“i’m sorry,” clark chokes out as his hips stutter against you slowly. “i’m so sorry.” he continues to cry on top of you as his cock plunges into your tight cunt. you can’t really figure out why your boyfriend is exactly crying; you’re dazed from clark pulling two orgasms from you. he really has nothing to be sorry for.
“i’m being selfish with you.”
“it’s okay, clark.” you coo up at your whiny boyfriend, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, letting your fingers wrap around clark’s loose, dark curls.
“you just feel really good.” he cries out, rutting his hips against you. you couldn’t help but feel dizzy at the sight of clark crying just because you feel good around him. it was intoxicating.
the thought of your strong, heavily muscular boyfriend crying and falling apart from just touching you was overwhelming. it was exciting. you never had anyone so obsessed with you the way clark was.
“you’re perfect,” he stutters out, his hips still rocking hard. your heart swells at his words; he was always so sweet to you. clark always made sure you were taken care of; he always put you first.
“i could stay here forever.” clark’s large hand wraps around your thigh, hoisting your leg up higher around his waist as he thrusts in deeper.
you blink up at clark, his face screwed up in pleasure, his body glistening in sweat, and a single dark curl falls in front of his eyes.
“baby, i need—“ he sucks in a harsh breath, moving his hips over and over, hitting the spot that always made you shiver as his fingers dig into the back of your thigh.
“you need what?” you ask, trying your hardest to actually focus on clark and his words. “what do you need, baby?”
“use your words.” you coaxed, trying to get him to repeat himself as you wipe his falling tears from his flushed cheeks.
your words pull a shudder out of clark, his words getting stuck in the back of his throat, being replaced with a groan.
“come on,” you try again, your hand gently pulling on his hair. “tell me.”
“i need to come, please.” clark whimpers, his blue eyes looking brighter than they usually are from the crying. you take pity on him, leaning up you lazily place a kiss on clark’s jaw. “go ahead, baby.” you murmur into his skin.
with your approval clark picks up his pace, trying to reach his high he’s been chasing for the past hour. with just a few sharp thrusts, he spills into you with a deep groan.
“you’re amazing, baby.” clark slurs, his head falling onto your chest, kissing you there softly. “you’re so nice to me.”
a/n: i don’t know how i feel about this one, guys
Summary: You're pretty good at pissing off Joel Miller. He's very good at teaching you a lesson during a self-defense training session.
Warnings: +18, MDNI, dub-con, dark!Joel all the way, knife play, brat-tamer!Joel, bound wrists, Joel calls reader kiddo, darlin’, sweetheart, maybe baby girl once?, fingering, p in v (unprotected, sooo… don’t pls), no use of y/n, reader’s acting all tough but has little to no chance against our man, let me know if i forgot any…
A/N: this is the result of a trope survey I did, Joel Miller & enemies to lovers came in first (of course it did :D). If you are interested in the others just follow the link.
wc: 9.2k (Joel is a cruel motherfucker...)
My Pedro-Character-Masterlist
“You’re a spoiled brat. Somebody ought to teach you a lesson. Maybe then you’d start takin’ your damn part in patrol seriously instead of driftin’ along until the day they find you dead in a ditch somewhere.”
Those had been the words that started it.
A surprising amount of them, too, coming from a man who usually communicated in grunts and clipped little sentences. Around Jackson, most people were used to hearing two, maybe three words from Joel Miller at a time.
But that afternoon in the stables he had let loose like a storm breaking.
To be fair - if you forced yourself to be honest about it - you had pushed him there.
The last patrol together had been… relaxed. On your side, anyway. Maybe a little too relaxed. You had missed a couple signs you should have caught, let your attention drift more than once while walking the tree line. Nothing dangerous had happened, but Joel had noticed. Of course he had. The man noticed everything.
Still, the whole lecture had felt unfair.
When you rode patrol with Joel Miller, the man practically absorbed the entire job himself. He checked the tracks, listened to the wind, scanned every ridge like something deadly was about to crawl over it. Half the time he handled things before you even had a chance to step in.
Trying to assist often felt like showing up late to a fight he had already finished.
So yeah - maybe you had been less attentive than you should have been. But it wasn’t because you didn’t care.
It was because when Joel was beside you, the world felt… handled.
That realization had landed right as he was finishing his little speech.
And instead of apologizing like the sensible part of your brain suggested - maybe slipping out of the stables before things got worse - you had planted your boots firmly in the dirt.
“Who then?” you shot back, folding your arms as the words came out sharper than planned. “You're gonna be the one teaching me? I’d love to see you try, old man.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you knew the last part had been unnecessary.
Joel had a particular talent for getting under your skin, but calling him old man had been like flicking a match into dry grass.
The reaction was immediate.
He went still.
Then he released the horse’s reins without looking, letting them fall loosely over the post as he stepped out of the stall. Each step measured enough that your instincts kicked in before your pride could stop them. You weren’t even sure when your own boots shifted backward, but the space between you widened all the same.
Joel’s expression didn’t change much.
