long before snapping. “You’re the one always butting in when the girls bathe. You’re the one trying to sneak a glance when we change! You’re the rude one!” You shouted, guilt clawing in your chest when all he did was smile. “I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry, okay? But don’t make me out to be a pervert like you.”
Sanji rubbed his chest sadly, palming the exact spot you touched as if he were cherishing the contact with his big hand sprawled on his own skin. “Aw, darlin’,” he cooed with a cute pout on his lips, “do I make you uncomfortable?”
“No!” you shrieked a little too quickly, “I-I mean, yes! When you—”
“When I undress?”
“God!—”
“When I rub my cock?”
Your cheeks burned, a strangled whine slipping before you could clamp your teeth on your bottom lip, “That’s not! You—”
“I, what?” he purred, tilting his head down again, the simmering scent of smoke tickling your lips, “you can’t even look at me in the eye, but you had no trouble watching me stroke my cock to you. Did watching me make you wet, darlin’?”
The lie spilled in an undignified splutter, the word no holding too many syllables when you tried to say it.
His laughter chimed in your ears, a vibrant sound that brightened his face, and though he was laughing at you, a part of you softened from the sight. Mesmerised by it.
Pretty. Shimmering waters.
Somehow, it helped you release a steady breath, perhaps for the first time since you discovered him. Putting you at ease and in control.
Taking another step back, it was easier to blurt out your next half-lie. “I wasn’t watching you, I came for something.”
“Is there any chance that thing being me?”
“There is a better chance I slap you if you don’t back the fuck up.”
“Promise?” Sanji chuckled, a rosy blush tinting his cheeks. He invaded your space again, smoke and soap stroking your senses while his hands stayed respectfully by his sides. “Wow, dirty words sound so pretty when you say it.” He tilted his chin, inching closer, lips inviting, “Say fuck again.”
In your head, you slapped him. You pushed past his large, dominating frame, and went on your way to enjoy the bath you had planned and forget all that you have seen.
In reality? In the sensuous bubble of arousal he encased you in— the curse tickled his lips in a low murmur. Like a pre-emptive kiss he savoured by swiping his tongue on his bottom lip just so he could taste the words you teased as an insult.
“Again,” he pleaded, slanting you into the wooden railing. Gripping the beam. Almost chest to chest. Almost touching.
“Fuck,” you breathed, “you.”
“Please…again..”
“Sanji—”
“mmhh..”
“—fuck… you.”
“Shit.” his laugh strained into a desperate husk.
You could almost taste it. And you wanted to, to taste him that is, because you could tell he was cracking. In a singular moment, you turned the tides on him, taking the upper hand and the dominance he flexed exposing you. And like a switch, Sanji was pleading— his adams apple bobbed, lips parted, eyes blown. Not anything like the charm he exuded earlier. He sounded helpless. Distraught. Struggling against the invisible line you still held between you, yet honouring the boundary you have placed because he was still a gentleman.
You admired that.
Part of you— the wretched, drunk on lust part you shoved in a cage most nights to escape her fantasies— wished for him to push the waters and break the barrier. To feel the warmth of his skin pressed against yours. His hands, his lips.
His eyes shined instead. Hooded and sparkling a desire you mimicked with your slow breaths.
The birds squawked above, and Sanji finally found his voice.
“Can I masturbate to you?”
“Huh?”
“You’re so pretty, so tempting,” he said. Flexing his grip on the beam as if it were a lifeline. “I loved it when you were watching me. If you don’t want me to touch you, that’s fine. I won’t push you. But please, watch me. And I promise it will be just between us, okay?”
You squirmed. The words of rejection faded faster than they formed while you tried not to shrink under his pleading stare. You could feel your back pressed against the rail, digging into your skin as Sanji stood tall, shirtless and strong— caging you with his hand gripping the wooden beam right by your hip. Your bodies close, breaths hot and almost in sync, yours just a little shakier as you contemplated his invitation.
To watch him. Openly.
Why was it so daunting with his permission? With his lust blown eyes homed in on yours. Longing for something more than your stuttered breath to brush his skin.
Even in the open air, all you could feel was the heat raying from his bare chest and the twinge of smoke fanning around you. His arousal straining yet inches away from contact with your thigh he keeps achingly out of reach. It was just him, you, and the birds sitting on the mast, but it felt like you were locked in a steel cage with hundreds of spectators waiting on your next move.
You couldn’t hear them above the raging waves of your own thoughts. However, it was hard to stay objective when the currents that pulsed in your blood rushed between your thighs, dousing you with a tender ache that was becoming harder to ignore.
When you took too long to respond, his smile faded. “I’ll leave you be—”
“Sit back down,” you commanded, pushing on his chest and smiling when he shuddered beneath your palm.
Sanji grinned. He took your hand, your name spoken softer than any ballad as he whispered it into your skin and placed a kiss to accompany the warmth it spread. “Yes, my lady.”
In the depths of his eyes, you fell. The world blackened and you plunged deep into his domain. Into his desires.
Tethered only by the delicate hold he kept of your hand, you stepped into the room behind him, keeping your head up despite the nervousness that swirled within.
The anonymity you deluded yourself into believing snapped when the door closed behind you. Sanji was freakishly deceptive. Of course, he knew. Of course, he was teasing you. But the genuine plea that shined in his eyes made it impossible to walk away.
He looked so cute. So masculine and vulnerable at the same time. You wanted to see more of him it drove you right into the lustful fog that blanketed the space in between.
When he released your hand, you found yourself missing the contact of his large palm clasped in yours.
Sanji took his place back on the sofa, thighs spread, and lips parted in breathless excitement. But before anything else happened, he snuffed his bud in the ashtray in front of him. “You can walk away any time you want, sweetheart. No hard feelings or awkwardness, okay?”
Your shoulders visibly relaxed, unaware they were ever tense, but it made you smile anyway. Grateful for the reminder and the familiarity of his gentlemanly deference.
“I know,” you give him a genuine smile, “just between us, yeah?”
“Of course, darlin’.” His smile mirrored yours like the glimmering waters they are modelled after. Putting you at ease and in control once again when he affirms; “Just between us.”
With a deep breath— you cooled your expression, while his eyes shined as an air of apathy befell around you.
There was no turning back from this, and as you stood there, shielded from the cooling wind and the anchoring weight of the door you once hid behind, you realised that you truly didn’t want to.
You were inside.
You had his attention. You could watch him— Sanji, undress, and pleasure himself without anything obstructing your view or fixate on the shame twisting in your gut this time because he invited you in. Led you by the hand while you pretended the contact didn’t ignite anything.
That the warmth of his hand clasped in yours didn’t buckle your knees when you stepped over the threshold. Or that you could still feel the brush of his lips on your fingers.
You could continue pretending none of it mattered because this was just a game, and you were good at playing games. You could play this one with him too.
“Sit back,” you ordered after finally finding your voice, “—and show me what you were doing.”
“Fuck,” his hands fumbled.
His excitement forced you to chew on your bottom lip to surpass a snicker. It was endearing, but you held onto your indifference like a vice. You were looking forward to seeing him unravel.
“Keep—” he swallowed thickly. “Keep talking to me like that.”
“Like what?” you watched him palm his cock through his pants again, his erection growing harder with the new stimulation beneath his hand. “Tell you how I like to watch pretty boys touch themselves?”
You crossed your arms, smirking when his attention locked on to the swell of your breasts curving over the top of the dress, flashing delectable skin that had him swiping his tongue hungrily. “I think you’re a little pathetic,” you shrugged, “and predictable.”
His lip tilted. “I guess I just can’t help myself.”
“Hmm, well, you can have a little more decorum, though. Be a little less obvious too.”
He chuckled airily. “Not when I’m stroking my cock to you, darlin.”
Sanji shifted slightly, dragging his pants down lower and exposing more of the dark blonde trail that led past his waistband. Taunting you with a flash of skin you couldn’t turn away from. “Want to see how hard just looking at you makes me?”
A smile peeked through despite your best efforts. “I can see well enough from here.”
“That’s not what it looked like before,” he teased, cupping his balls through the fabric. “I thought you might fall through the door from how far you leaned in trying to sneak a peek.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I thought we were passed the bashful lies, sweetheart?”
You peered down at him through your lashes, ignoring the flush creeping up your neck from his sultry gaze.
Neither of you said another word for a minute as the room filled with Sanji’s breathy sighs. He was using his abs again, clenching them and bucking his hips to rub his cock against his pants. The friction making him grip the sofa. His lips part.
Your thighs cinched watching his reddened tip slip through when his pants slid further down. He looked wrecked already. Pearly dribbles of pre-cum smeared over his abs, trickling over the toned lines and ridges with every jerk of his hips, adding a lewd sheen to his skin as the rise and fall of his chest quickened.
Just standing there stumbled whines from his throat, you wondered about the sort of sounds he would make into your neck.
“Sanji”. His gaze snapped up. “Use your thumb for me,” you said softly. “Rub on your slit, I want to see your tip get sensitive.”
“Sh-it, like this?”
“Good boy.”
He moaned.
“Oh,” you grinned. “You like that, huh?”
Sanji nodded timidly, his blush darkening when his control slipped. He didn’t mean to confess such a kink, but the way you purred the praise sent shockwaves up his spine. Made his cock twitch, hand tremble.
“I like how you talk to me,” he confessed lowly. “Your voice, how it sounds when you say my name. How you lower your tone, or your breath catches when I groan— fuck. It drives me crazy.”
You hummed playfully, nibbling on your bottom lip when he canted his hips into his hand rhythmically. Now completely free from the confines of his slacks, his cock stayed caged in his fist, his shaft long and slender throbbing with a hue that matched his cheeks as pre-cum slicked loudly, coating his fingers in its sticky mixture while you stood there ignoring the wetness soaking your own panties.
“You look desperate already, Sanji-kun.” You teased lightly, hiding your hands behind your back so he couldn’t see you dig your nails into your palms. “Do you like being watched that much? I can see you leaking, your cock is so wet, and we’ve just started. Are you going to cum so soon? That’s sort of pathetic, don’t you think?”
“I can’t help it,” he groaned, damp blond strands falling over high cheekbones. “It’s like your eyes set me on fire. Igniting everything that sits under my skin, burning me through, it feels so good, it almost hurts. Fuck, sweetheart, I can’t imagine what would happen if you touched me. Your hands on my chest, your sweet lips on my neck. If you so much as leaned into me, letting me breathe in your scent, uhh-shit- I’m ashamed to admit I might cum untouched.” His throat constricted, seizing his words into a tortured rasp. “Darlin’, for my sake, for my sanity, you have to stay back and let me just watch. Let me look at you and imagine all the ways you’d set me alight with just a kiss.”
“Would you let me?” you asked breathlessly. “Kiss you, I mean.”
“Oh, in a heartbeat.”
“Even if you’d gush blood and pass out?” you couldn’t help the giggle.
“Even if it were my last,” Sanji groaned desperately. “To kiss you would be the end of me, and I would pray they’d bring me back so I can do it again.”
Your chest tightened hearing the affection hidden beneath his moans.
There were deep crescent shapes in your palms now, the skin reddened and pinched from your efforts to maintain even an ounce of control, but the sting paled in comparison to the drum of your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. Rattling the bars of your sanity the longer you stood in his presence.
Sanji looked at you as if— as if he would never see the light again.
With awe, longing, and something close to anguish when the light shines further away from him. As something beyond his reach yet to be cherished and marvelled at all the same. To be revered. Desired. Loved but never possessed because it wasn’t his place to assert his will, but to bask in the warmth the light spread.
It was intoxicating, and he was unravelling faster than you anticipated.
You could tell from how he thumbed the thin veins forking along his length, how pre-cum spilled over his fingers, pooling at the base of his cock and how his chest heaved that he was chasing a fast-approaching release that had him stuttering your name past his lips— involuntarily rising heat all the way to the tips of your ears.
Sanji was too erratic. Too frenetic.
Moaning and thrusting and rolling his wrist over and over his shaft so fast, it was a wonder he remained conscious. He looked unbalanced. A sort of frantic that reminded you of all the times he over-excited himself and exploded into a fit leaving him comatose and bloodied.
You had to slow him down, to set the pace for now only to have him moan in a melody of salacious cries later on, and then bend him into a rhythm only your pulse can match.
At your mercy, your control.
In a way that wouldn’t end with the rest of the crew returning to find Sanji dead on the floor seeped in his own cum and blood. This is exactly how this was heading if you let him continue down this path.
Whining incessantly while fucking his tight fist in faster strokes, his teary gaze seared straight into your core, almost certain you could feel the warmth of his touch from across the room as you fought the urge to squirm and find the power to bark:
“Stop.”
The command shot straight through him. Snapping him at attention like a stinging whip on his back.
His jaw ticked. Veins pulsed.
Sanji’s rigid composure would have been comical if his erection hadn’t slapped against his stomach. Angry red and swollen with need, it looked almost painful, especially with the way his brows twisted miserably as he panted heavily glowing with sweat and desperation.
“Breathe.”
When he inhaled a wheezing, sharp breath— you shook your head, instructing him to go slower. Calmer. Until his shoulders laxed and his throat swallowed a decent gulp. “Good boy, just breathe for me.”
Sanji nodded meekly, even managing a smile as he clenched and unclenched his hands on his knees, wiping off the gooey, sordid evidence of his arousal in quiet shame.
You observed him critically, assessing his mental and physical state and deeming him a little untethered. As if he were floating, glassy-eyed and adrift in his own mind until enough deep breaths grounded him back to your focus. You watched him come to grips with things— his attention shifting to his pants bunched at his thighs, to his cock standing full mast, to the hot air suffocating the room.
Sanji sighed wistfully, threading his trembling hand through his sweaty bangs and out of his face, a deep blush colouring his cheeks.
“Feeling better?” you asked gently. “I just can’t have you passing out on me before things really get started.”
It took him a moment to find his voice again. His throat was dry despite the wetness clinging to his skin.
“Sorry. I’m just— I’m so hard,” he chuckled weakly. “Can’t, uhh— I can’t imagine what you might think of me right now. How ridiculous and pathetic I might look being so— so enamoured by you.”
You shrugged to lighten the mood. “I always assumed you were a two-minute man, but I won’t tell anyone.”
The laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes as he flexed his fists, actively avoiding the erection pulsing against his stomach, or the truth of his blinding lust and the dizzying spell it held over him.
“I thought I could— I thought I had more control, like when we were on the deck.” Sanji said sullenly, vaguely aware of the festering insecurities. “It was exciting being the one to tease you, to look down at a beautiful woman like you and make her flustered. Being so close to you was- it was so hot, electric even— but having you watch me right now in that commanding tone is ten times more intense. It’s addicting— it’s also humiliating and thrilling all at once. I feel so contorted and … I’m embarrassed to admit how far I’m willing to let you break me”. He confessed shyly.
“Sanji…”
“But that somehow turns me on even more. It’s just… you’re so beautiful”. Sanji whispered gravelly, “It’s just not fair what that does to me.”
“It’s okay,” you released your own shaky inhibitions with a slow exhale and offered a tilted smile, warmth tickling your cheeks upon his conviction. “I like seeing you this way. It was fun on the deck, how dominating you were teasing me. But right now, your eyes shine and it’s really flattering.” You smirked playfully, “Pretty boys like you look best when they’re sweaty and desperate.”
Sanji’s blush was much more obvious than yours, his fair complexion making every inner thought radiate through his skin, but he stayed quiet for a few seconds, his smile strained.
“Be honest with me. If-if I hadn’t said anything, would you have walked away without a word afterwards?”
You thought about it for a moment, stunning him with your impassive gaze towards his raw vulnerability.
There was a touch of wistfulness in it— in the tenderness of his question making it clear that your answer would mean more to him than simply feeding his ego— he needed to feel desirable, worthy— so with a wicked idea, you took those steps forward to bridge the gap between you and relished when his chest hitched visibly as you stood planted between his open thighs.
You pulled him back from the edge, only so you could push him down yourself.
You were so close he could reach out and touch you now if he wanted, his leg could press against yours. His arm could brush your thigh and call it an accident, or he could even brazenly drag you into his lap to finally feel relief on his aching cock. It wouldn’t even take much strength on his part, to grab you by the arm and yank you into his awaiting heat. Your body warm and pressed against his. Flushed and tight.
But as you peered down at him— his lashes wet, face burning, pre cum glistening. Hands stilted on his knees as he inhaled your scent so deep it filled his chest— you know Sanji would never cross that line, not without permission.
You felt powerful in that fact. In the knowledge that you could break a man as powerful as him with a caress, a word. A kiss.
“Yes. I would have walked away,” you confessed firmly. When his expression fell, you bent down at the waist, the words brushing on his lips. “But I would have paid extra close attention to you.”
His mouth fell open, your name almost coherent in the pitiful whimper that escaped disguised as a breath. Yet he still managed to smile despite the blood rushing to his head. “Sweet God, you’re cruel.”
“And you’re shaking.”
He was.
Already unsteady and trembling to keep himself upright. To stay conscious and not let his vision completely glaze over as white spots danced across your face, sparkling you in a tantalising light he fought to keep in his sights even if it muffled his other senses when your scent enveloped him too. Erotically feminine and something so distinctly you his pulse ticked beneath his jaw.
“More, please..”
“mhmm— you have to open your eyes and look at me, Sanji-kun. I might get sad and walk away if you don’t.”
When he finally opened them, you were blessed by the sight of shimmering tears glossing wide, love filled pupils.
“y’know…” you sighed, fighting the warmth spreading between your thighs, “watching you made me realise something.”
“What?”
“That there are layers to you, and I liked discovering them.” The noise he made resembled a strangled animal when you brushed your thumb over his soft cheek. “Your patience, tenderness, diligence, I never paid it any special attention until today. How you take care of your things, how gentle your hands are— I never thought you would be so…” you swiped your tongue upon his bottom lip. “Beautiful.”
“Fuck..” his eyes rolled. A full body shudder raked down his back this time, prickling every fibre etched in his being and ultimately triggering sensitive blood vessels in his nose to pop suddenly as spurts of cum pre-emptively dribbled out of his tip.
You giggled. “Are you okay, Sanji-kun?”
you watched him shake his head inaudibly, hips humping the air for much needed relief as the blood trickled down his nose in slow drips. Almost mimicking how his cock drooled obscenely.
He wouldn’t last much longer like this. Every muscle, nerve and vein burned to keep himself tethered to the seat. “More, I beg you. T-talk to me more, ‘m so close..”
His plea sounded hoarse even to his own ears, but it made you smile all the same.
“I think,” you trailed off, flickering your eyes to his lips, then wiping off the blood gently. “I would have paid attention to your laugh.”
That sobered him a little bit, the confusion furrowed his brows.
“You looked at ease, even though you were teasing me. I liked hearing you hum, chuckle, seeing you smile. You looked relaxed. There was something attractive about it, I can’t quite explain how much I enjoyed seeing that, even before you unzipped your pants. I think I was a little enamoured by you.”
His expression glowed. “R-really?”
You nodded earnestly. “You’re beautiful, Sanji. That’s why I was watching you, why I had to walk away cause it made me feel guilty to see you so … unguarded.”
“I—”
“Do me a favour,” you cupped his jaw with a warm palm, “don’t pass out.”
Before he could reply, Sanji tasted heaven.
It was the slightest touch on his lips, barely a kiss, hardly a brushstroke, but it was enough to hear something akin to an angel’s song as he was bathed in a white light.
Or …
His eyes rolled so far back, his vision became discoloured, and the sound he heard was a high-pitch whine that tore through his own throat and reverberated in the room.
“On your knees.”
Sanji collapsed, gasping and quaking on his hands and knees as if he’d been fighting for his life. Which, in a way, he really was. Fighting to keep some blood in his system that hadn’t already poured into his cock or down his nose when the heat coiling in his belly burned that much hotter from your kiss. Scorching him, blistering the goosebumps that prickled along his flesh making him hypersensitive and numb all at once— numb to the sounds outside this room, hypersensitive to your every move. And if anyone were to find him like this— no, he didn’t care. You were a dream he never wanted to wake up from, even if it ripped him apart, and he’d be damned if anyone came to ruin it now.
Instead, he chewed on his bottom lip, savouring the taste of you, of your sweet gloss and plump lips and dizzying scent— but when he reached to fist his cock to the memory of you pressed against him— Sanji couldn’t stop himself from keening loudly when your foot pushed his hand away.
“I didn’t say you could touch yourself, cutie’.”
“What can I do?” Sanji quivered up at you pleadingly. “I’ll do anything, please. Oh please, please tell me what to do for you, darlin’.”
“Take off my shoes.”
You lifted your right leg for him, offering up your foot clad in the strappy sandal and watched him inhale sharply through his nose.
“I—” his adams apple bobbed as he sat back on his heels, “I can touch you?”
This was a test, a prank. You were only playing with him. the kiss was enough to kill him, and your smile was too sinful to be sincere, but he prayed, nonetheless. Pleaded and hoped and then choked on his own spit when you nodded firmly.
“Yes, but only my legs. And if you’re a good boy, I’ll give you something better.”
Sanji nodded heartily, murmuring his thanks and gratitude for the opportunity presented to him, his voice carrying a thick layer of emotion he didn’t have the sense to evaluate for this blessing. Only knowing the relief he felt when your bare skin pressed against his, whispering the praises into the cleft of your ankle— his lips brushed a chaste kiss, a sweet touch that could only be seeped with devotion.
You wouldn’t have heard it at all if it weren’t breathed into your skin, ardently sincere like the last prayer whispered by the helpless. So, in an act of mercy, you brushed his hair back and tilted his head up towards you, holding him delicately as if he’d shatter by your hands. Which you were fully capable of doing— but you presented him the tenderness of your smile instead, verbalising your consent and letting it flow soothingly between you.
He took a few seconds to stabilise himself, though even with your permission, Sanji’s touch felt shaky against your skin as if he was unsure about your words or his own strength to maintain consciousness, but he did anyway. Willed himself with the strength to harden his spine and indulge in his deepest desires. Just this once, while you still graced him with it.
His hands were warm, soft, and gentle. Everything like the man they belonged to as Sanji stroked your leg sensually, starting from your knee all the way down to your ankle. His long fingers pressing and squeezing the supple skin beneath his palms, curving along your plump flesh pulling quiet sighs you didn’t bother to hide that he drank in greedily, relishing in your pleasure as if it was pierced straight into his vein.
“y’so beautiful,” Sanji groaned into your leg. “I can’t believe—” he shook his head, ridding himself of the doubt that plagued him before dragging his lips along your calf as his fingers fiddled with the strap that wrapped around you. Achingly slow and deliberately unhurried. “You’re so soft, it’s incredible. Even your legs are gorgeous.” he spoke as if thorns were scraping his throat, every word coming out in a low rasp filled with need. “Every part of you sets me on edge,” he continued, his kisses following where the straps once curled, “— as if I’m holding on by my fingertips, and the only thing that keeps me from breaking— from plummeting and colliding into the ground is you.” He slipped your shoe off and placed it gently to the side, your foot now bare, then moved on to the other leg and gave it the exact same treatment. “But… its also like you’re waiting for me at the bottom, ready to unearth me and giggle as you dust off the dirt from my shattered bones.”
You feel his kiss on your ankle again, a breathy sigh tickling your flesh as you swallowed your nerves. “What if I am? I like you beneath me.”
“I don’t mind,” he replied easily. He held you up carefully, his grip firm yet tender as he kneaded the taut muscle, every caress and gentle stroke pooling desire deep in your core. “If it were anyone else, I would have done what I usually do by making a fool of myself as soon as the rest of the crew left.” The heat of his stare was almost unnerving. “But it was you, and I never felt more compelled to fall.”
Fuck.
You lost your resolve, and your expression softened with a laugh that fluttered out like the butterflies tickling your chest. “You shouldn’t look so attractive with your cock so wet, Sanji-kun. It’s unfair, and hard to remain impassive when you look so beautiful desperate for me.”
“I’m sorry, darlin’.” He laid his cheek against your leg, exhaustion weighing him. “We can stop”, he offered sincerely. This momentary pause gave him the clarity he needed, the fog inhibiting his senses cleared enough to think. Though his cock still ached, there was a layer of calm settling too. Your comfort important to him above all else. “You’ve done more than enough for me,” Sanji pressed another kiss to your knee, your shoe accompanying its twin on the floor, “more than I could have hoped for already. It won’t take much for me to finish on my own. You were wonderful, darlin'.”
“You would stop, just like that?”
“Of course,” Sanji affirmed candidly, his eyes kind. “Like I said, I would do anything for you. My pleasure is secondary.”
The words hung in the air, but your plan was still in motion.
“Tell me, then. What would happen if I touched right…here.”
“Ahh-uhh!”
“Does it hurt?” you cooed sickeningly sweet. “hmm, from your expression it looks like you’re enjoying it a little too much.”
He bobbed his head frantically, blonde hair flailing with the movement, your devious plan wrecking him immediately. “Ye-es, in the-uhh best way, angel. Fu-uuck, I-I can’t believe you’re tou-ching me like this.”
“Yeah? y’like it that much?” you laughed airily. “Your balls feel soft on my foot, all rounded and heavy.” Lifting your leg up higher, you rubbed your leg on his length, sliding it up and down, skin to skin, until those salacious moans spilt from his mouth in loud cries. “wow, it’s’warm and wet from all the pre you were leaking earlier, too. How gross.”
“Oh-oh, god, pl-ease, sweet darlin’. Fuck-ngh!”
You hummed delightedly, watching his cheeks blossom into another sweet blush, his eyes glazing over immediately as Sanji shuddered and keened beneath you with the familiar scent of desperation clouding the room in a thicker layer. A potent, charged atmosphere that had you panting as you watched Sanji unravel once again in the short time you had him under your command— your plan a success.
“You’re dripping all over again.” you teased with another slow drag of your foot, his balls resting on top while his shaft twitched upon your shin. “Look at how your pretty cock leaks! All red and cute! So much cum, I’m surprised you haven’t squirted.”
“ohh-ahh, sw-sweetheart don’t be me-eean!”
“I’m not!” you insisted through unfiltered giggles. “Look at you, humping my leg! Gettin’ yourself all worked up from just touching me, you’re so cute, Sanji-kun.” Your laughter seized as you clicked your tongue, faux disgust colouring your tone as you rolled your foot over his long shaft, collecting the stringy wetness that drooled from his tip on your toes. “Tsk, your cock is makin’ a dirty mess all over my leg, though. Could you be anymore pathetic?”
“’m so’rry,” he squirmed. “Ca-an I clean it uhh-up?”
You leered down at him, “only if you use your mouth, pretty.”
Sanji licked long strokes along your leg, collecting the sticky essence that spit from his tip the harder he rolled his hips. Swallowing his own dirty arousal while fervently grinding his cock along the curve of your leg with no sense or rhythm, only following the lust you stoked within him, stumbling moans, hitching his whines. Begging and squeezing his eyes shut to prevent the tears from falling, but you saw them anyway.
You saw everything. How his chest concaved with every breath he took, how his balls pulled tight on your foot, how deeply and utterly he was at your mercy.
It filled you with pride. Along with a dark sense of satisfaction you couldn’t quite place to have Black-leg Sanji— bounty over a billion berries, the left wing of the future king of the pirates— whinging and coating your skin with his arousal.
And you had one more trick up your sleeve. One that could possibly kill him, but you wanted to push the boundaries.
See how far you could bend him before he snapped.
“You can’t cum yet,” you sang cheerily, weaving your fingers through his hair again. “You have to be good for me, okay?”
“Fuu-uk, ‘m tryin’!” Sanji cried out, his last threads of control almost slipping from his grasp, stitch by stitch, seam by seam, but he gripped them tighter in his fists, and fiercely blinked away the fog misting his vision just to have the chance to gaze upon your smile for a little while longer. “I wo-on’t, jus’ for you. Cause you-you asked.”
“Good boy. Now, tell me you like it.” you gave his hair a firm tug, directing focus to his bucking hips. “Tell me how much your cock aches, how hard it is, how much you love touching me.”
Sanji shuddered, another frantic nod dizzying his vision as he jerked his hips harder. “I do! So-so much”, he hiccupped. “I lo- ohhh, uhh, yes!— I love you touch-in’ me. Teasin’ me, makin’ a mess of me-eee— ahh, shit! Tou-uch me, please, fuck! Please, I love it— love your eyes, your voice, your touch. I’ll die, ohh, god-oh god, lemme jus’ die like this, it’s oka-ay if it’s you. For you, all you, fuck-fuck!”
“I think you deserve your reward now, Sanji-kun.”
Sanji snapped his head up, his hips stilting. “This-this isn’t the reward?” how could it not be? He was touching you, kissing your body, smearing his cock all over your pretty leg. What could be better than this?
You pulled back from him, and slowly, painfully slow, deathly slow, you lifted the hem of your dress.
He first saw your thighs, thick and supple, making him swipe his tongue along his bottom lip just imagining the taste of your sweat, of the grooves of your cellulite.
your dress lifted higher, and his hands flexed, picturing squeezing on the squishy flesh and feeling it fill his palms and pudge out against his fingers where he couldn't quite grasp.
This was the reward, yes? Pretty, coloured thick thighs he’d be happy to touch, to worship with hips he could sink his teeth into, full and curved and beautifully rounded.
But your hand lifted higher. Higher. Until he ascended so high he heard the angel’s song again, welcoming him to paradise.
“Sanji, you’re shaking an’ whining loudly.”
Was he?
“Wipe the blood first… good boy. Come here, it’s’okay,” you tugged him closer, his face inches away from your panties. “You’ve been so good, I thought you might like to ...” your cheeks burned, “To touch.”
He could smell it now, the wetness that made your thighs clench earlier. That had you sighing and chewing on your bottom lip as he chased his own pleasure. The arousal that allowed him this far with you, coating your pink panties and, fuuck.
You-your panties… they— they had the cutest bow on it. right above your mound and the lewd wet patch he ached to… “Did-did you say touch?”
You nodded, tugging him closer by his hair. “I won’t take off my panties, but I don’t see why you can’t use them to get yourself off, just this once. It’s what you always wanted, right?”
What he always wanted.
“Are… are you sure?”
What he always wanted and prayed and dreamed and lusted after— but he had to make sure. To know this is what you wanted. Sanji couldn’t— he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if it weren’t your desire too. Even if he was seeing double and the room tilted on its axis or his blood pooled on the floorboards more than his own body, he wouldn’t be able to stand again without hearing you say—
“Sanji-kun, touch me.”
You tugged him closer, cooing your affirmations, stroking his hair. Going slow and speaking so softly, he wondered if you were talking to him at all.
“It’s okay,” you purred, your eyes gentle. “You can use me to cum. I want to see you cum for me.”
Use you?
His brows knitted. That didn’t sound right.
Use.
Use.
Use?
That word felt wrong, dirty. Even in his inebriated, lust-filled fog, Sanji knew that it wasn’t right. That it was tactless. That you deserved better than that.
“I don’t— I don’t want to ever use you.” he husked. Just saying the word made his stomach churn, and though his limbs felt heavy, he lifted himself a little taller on his knees. “Don’t ever say that to me again.”
Sanji’s sudden coherency surprised you when he was trembling moments before, but there was no mistaking the sincerity in his tone, and you could only stare— awed, heated and incredibly wrecked with the emotions he stirred. Yet rather than replying, your grip on him tightened, a challenge tilting your brow, waiting to see what move he’d make with the offer you raised.
“Okay… oh-okay, ‘m gonna touch you now, darlin’.”
With all the strength he could muster, Sanji pushed forward and inhaled deeply, pressing his nose in your crotch, and filling his lungs until the only air that could possibly flow through him was you. “Ohh, fuck.” Sanji groaned, the sound vibrating on your most intimate parts, pulling deep from his throat, and sounding nothing short of sinful that had you keening lowly in response.
“Oh, fuck- oh fuck, darlin’ you’re a dream.” He murmured into your cunt, his words bleeding back to babble as he breathed in long and deep. It was intoxicating, the heady scent of your pussy. Driving him mad, sick, practically delirious by the slick that marred your panties, creating the most dazzling patch of arousal right in the middle. Oh fuck, his tongue immediately began lapping at the damp fabric caging your plump lips. “Fuck!”
You choked on a moan. “Is that all you can say?”
Sanji shook his head, his hands finding your full-figured hips and squeezing, eliciting a low mewl with the fat filling his palms and bulging out at the sides just how he pictured it. “Fuck!” he grunted again into your cunt; his mouth muffled but his shouts reverberated from the intensity that shook him at the core. “Fuck-fuck!”
You huffed out a chuckle. “Sweetie, if it’s too much for you—”
He couldn’t hear you. Sanji held you tighter, drew you closer into his open mouth, his jaw slack, muscles taut, cock aching— but it was a sensation he could ignore while his tongue messaged and rolled and lapped at your clothed cunt. Dragging along your labia over and over until it wettened enough to slip his tongue down the seam of your pussy, spreading it to finally circle your pulsing clit and suck, the fabric damp with a lewd mixture of slick and saliva as your whimpers rang loud.
“Fu-uhh, shit, you taste so goo’ fo’me”, his words were gruff, his mind addled— Sanji couldn’t focus past your cunt, your scent, not when it wafted through him and settled deep in his abdomen— twisting lust straight down to his neglected cock drooling on the floor.
“Sa-anji! Fuck, hmm, keep-keep going!”
He groaned, digging his fingers into your hips and shoving you harder into his mouth. “Su’ch a pretty cunt, shit-fuck.” He held you firmly, his strength unrelenting even as you swayed, letting you writhe on his face. “Darlin’, sweet girl, sweet sweet cunt, uhh, y’make my cock hurt so-so much. Make me so hard, so dizzy. All you, shit-shit. Uhh-uhh, s’wet fo’me. Tha’ank you. thank y-you, than-k you.”
You moaned for him, and the sound of it tingled his spine, acutely aware of the sharp tugging on his scalp, but Sanji paid the rest of it no mind. He was touching you, licking your pussy through your pretty panties, inhaling your arousal, making you moan.
Making you cry his name, making you wet.
And he answered it all with low hums and deep grunts of praises, thanking you fiercely, his devotion syphoning from every breath as if you poured into him yourself.
Sanji flickered his tongue on your clit, alternating between soft and hard strokes that had you grinding your hips on his tongue, and he revelled in it while your pussy rewarded him by staining your panties with sticky fluids he drank greedily. Devouring your cunt with his whole face, bumping his nose into your clit, his chin wet, cheeks flushed.
“Imma cum!” you tried to warn him, to stave off the flutter in your belly and not embarrass yourself by cumming so soon, but his touch, his tongue— even with the panties in the way it only added to the friction. To the burn flooding over your body from the moment you discovered him. You squirmed, rocked, and sighed as the coil tightened in your belly— a sensation so intense you attempted to cinch your thighs, but Sanji pinched your hips, pulling you apart for him, ignoring your pleas.
Holding you closer, grunting praises, flattening his tongue, pressing hard until you came with a loud cry.
“Su’ch a goo’girl, so good for me. that’s it, lemme clean that up for you, darlin’.”
Sanji lapped at your cunt, your panties ruined and almost dripping from your release that he swallowed as best he could before you ripped him off with a harsh tug.
“Stand,” you panted harshly. Your balance was shoddy, but you stood firm, yanking the man to his full height, and wrapped your fist around his cock. Gently tugging on his flushed sex in quick strokes. “Cum for me.”
Sanji curled into your touch, white-hot and just barely keeping himself standing with a hard grip on your hips— he slumped into your chest, fucking into your hand chaotically. “I-I didn’t— y-you. Uhh, fuck!”
“What is it?”
Tears stung his waterline. “I di-idn’t clean u-uhh, ahh, mmm, I wanted— wanted to clean you u-uhp.” He cried out, fidgeting in your grasp, his cock overly sensitive and shamefully drooling all over your wrist. He wanted to be strong, to make you cum and slump on his chest, but Sanji could hardly keep his eyes open at this point. He felt airy, foggy, every sensation felt like it was dolled up to ten and he couldn’t find the strength to keep standing.
And it hurt, fuck, his cock hurt. His balls hurt, his chest hurt, breathing hurt— it ended up as short gasps and high-pitch whines into your neck until you brushed your thumb over his slit and Sanji saw stars.
“ahh! Im-imma cum! ‘mma cu-uuh, fuck-fuck!”
“It’s okay, sweet boy,” you jerked him firmly with one hand and pulled down the bow of your panties, exposing your plump mound. “Cum right here, I wan’ feel you cum on me.” you slipped his tip between your pussy lips, a low, wet, squelching noise added to his moans now.
To yours and the raunchy sounds that swirled in between.
“Sweet-sweetheart!” Sanji squeaked, bucking his hips widely, your pussy smearing wet kisses all over his cock. Hot and squishy and so so delicious his orgasm crashed through him like a tidal wave, surging and pulsing and dousing him with a pleasure that raked a voiceless cry— splatting his cum in your panties and slathering your slit with gooey, icky glops of his release. Your panties filled with both stains of arousal.
“Good boy.” your kisses feathered over his rapid pulse, the praises almost as gentle as your lips. “Such a good boy, shh. I got you, hun.”
Sanji held you close, shivering through his climax, pitifully cowering his face into the warm crook of your neck until his cries settled into cute whimpers and the spots misting the corners blended into colours he could actually see.
“Shh, you did so well, cutie.” You stroked his back, unbothered by the sweat clinging to his skin or the sticky, hot mush that was caged to your cunt. the latter tingling the nerves of your spine in an addictive way. “That felt amazing.”
“Ye-yea?”
“Yes, hun.”
There were a few seconds of heavy breathing, then shuffling of clothes, and suddenly, Sanji was seated back on the sofa, but the comforting weight of your plush body sat on top of him too. He liked it, it was grounding. Safe.
Sanji held you tight, his strong arms locking you in place over his lap. Your bodies hot and tempering down ever so slowly in each other’s embrace.
There’s was a gentle hum in the room, or maybe it was your voice, tenderly washing over him as Sanji came to grips with his body again. With the heat, the sweat and throb of arousal cooling into a low ebb in his abdomen. With the reality that you both stood in and your roles in it. But he couldn’t bring himself to care of anything else but you curling in his lap.
You smelt nice, you played with his hair and hummed in his ear, and you felt so… so good in his arms.
“Thank you.” he croaked after a while. Feeling satiated and satisfied sinking into your embrace, Sanji could do nothing else but whisper his thanks into your lips over and over, his kiss filled with all the gratitude of an answered prayer. “Thank you for this, for holding me. I don’t know when it got so out of hand.”
You smirked, patting his chest playfully, hoping he did not notice how your heart soared as you attempted to joke. “probably as soon as I agreed to this little game.”
This time, Sanji’s smile beaned wide, pretty teeth shining bright. “I just can’t help myself, darlin.” he nuzzled into your cheek, savouring the intimacy. “I told you what would happen if you got too close.”
You laughed softly, “I suppose I was warned.” You shifted in his lap, straddling him now instead with the gooey mixture flushed hot in your panties, squishing against your achy clit, it made you breathless. Eager. “If you’re a good boy—”
His stomach flipped excitedly.
“—Maybe we’ll play again.”
Sanji shuddered, his smile waning as his lips parted cutely. “Don’t tease me. I—”
“SANJI! OI! I GOT THIS BIG FISH! IT HAS TWO HEADS CAN WE EAT IT?!”
“Oi, Shitty-brow! I found this buried sword, lemme cut you with it!”
You stifled the laughter behind your hand, the cutest frown scrunching his face from their untimely interruption. Even so, you began moving to crawl off his lap before the other straw hats walked in with their treasures, but Sanji gripped your wrist, his pleading stare shooting familiar sparks in your core.
“Promise we’ll do this again?”
You smiled warmly, leaning in for a kiss only to swipe your tongue upon his bottom lip, “Yes, and it will stay just between us.”
Sanji blushed, savouring the taste of you on his own tongue. “Yea, of course. Just between us, darlin’.”
This time, you stood up to leave, but not without one final look over your shoulder, “just like your cum soaking my panties right now.”
You quickly slipped out of the room before anyone could notice, twirling your shoe as the sound of a heavy thud crashed behind you and the boys shouts followed shortly after.
“WOW! So much blood! Was there a fight?! Are they still here?! I wanna fight!”
“LUFFY N-NO THAT—”
“EW SHITTY BROW! WAKE UP AND CLEAN THIS SHIT YOU PERV—”
// - tysm for the support! hopefully the tags will hold up this time:333 please do not repost or translate my stories.
I didn't get time to work on the Ghouls story but he's really taken over my mind these past few days. So have some little thoughts from me.
It's no secret that we all love the hard-ass, dominating Ghoul with so much confidence he practically oozes it.
I am on board with the idea that he loves rough and fucks just as harsh - but that's only when your relationship is purely for mutual pleasure.
If the two of you aren't anything but acquaintances, maybe pushing friends, any sex is a battle of dominance. His mouth searches your body for a taste he craves only in the heat of the moment. There's no easing you into it or taking his time. Seeking your and his pleasure is like a job he's paid to do.
Like eating a meal or taking his vial - he needs that itch scratched and you do a fine job meeting him every single time.
But when the relationship between you is deeper, more heart than body, he's softer. Gentle. His hands don't grab but instead caress and guide. His lips find yours more often than they rest on your neck or thighs.
And when you pull him down on top of you, he's slow and careful. Not because he thinks he'll hurt you, but because he wants to enjoy the slow glide when he first enters you. He doesn't rush these moments anymore. He savors them. Memorizes your body like a map to his riches and takes his times tasting every inch of you.
The Ghoul melts away and leaves behind Cooper Howard - the hopeless romantic. The man who can make you laugh with a silly joke and smiles every time he manages to fluster you with his words.
The sharp retorts remain but there's no malice or targeted satire, his words are meant to make you smile.
And ok, maybe, to get a rise out of you too because he loves how fired up you get.
Cooper hasn't forgotten how to seek physical affection. He remembers the old habits - intertwining your fingers to bring your palm to his lips. Flowers and small gifts. A peck on the cheek or a kiss that knocks you off your feet.
But The Ghoul doesn't remember. So he comes to you a little sheepishly, eyes downcast and his hand searching for yours. He tugs you against his chest and when he kisses you, his lips feel hesitant. Like he's asking 'is this ok?'
Because he knows what he is. He's not the handsome actor anymore. The Wasteland has carved out Cooper and molded The Ghoul in his place - the gunslinger, the killer.
But around you, a little bit of Cooper breaks through the monster. He's softer. Not in appearance or behavior, but in the way he looks at you. In the small things. The things that only you see.
hiii could u pls write about henry creel and y/n (adult) trying to hide the sexual tension in the house cos she’s the first person he takes? that night she can’t sleep and she sees henry standing outside her door. they talk for a bit and they finally communicate their sexual tension and they hook up in her new bedroom? xx
The house was unnaturally quiet that night, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears like a weight, broken only by the distant creak of floorboards settling into whatever twisted reality Henry had woven around you. You'd been the first—the very first person he'd pulled into this psychic prison, his so-called sanctuary, a sprawling Victorian mansion plucked from the fragments of his fractured memories. The bedroom assigned to you was lavish in a outdated way: heavy velvet curtains drawn tight over windows that didn't lead anywhere real, a four-poster bed with linens that smelled faintly of mothballs and something sweeter, like aged paper. But sleep evaded you, your mind racing with the impossibility of it all, the way he'd looked at you earlier that evening during dinner, his eyes lingering just a fraction too long, his smile too knowing.
You tossed in the sheets, the fabric tangling around your legs, your body humming with an unwelcome awareness. It wasn't fear, not entirely—though the undercurrent of it lingered like a shadow. No, it was something hotter, more insistent, a pull that had started the moment he'd appeared at your door in the real world, disguised as that unassuming man in the brown suit and glasses, offering help that turned into a trap. Now, here in his domain, that tension simmered beneath every glance, every casual brush of his hand as he showed you around the house, introducing you to the empty rooms that would soon fill with others he'd bring. But tonight, it was just you, and the isolation amplified everything.
Pushing the covers aside, you slipped out of bed, your bare feet padding across the cool hardwood floor. The nightgown you'd found in the dresser clung to your skin, thin cotton that did little to ward off the chill or the restlessness coiling in your gut. You cracked the door open, peering into the dimly lit hallway where gas lamps flickered with an ethereal glow, casting long shadows that danced like whispers. And there he was—Henry, standing just outside your door, his back to you, hands clasped behind him as he stared at the ornate wallpaper as if it held secrets only he could decipher.
He didn't turn immediately, but you knew he sensed you; the air seemed to shift, thickening with his presence. "Can't sleep?" His voice was soft, smooth and unhurried, carrying that deceptive warmth that hid the predator beneath. He pivoted slowly, his tall frame filling the doorway, the brown suit impeccable even in this midnight hour, glasses glinting faintly in the low light. His blue eyes met yours, piercing, as if he could see straight through to the thoughts you'd been trying to bury.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing over your chest in a futile attempt to steady yourself. "This place... it's too quiet. Feels like it's watching me." Your words came out breathier than intended, the proximity to him stirring that forbidden spark again. He'd been so careful all evening, keeping a respectful distance, playing the gracious host, but you'd felt it—the way his gaze traced the curve of your neck when you laughed at one of his dry jokes, the subtle lean of his body toward yours as he poured your wine.
Henry's lips curved into a small smile, not quite reaching his eyes, which darkened as they roamed over you, taking in the disheveled state of your hair, the way the nightgown hugged your hips. "The house has a way of doing that. It's alive, in a sense—echoes of memories, mine and now yours." He took a step closer, not invading, but close enough that you caught the faint scent of him,clean soap mixed with something earthier, like damp soil after rain. "But you're safe here. With me."
Safe. The word hung between you, laced with irony you both recognized. You swallowed, your pulse quickening under his scrutiny. "Is that what this is? Safety? You brought me here, Henry. The first one. Why me?" It was the question you'd held back all night, the one that had kept you awake, tangled with the unwelcome heat building between your thighs every time he spoke your name.
He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he was eager to solve. "Because I saw something in you. A spark. Loneliness, perhaps, or curiosity. The world out there... it's cruel, chaotic. Here, we can build something real." His voice dropped lower, intimate, as he reached out, his fingers brushing your arm lightly—electric, sending a shiver racing across your skin. You didn't pull away, and that emboldened him, his touch lingering, thumb tracing a slow circle on your elbow. "But I won't lie. From the moment I chose you, there was... tension. Unspoken. I've tried to ignore it, to give you space in this new home. But it's there, isn't it? Pulsing like a heartbeat."
Your breath hitched, the admission cracking open the dam you'd both been holding back. Heat flooded your cheeks, but you met his gaze steadily, the air between you crackling. "Yeah. It is. Every time you look at me like that, like you want to unravel me... it makes it hard to pretend. Hard to sleep knowing you're just down the hall." The words tumbled out, raw and honest, your body betraying you as your nipples hardened against the thin fabric, visible in the lamplight.
Henry's eyes flicked down, darkening with hunger, but he held himself in check, his hand sliding up your arm to cup your shoulder. "Then let's stop pretending," he murmured, stepping fully into the threshold now, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. The room felt smaller, warmer, charged with the promise of surrender. "Tell me what you want, Y/N. No more games."
You grabbed his tie, pulling him closer, the silk smooth under your fingers as your lips hovered near his. "You. Here. Now." It was all the invitation he needed. His mouth claimed yours in a fierce kiss, not gentle but demanding, his tongue sweeping in to taste you deeply, a low groan rumbling from his chest. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, yanking you against him so you felt the hard length of his cock pressing through his trousers against your belly. You moaned into his mouth, fingers fumbling with his jacket buttons, shoving it off his shoulders as he backed you toward the bed.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin, sucking a mark just below your ear that would remind you of this in the morning light. "Fuck, I've wanted this since I first saw you," he breathed, voice rough with need, thickening as he nipped your collarbone. His hands found the hem of your nightgown, hiking it up your thighs with impatient tugs, calloused palms gliding over your bare skin, thumbs brushing the edges of your panties.
You arched into him, hands diving into his hair, knocking his glasses askew as you kissed him again, messy and desperate. "Then take it," you gasped, pushing him down onto the bed and straddling his lap, grinding your hips down to feel him throb beneath you. The friction made you both hiss, his hands clamping onto your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise as he rocked up to meet your movements.
Henry flipped you beneath him in one fluid motion, his strength effortless, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other shoved the nightgown up to your waist. "Oh, I will," he promised, eyes blazing as he hooked his fingers into your panties and ripped them aside, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound that echoed your racing heart. His free hand cupped your pussy, fingers sliding through your slick folds, finding you drenched already. "So wet for me. All this tension, bottled up... let it out."
He released your wrists to unbuckle his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room, shoving his trousers and boxers down just enough to free his cock—thick and hard, veins pulsing as he stroked himself once, pre-cum beading at the tip. You reached for him, wrapping your hand around the base, pumping slowly, feeling him twitch in your grip. "Henry... please," you whimpered, spreading your legs wider, inviting him in.
He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your wetness, teasing your clit until you bucked impatiently. "Say it," he demanded, voice low and commanding, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat between you.
"Fuck me," you breathed, nails digging into his shoulders. With a growl, he thrust in deep, stretching you full in one smooth stroke, your walls clenching around his length as he bottomed out. The sensation was overwhelming—him filling you completely, hot and unyielding, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that built quickly, each plunge hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"God, you feel perfect," he groaned, burying his face in your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he pounded into you, the bed creaking under the force. His hand slipped between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight circles, amplifying the pleasure until you were moaning loudly, no longer caring if the house heard. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your heels digging into his back as you met his thrusts.
Sweat slicked your skin, his shirt clinging to his chest as he drove harder, the wet slap of bodies meeting filling the room. "Cum for me, Y/N," he urged, his breath hot against your ear, fingers pinching your nipple through the nightgown, twisting just enough to send a jolt straight to your core. The command tipped you over, orgasm crashing through you in waves, your pussy pulsing around his cock, milking him as you cried out his name.
He followed seconds later, thrusting erratically before spilling inside you with a guttural moan, hot spurts coating your walls as he ground deep, prolonging both your releases. For a moment, he collapsed onto you, breathing ragged, his weight a grounding force in the surreal night. But even in the afterglow, his hand stroked your thigh possessively, a reminder that this was just the beginning in his world.
"No more hiding," he whispered, kissing you softly now, a contrast to the frenzy. "You're mine here. The first, and the one who matters most." You nodded, spent and sated, the tension finally uncoiling into something deeper, darker—as the house around you seemed to sigh in approval.
Henry slips into your mind expecting fear and resistance. Instead, he finds exhaustion, loneliness, and a dangerous kind of calm that scares even him. He doesn’t mock you. He doesn’t threaten you. He turns soft, almost human, and keeps you in his mind not as a prison, but as a shelter. A place where the noise can’t reach you, where you can breathe again, and where he makes you promise to choose one more day and let someone real reach you too.
Warnings: suicidal ideation (no method or plan described), emotional distress, dissociation/mindscape themes, possessive/protective behavior, references to mental health crisis, tender caretaking
Word Count: about 2,550
Henry doesn’t enter your mind gently.
He never does.
He slides in like cold smoke under a door, like a hand around a throat, like a power that assumes you will fight. He expects panic. He expects begging. He expects the familiar taste of terror.
Instead, he finds quiet.
Not peace. Not calm. A stillness that is too heavy, too settled, too final. A room in your head with the lights off, furniture outlined in faint gray. A window that doesn’t open. Air that doesn’t move.
Henry pauses.
He has never paused in anyone’s mind before.
He turns in place, slow, as if moving too fast might shatter something. His presence darkens the edges of the space automatically, instinctively. He pulls it back. He doesn’t know why he does that, only that something in here feels fragile in a way fear never is.
You are sitting on the floor with your back against an invisible wall. Your knees are drawn up, arms wrapped around them like you are trying to keep yourself from coming apart. You don’t look up when he arrives. You don’t scramble away. You don’t say his name like a prayer or a curse.
You stare at nothing, eyes unfocused, mouth slightly parted like you forgot how to close it.
Henry can feel it before he understands it.
He has touched thousands of thoughts. He has wandered through guilt and shame and anger, through people who hate themselves in loud, messy ways. This is different. This is a thought that has been rehearsed until it feels familiar. A choice turned over and over until it stops feeling like a choice at all.
There is a shape in the back of your mind, not an image he can show you, not a detail he can describe, but an intention with edges. A dangerous certainty.
Henry’s stomach turns.
He doesn’t have a stomach here, not really. He doesn’t need one. Yet he feels it anyway, a twist of something old, something human, something like alarm.
You shift slightly, and your voice comes out like you’ve been talking to yourself for hours.
“It’s fine,” you murmur.
Henry’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t speak at first. He listens, the way predators listen, the way he always listens.
Your mind is not screaming. That’s what scares him most.
He steps closer. The floor doesn’t creak. It never does in mindscapes. He watches your hands, the way your fingers fidget once, then go still, as if you’ve decided you don’t deserve even that small movement.
“You knew I’d come,” Henry says.
His voice fills the space, deep and echoing, but he keeps it low. Controlled.
Your gaze flicks up for the first time, slow, like lifting your head is too heavy. Your eyes meet his, and there is no surprise in them. No fear. Not even anger.
Just tired.
“You’re in everyone’s head,” you say. It’s flat, almost bored. “Why not mine.”
Henry stops directly in front of you. He looks down at your face, searching for the usual cracks he can pry open, the usual guilt he can hold up like a mirror.
He finds pain, yes. But the pain isn’t a wound.
It’s a weight.
“How long,” he asks, “have you been thinking about leaving?”
Your jaw tightens. Your eyes blink once, slow.
“You don’t get to ask me that,” you whisper.
Henry’s expression hardens by instinct, a reflex that has served him for years. He could push. He could drag the truth out of you the way he drags memories out of others, claws and all.
He doesn’t.
He crouches instead, bringing himself to your level. The movement feels wrong and right at the same time.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he says, almost accusing.
You let out a humorless breath. “I don’t have the energy.”
Henry’s eyes flicker. That answer lands in him like a blunt object.
Most people fear him because they want to live.
You fear nothing because you don’t feel like you’re living.
Henry’s gaze shifts to the intention in your mind again, that dangerous calm, and something sharp twists inside him. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the way it sits there like a door already unlocked.
His voice comes quieter.
“Look at me.”
You hesitate. Then you do.
Henry holds your gaze, and he does something he has never done before.
He softens.
He doesn’t change his form. He doesn’t become someone else. But he loosens the pressure he carries like a crown of thorns. He lets the space brighten by a fraction, like the shadow is no longer allowed to spread wherever it wants.
Your shoulders drop slightly, as if your body recognizes the difference before you do.
“You’re making yourself small,” you say, confused, the words coming out without you meaning them.
Henry’s jaw ticks. “I’m not small.”
“No,” you admit. “You’re not.”
Your eyes drift away again, and Henry catches the moment you disconnect. The moment you start sinking back into that quiet that scares him.
He moves fast, not violent, but decisive. He reaches out and cups the side of your face with his hand.
Your skin is warm in his palm. Real. Too real.
You flinch, more from surprise than fear. Your eyes snap back to him.
Henry’s voice is low and steady. “Stay.”
You swallow. “Why.”
He should say because I want to. He should say because I can. He should say because you belong to me now, the way he always does when he takes what he wants.
Instead, the truth comes out, rough and unexpected.
“Because I saw it,” Henry says. “And you don’t get to do that.”
You laugh once, sharp and broken. “I don’t get to.”
Henry’s hand stays against your cheek. His thumb presses lightly at your jaw, grounding, almost careful.
“No,” he repeats, fiercer. “You don’t.”
Your eyes shine suddenly, like your body finally caught up to what your mind has been trying not to feel. You blink hard.
“You’re not… a hero,” you whisper. “You don’t save people.”
Henry’s expression tightens, as if the word hero burns. “I’m not saving you.”
“Then what are you doing,” you ask, voice trembling. “Taking me. Like you take everyone else.”
Henry stares at you for a long moment.
Then he says, “I’m stopping you.”
It should sound cruel. It should sound like control. It does, a little.
But underneath it is something else.
Something like fear, twisted into anger because he doesn’t know how to hold it gently.
You inhale shakily. “You can’t stop my thoughts.”
Henry’s eyes sharpen. “Watch me.”
The space around you shifts. The dark room fades, replaced by something softer, something built from memory.
A small, warm kitchen with late afternoon light coming through the window. A mug on the counter. The smell of coffee, faint but familiar. A chair pulled out like someone expected you to sit.
You stare, startled.
“I didn’t make that,” you whisper.
Henry stands slowly, as if even he’s surprised. “You did.”
You look around, taking in details you didn’t realize you still carried. A chipped plate. A cloth towel folded neatly. A radio on the windowsill.
A place that used to mean normal.
Your throat tightens.
Henry watches you like he’s studying a creature that might bolt. He keeps his distance this time.
“This is a sanctuary,” he says.
You turn toward him, suspicious. “In your mind.”
“In ours,” Henry corrects. He gestures to the chair. “Sit.”
You hesitate.
Then you do. The chair feels solid. The mug on the counter feels like it would be warm if you touched it.
Your hands tremble in your lap. You stare at them like they belong to someone else.
Henry’s voice is quieter now. “Tell me,” he says, “who knows you’re hurting.”
Your head jerks up. “No one.”
A lie. Not fully. But close enough.
Henry steps closer, stopping near the doorway. He doesn’t crowd you. The restraint looks unnatural on him, like a predator forcing itself not to pounce.
“No one,” he repeats, tasting the words with disgust. Not at you. At the fact. “So you decided to disappear quietly.”
You flinch.
Henry’s eyes narrow. “You thought that would be easier.”
You swallow hard. “You don’t understand.”
Henry’s mouth twists. “I understand what it is to be trapped.”
Your gaze snaps to him, searching.
For a moment, the monster slips, and you see something else behind him. A boy with too much anger and no place to put it. A boy who was told he was wrong for being what he was.
Then it’s gone.
You grip the edge of the table, knuckles white. “Why do you care.”
Henry’s throat moves like he swallowed something sharp. “I don’t know.”
That honesty knocks the air out of you.
He steps forward, and the kitchen light doesn’t dim when he does. He sits across from you at the table, elbows on the wood, hands clasped like he’s holding himself together.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he says again, softer this time. “That should make you dangerous to me.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I’m not dangerous. I’m… tired.”
Henry’s eyes lock on yours. “Tired people do permanent things.”
You look away. Your voice drops. “I’m not trying to be dramatic.”
“I don’t care about dramatic,” Henry says, sharp. Then he reins it in, forcing the edge off his words. “I care that you were going to leave.”
Your eyes sting. You press your lips together hard. “Why.”
Henry’s jaw clenches. He looks like he hates that he can’t answer cleanly.
“Because,” he says finally, “when I saw it, something in me… refused.”
Refused.
The word hits you like a hand to the chest.
You whisper, “You don’t even know me.”
Henry’s gaze doesn’t move. “I know enough.”
He reaches out, not touching you, but placing his hand on the table near yours, palm up. An invitation, not a command. It’s such a human gesture it makes your stomach twist.
“Take my hand,” he says.
Your eyes flick to it, then to his face. “Why.”
Henry’s voice goes low, intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Because you’re slipping away. And I won’t let you.”
You laugh weakly, tears threatening. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is,” Henry admits. Then his voice softens, almost reluctant. “But it’s also a promise.”
You stare at him. Your breathing comes shallow. The bond of eye contact feels like a rope.
Slowly, you place your hand in his.
The moment your skin touches his, warmth surges through your chest. Not magic. Not a spell. Just a sudden, startling sense of being held in place.
Henry’s fingers curl around yours, firm but careful.
“You’re here,” he murmurs.
You swallow. “I’m here.”
The words feel like a victory you didn’t expect.
Henry’s thumb rubs once across your knuckles, absent, grounding. His gaze hardens with decision.
“You’re staying,” he says.
You tense again. “Henry.”
He leans forward. “Listen to me.”
Your name is not in his mouth. Not yet. But the way he says listen makes it sound like he’s begging and commanding at the same time.
“You can hate me,” Henry says. “You can fear me later if you want. But you will not do this alone.”
Your throat tightens. “I am alone.”
“No,” Henry says, voice like steel. “You’ve just been isolated.”
You blink. “You’re the one trapping me.”
Henry’s eyes flash. “I’m keeping you alive.”
You pull your hand back instinctively. Henry lets you. He doesn’t grab. That restraint is deliberate.
“I won’t keep you here forever,” he says, slower now. “But I will keep you here long enough to breathe again.”
Your eyes narrow, distrust fighting exhaustion. “And then what.”
Henry’s gaze sharpens, and you feel something press gently at the edges of your thoughts. Not invasion. Not pain. A barrier. Like he’s placing his hand between you and that dangerous intention.
“Then you reach out,” Henry says. “In the real world.”
Your stomach drops. “No.”
Henry’s voice goes colder. “Yes.”
You shake your head fast. “You don’t understand what it’s like to admit it. To say it out loud. It makes it real.”
Henry leans back slightly, watching you. His voice lowers.
“It is real,” he says. “And you’re still here.”
You breathe shakily. The kitchen light flickers once, responding to your emotion, then steadies.
Henry’s gaze moves over your face like he’s memorizing every crack. “Who would you call,” he asks, “if you had to choose one person.”
You laugh again, bitter. “I don’t have anyone like that.”
Henry’s eyes narrow. “Everyone has someone.”
You hesitate. The hesitation is the answer.
Henry’s voice softens, almost gentle. “Say the first name that comes.”
Your lips part. No sound.
Henry waits. Patient in a way that feels unnatural.
Finally, you whisper a name, so quiet you almost swallow it.
Henry nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
You flinch. “That doesn’t mean I’ll do it.”
Henry’s gaze hardens. “It does.”
You stare at him, anger rising. “You can’t force me.”
Henry’s eyes flash, and for a second you see Vecna again, the monster with a thousand victims. The air pressures. The room darkens.
Then he stops himself.
The darkness eases. His voice goes low, strained, like he’s holding himself back with both hands.
“I could,” he admits. “But I won’t.”
Your breath catches.
Henry leans forward, elbows on the table again, posture almost human.
“I want you to choose,” he says, voice rough. “Because if you choose, it means you can choose again tomorrow.”
Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. You wipe them fast, embarrassed, furious at your own body.
Henry’s gaze follows the motion. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with your tears. Like he hates them because he can’t fight them.
“You shouldn’t have to beg,” you whisper.
Henry’s jaw tightens. “I’m not begging.”
“Yes you are,” you say, voice shaking. “You’re begging me to stay.”
Henry’s eyes lock on yours, fierce and raw. “Then stay.”
Silence.
You inhale. You exhale. You feel the dangerous intention in the back of your mind, muffled now behind Henry’s barrier. Still there. But farther away.
You whisper, “I don’t know how to be okay.”
Henry’s voice softens, barely audible. “Then be not okay. And stay anyway.”
Something in you cracks open at that. You press your palm to your chest like you can physically hold yourself together.
Henry stands and moves around the table. He stops behind you, close enough that you can feel his presence, but he doesn’t touch.
“You’re safe here,” he says.
You let out a shaky breath. “In your mind.”
Henry’s voice is quiet. “No one can hurt you here.”
Your laugh is small and broken. “You can.”
Henry’s silence is an answer.
Then he says, softer, “I won’t.”
He hesitates, then places his hands on your shoulders. The touch is steady. Warm. Protective.
You close your eyes, and your body finally releases a fraction of the tension it’s been carrying.
Henry’s voice drops. “Tomorrow,” he says, “you will call that person. Or you will text them. One sentence.”
Your throat tightens. “What sentence.”
Henry thinks for a moment, then says, simple. “I’m not okay and I need someone.”
You swallow. The words feel too big.
Henry’s hands tighten gently. “You can do one sentence.”
Your eyes open. You stare at the mug on the counter, the sunlight, the small normal details that feel like a life you forgot you could want.
You whisper, “What if they don’t answer.”
Henry’s voice turns cold, protective in a dangerous way. “Then we try someone else.”
You glance back at him. “We.”
Henry’s mouth twitches like he almost smiles but doesn’t remember how. “We.”
You sit in silence for a while. Henry doesn’t speak. He just stays behind you, hands steady, presence like a wall.
Eventually you whisper, “Will you let me go.”
Henry’s voice is immediate. “Yes.”
You blink, surprised.
He leans down slightly, his mouth near your ear, voice low enough it feels like it belongs to you now.
“But not tonight,” he says.
Your breath catches. “Why.”
Henry’s answer is quiet, honest, and it makes your chest ache.
“Because tonight,” he says, “you’re too close to the edge.”
Tears rise again. You don’t wipe them this time.
Henry doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He doesn’t tell you to be strong. He just stays, holding your shoulders like he can keep you from slipping away.
You whisper, “I hate that you saw it.”
Henry’s voice is rough. “I’m glad I did.”
You swallow, voice trembling. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” Henry says. “Because it means you’re still here.”
You breathe in. Breathe out.
You let your head tip back slightly, resting against him.
Henry’s hands shift, one sliding up to your hair, fingers threading through it gently like he’s learning how to touch without hurting.
“You’re not alone,” he says, low and fierce, like he’s making a vow.
You whisper, “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”
Henry’s voice is quiet. “I’m not supposed to care.”
Silence.
Then you turn your head and look up at him, eyes red, mouth trembling.
“Do you,” you ask, barely audible. “Care.”
Henry’s expression tightens like the truth hurts. He hesitates.
Then he says, simply, “Yes.”
The word lands heavy.
You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for years.
Henry’s hand cups your jaw, guiding your face toward his. His thumb brushes under your eye, wiping a tear with a gentleness that feels impossible coming from him.
“Stay,” he repeats.
And this time, you nod.
“I’ll stay,” you whisper.
Henry’s shoulders loosen like he just won a battle he didn’t know how to fight. The kitchen light warms a little, as if your mind believes you.
He presses his forehead to yours, the gesture intimate without being rushed.
“One day,” he says, “then another.”
You whisper, “Okay.”
Henry closes his eyes briefly, like he’s sealing the promise.
“Good,” he murmurs.
And in the quiet place he carved out of your darkness, you finally breathe like someone who plans to wake up.
If you’re feeling even a little like the reader in this prompt right now, you don’t have to handle it alone. If you’re in the U.S. you can call or text 988 any time for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If you’re outside the U.S., tell me your country and I’ll share the right crisis number. If you’re in immediate danger, call your local emergency number right now.
idk how to feel about these emotional type of fanfics but i hope you enjoy <3
The summer heat sticks to your skin, the nights somehow warmer than prerequisite. Tossing and turning atop of the thin cotton sheets below you, your mind restless.
Henry Creel x f!reader
Warnings: 18+ smut so interact accordingly, spit kink, p in v, creampie, fingering, possessiveness, sort of manipulation, maybe ooc idk.
The lace from your borrowed nightdress tickles your upper thighs, leaving goose flesh scattered across the landscape of your skin. Waves of moonlight ripple across the room, illuminating the walls, highlighting the shadows from the forest outside.
A creak from the floorboards beside the bed startles you, drawing you from your sleep induced state. The mattress dips beside you, a shadow falling over your sleeping form.
A cold hand presses into your shoulder, the feeling burning into you and causing your body to involuntarily jolt.
"It's just me, sweetheart." He whispers softly. "Don't be startled."
His arms move under yours, his chest firmly pressed against your back as you melt into his grasp. Your head tilts backwards, exposing your neck to him. He takes this as an opportunity to tenderly kiss your shoulder, making his way past the base of your neck, the kisses getting more half hazard and open-mouthed.
He finds the spot, just near your pulse, that has you holding back a moan behind bitten lips.
"You sound - " he pauses in between kisses. "-so sweet." The words vibrate into your skin, the sensation rippling through your body.
"Fuck - i missed you. S' much." You can feel the heat pooling down south, wetness soaking through into your thin panties, barely covered by the edge of the nightdress. One arm rises up from your front, long fingers finding their way to the curve of your breast, kneading them slowly.
"Yeah? Have you been waiting for me?"
The kisses reach your jawline, pressing against your chin before finally meeting your lips. Your mind, overcome with lust, feels foggy and surreal. You deepen the kiss, tongues press against each other as he tweaks your hardened nipples beneath his fingertips.
"Yeah - yes, I have." You nod out, a string of spit connecting you both. His eyes are hooded, gaze darkening.
"Such a good girl." He breathes into your lips, the words causing your legs to spread slightly. Your cunt clenching around nothing, aching to be filled. His other hand intuitively travels down across your navel, fingers hoisting your nightdress above your waist, exposing your neediness.
His fingers slide expertly into the waistband, pulling them off swiftly. Before returning and sliding between your folds. Cold fingers, rest against your pulsating clit before spreading your labia. Dragging his fingers down towards your slit pressing into it slightly, causing you to gasp at the slight penetration. gathering the growing wetness and dragging it towards your clit.
"Feels really good..." you gasp out into his mouth.
"You're so wet. It's quite endearing." His breathing growing heavy.
He rubs tight circles along your clit, watching how your body responds, the room filling with the sound of your arousal. The pressure builds up, the tight coil inside of you snapping as your body rolls in ecstacy. Your heartbeat is ringing in your ears.
You spread your legs further, as his fingers keep rubbing, coaxing you through your high before sliding into your pussy with ease. Two fingers pump in and out, curling up into your walls stretching you out ready to accommodate him.
"Jus' put it in -" you whine out. Hands reaching backwards to fiddle with the zipper to his formal slacks. Deft fingers pressing against the outline of his bulge, a gasp leaving his lips.
"I want to make sure you're ready -" Your hand reaches into his underwear, pulling his length out. The tip is an angry red, already leaking and ready to be inside. Your fingers wrap around the base, guiding it closer to your hole.
His hand leaves your pussy, wet fingers instead finding a place under your knee, lifting it up so he can gain better access to you. Exposing you to him.
The blunt tip presses against your entrance, causing you both to groan. He gathers the wetness leaking out before sliding in. He thrusts in slowly, bottoming out. It's hot and heavy, throbbing inside you. The stretch is impossible but in the best way.
Every vein scratches just right against your walls, pressing deep inside you, nestling in against your cervix.
"Mhm - fuck - so deep. stretching me out s'good." You babble out almost incoherently.
You can feel him pulse inside you, before he starts to thrust, slow and cautious, worried he might cum inside you too soon. He quickly finds a rhythm, sliding out almost completely before re-entering, pounding deep inside you.
"Yeah? You're so tight and warm. Might have to keep you forever."
His balls hit against your clit, slapping noises fill the room along with gasps. His words cause you to tighten up round him, making his own hips stutter as his pace slows down. He changes his angle slightly, aiming upwards causing his cock to hit that spot inside you, dragging deliciously against it over and over again.
"M'gonna cum." You gasp out.
"Me too. I'm going to fill you up, okay?"
He kisses you again, drawing your release from you before filling you with hot spurts of his seed. Thrusting quickly inside you, pushing it deeper. The sound of breathing is heavy in the room as he wraps his arms around you once again.
A/n it got kind of bad towards the end im sorry maybe im only good at foreplay haha.
After a brutal argument, you run. Henry lets you. Until he doesn’t. You hide in the cave you always go to when things get too loud, but he follows, furious and afraid in equal measure. The fight outside the cave is worse than the first. Henry doesn’t beg, doesn’t soften at first. He corners you with truth, control, and want. He convinces you to come home, and on the walk back through the woods, he makes sure you understand exactly what running from him costs and why he won’t let you do it again.
Warnings: intense arguments, raised voices, emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, implied consensual punishment, sexual tension, power imbalance themes
Word Count: about 2,500
You run because staying would have broken something.
The argument still rings in your ears as you shove through the trees, breath uneven, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your ribs. Leaves scratch your arms, branches snag at your clothes, but you don’t slow down. You know where you’re going. You always do.
The cave sits at the edge of the woods, hidden just enough to feel private. Cool stone. Quiet. A place where Henry’s voice doesn’t echo quite so loud in your head.
You duck inside and slide down against the wall, dragging in shaky breaths. Your hands tremble as you press them to your face.
You shouldn’t have said it.
You shouldn’t have pushed him like that.
But he shouldn’t have cornered you, either. Shouldn’t have told you what you were allowed to feel. Shouldn’t have looked at you like you were something he owned when all you wanted was space.
Your jaw tightens. Anger twists with something softer and more dangerous underneath it.
You hear his footsteps before you see him.
Henry doesn’t come into the cave right away. He stops just outside, far enough back that his shadow stretches across the stone floor but his body stays hidden. The air feels heavier the second he arrives, like the woods themselves recognize him.
“Come out,” he says.
His voice is sharp. Controlled. The kind of calm that means he’s holding himself back.
You don’t answer.
Henry exhales slowly. You can almost hear him counting, grounding himself the way he does when he’s angry and trying not to break something.
“I’m not leaving,” he says.
You press your forehead to your knees. “Go home.”
Silence.
Then, quieter but no less dangerous, “You are home.”
Your chest tightens. You hate how easily he can do that. Twist words until they feel like truth.
“I needed space,” you snap. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
Henry steps closer. His boots scrape against stone just outside the cave entrance.
“You don’t get to run,” he fires back.
You surge to your feet, anger flaring hot enough to drown out the fear. You step forward until you’re standing just inside the mouth of the cave, face tilted up toward him.
“I absolutely do,” you say. “You don’t own me.”
Henry’s jaw tightens. His eyes burn in the low light, something dark and possessive flashing there before he reins it in.
“I didn’t say I owned you,” he says.
You laugh, brittle. “You don’t have to.”
Henry’s hand flexes at his side. For a second you think he might grab you, pull you out by force.
He doesn’t.
That restraint is worse.
“You disappear into the woods without a word,” he says, voice low. “You think I don’t know what that does to me.”
“That’s not my problem,” you shoot back.
Henry’s mouth twists. “You’re wrong.”
The words land heavy.
You fold your arms over your chest, defensive. “I didn’t want to fight.”
“And yet you ran,” Henry says, stepping closer again. His shadow swallows more of the cave floor. “You always run when things get real.”
That hits too close.
You shake your head. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what,” he asks.
“Act like you’re the only one who feels things,” you snap. “You don’t get to be the only one who’s scared.”
Henry stills.
The anger in his eyes flickers, replaced by something sharp and wounded.
“I don’t get scared,” he says.
You scoff. “You followed me.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and tense.
Henry exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “I followed you,” he admits, “because you don’t know when to stop.”
Your heart stutters. “Stop what.”
“Pushing,” he says. “Running. Testing how far you can go before I snap.”
You swallow. “Maybe I wanted to see if you would.”
Henry steps fully into the cave then. The space feels smaller instantly, like the stone walls lean inward under his presence.
“You don’t want that,” he says quietly.
You meet his gaze, stubborn even as your pulse races. “You don’t know what I want.”
Henry stops an arm’s length away from you. Close enough that you can feel his heat, smell the faint metallic edge that always clings to him.
“I know exactly what you want,” he says. “You want to be chased. You want to be proven worth staying for.”
Your breath catches. “That’s not true.”
Henry’s eyes flick to your mouth, then back up. “Then why are you still standing here.”
The truth sits heavy on your tongue.
You don’t answer.
Henry’s voice drops, slower now, dangerous in a different way. “You could have gone farther. You didn’t.”
Your shoulders sag despite yourself. “I just needed you to stop.”
Henry’s hand lifts, stopping just short of touching you. The restraint looks like it costs him something.
“I don’t stop,” he says. “I control.”
You laugh softly, humorless. “That’s supposed to make me feel better.”
“It should,” he replies. “Because I didn’t come here to hurt you.”
Your eyes flick up, searching his face. “Then why does it feel like you might.”
Henry leans in, close enough that his voice brushes your ear. “Because you know I could.”
Your breath shudders.
“And because,” he continues, “you also know I won’t.”
The admission twists something deep in your chest.
You whisper, “I hate when you do that.”
“Good,” Henry murmurs. “It means you’re listening.”
You shove lightly at his chest, more frustration than force. “You can’t just decide when I come back.”
Henry’s hand closes around your wrist, firm but not painful. His grip anchors you, steady and deliberate.
“I can,” he says. “And you will.”
Your pulse jumps. “You don’t get to punish me for needing air.”
Henry’s eyes darken. “You didn’t need air.”
You inhale sharply. “What did I need, then.”
His thumb presses into the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse flutters.
“You needed to be reminded,” he says, “that you don’t walk away from me without consequences.”
The word consequences sends a shiver down your spine.
You should pull away.
You don’t.
Henry watches your reaction closely, like he’s cataloging every breath, every flicker of fear and want.
“This doesn’t scare you the way it should,” he observes.
Your voice comes out unsteady. “You don’t scare me.”
Henry tilts his head. “You should lie better.”
Silence hums between you.
Then, softer, “Come home.”
The command hits harder than the argument ever did.
You hesitate. “And if I don’t.”
Henry’s grip tightens just slightly. “Then I’ll carry you.”
Your breath hitches. “You wouldn’t.”
Henry’s mouth curves into something that isn’t a smile. “Try me.”
You stare at him, anger melting into something heavy and complicated.
“You’re impossible,” you mutter.
“And you’re coming with me,” he replies.
You don’t fight when he guides you out of the cave. His hand stays on your wrist, not dragging, just leading. Claiming. The woods close in around you, dark and quiet.
The walk back is slow.
Too slow.
Henry stops suddenly, pulling you to a halt between the trees. He turns to face you, eyes burning with something raw.
“You ran,” he says again, like he needs you to understand. “You don’t get to do that without paying for it.”
Your heart pounds. “Henry.”
He steps closer, backing you against a tree. One hand plants beside your head, blocking any easy escape. The other still holds your wrist, lifting it above your shoulder.
“You wanted space,” he murmurs. “You got it.”
His gaze drops to your lips. “Now you deal with what comes after.”
Your breath turns shallow. “You’re not allowed to hurt me.”
Henry leans in, stopping just short of touching you. “I’m allowed to teach you.”
The implication makes your stomach flip.
His voice lowers, intimate and dangerous. “You don’t run because you’re angry,” he says. “You run because you like knowing I’ll follow.”
You shake your head, but the denial feels weak. “That’s not fair.”
Henry’s thumb presses into your wrist again, grounding, possessive. “Neither is leaving me standing there wondering if you’ll come back.”
Your chest tightens. “I always come back.”
Henry’s eyes soften for half a second, then harden again. “That doesn’t mean I won’t remind you why.”
He steps back just enough to give you space to breathe. The restraint feels deliberate, like he’s choosing control over instinct.
“This ends now,” he says. “You come home with me. You don’t disappear without a word again.”
You swallow. “And if I do.”
Henry’s gaze locks onto yours. “Then next time, I won’t wait outside the cave.”
The warning sinks deep.
You nod slowly. “Okay.”
Henry studies you for a long moment, then releases your wrist. The loss of his grip feels like a sudden cold.
“Good,” he says quietly.
He takes your hand instead, fingers interlacing with yours in a grip that’s firm and unmistakably his. The gesture is softer than the argument, heavier than an apology.
You walk back through the woods together, tension still coiled tight between you. Neither of you speaks.
When you reach the edge of the trees and the lights of home flicker into view, Henry finally squeezes your hand.
“You don’t have to run,” he says.
You glance up at him, voice small but honest. “You don’t have to chase.”
Henry’s gaze flickers. “I will.”
The admission hangs between you, dark and devoted.
And despite everything, you let him lead you home.
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