That was the unsettling part.
His eyes stayed locked on you, dark and assessing, like he was already calculating something.
“Well,” he drawled after a beat, voice calm in a way that felt more dangerous than the shouting had. “That’s not the worst idea you’ve had.” Another step closer. “Been hearin’ you skipped more’n a few of those self-defense drills lately.” His gaze dragged over you. “Let’s see how tough you act when someone actually puts you on your back.”
And that was how you ended up trudging through ankle-deep snow on what should have been a perfectly quiet afternoon off.
Because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.
The wind dragged like cold fingers through the trees lining the path to the training barn, snow crunching under your boots with every step as you replayed the moment in the stables for the hundredth time. If you had just walked away - if you had swallowed your pride for once - you’d be somewhere warm right now.
Instead, you had challenged Joel Miller to prove you wrong.
And if you were being honest with yourself, the irritation between you two wasn’t exactly one-sided. Getting under Joel’s skin had become a strange sort of sport. The man had a way of grinding against your nerves until you snapped back without thinking.
Apparently the feeling went both ways.
Your breath curled in pale clouds as the barn came into view, the big wooden structure crouched quietly beneath a dusting of snow. No voices. No movement. Just the faint creak of wood shifting in the cold.
You reached it later than the time he had given you.
Technically by accident.
Mostly.
A small, petty part of you had slowed your pace on purpose. Let him stew a little. Pissed people made mistakes. And today you had every intention of knocking Joel Miller down a peg or two.
The barn door groaned softly when you pushed it open.
Inside, the air was colder than you expected, the structure barely insulated from the winter outside. Your boots echoed faintly against the packed floor as you stepped in, shrugging out of your thick coat and shaking snow from the sleeves.
“Joel?” you called, voice carrying through the wide space.
You draped the coat over a small wooden stool near the entrance. If this training session looked anything like the handful of drills you’d bothered attending before, you wouldn’t stay cold for long.
Movement would fix that.
The training area had been mostly cleared out. A broad patch of packed dirt and old mats where Jackson ran its combat practice. Last time you’d been here it had been crowded - laughter, teasing, half the patrol crew watching each other stumble through holds and throws.
Now the place felt different.
Quieter.
Dim light filtered through the high slats in the barn walls, dust and hay drifting lazily through the beams. A few old crates were stacked toward the back, casting long crooked shadows across the floor. Somewhere deeper inside, a loose board creaked softly with the wind.
But most notably - no Joel.
You suppressed the thought that Joel Miller was almost never late. If anything, he was the kind of man who showed up ten minutes early just to glare at everyone else.
Still.
If the universe decided to make an exception today, you weren’t about to complain.
“Joel?” you called again, already turning back toward the door as you reached for your coat. “If this is some kinda joke -”
A faint shuffle cut through the quiet behind you.
Subtle enough that it could have been anything. The wind blowing through a crack in the boards. A rat scurrying somewhere in the hay.
But your brain, helpful as ever, supplied a different thought.
What if something actually had happened?
Joel slipping on ice somewhere behind the barn. Old men did that, didn’t they?
The image made you snort a quiet laugh as you stepped deeper inside, heading toward the darker end of the building where the stacked crates sat like squat shadows.
“Joel?” you called again, tone lighter now.
No grumpy Texan clutching a broken hip greeted you. Just scattered hay, dirt, and the faint smell of old wood.
Then you noticed the tracks.
Boot prints pressed into the thin dust near the crates.
You barely had time to register them before something slammed into you from the side.
Hard.
The impact knocked the air clean out of your lungs as your body was driven backward into the stacked crates. Wood rattled violently behind you, the force of the hit folding you against it so abruptly that even the instinct to shout died in your throat.
All that escaped you was a strangled breath as the world lurched sideways and suddenly felt very, very close.
You only managed to catch yourself at the last second. Your boots slipped in the dust as the crates rattled behind you, but instinct kicked in before gravity could finish the job. One hand shot out, bracing against the wood long enough to steady yourself before you stumbled back into the more open space of the training floor.
And he followed.
“What the actual hell was that, Joel?!” you snapped, the words bursting out before your lungs had even properly recovered.
Joel Miller stepped out of the shadows like he had all the time in the world. The dim light spilling through the barn slats caught the edge of his shoulders, the familiar broad frame moving toward you with the same steady patience he carried everywhere.
He didn’t answer.
Just kept walking.
The deliberate silence set your nerves on edge faster than any insult could have.
Without thinking you took a step back - mirroring exactly what had happened in the stables earlier. Your heel scraped lightly over the packed dirt before you forced yourself to stop retreating. Straightened your back. Planted your feet.
You refused to give him the satisfaction twice.
“So…” You cleared your throat, hating the faint tremor that slipped into your voice anyway. “How are we doing this? Thought these things usually start with rules. You know. Demonstrations. Maybe someone showing the hold first before -”
A low chuckle slipped from him.
It carried about as much humor as a knife.
“You honestly think that’s what it looks like out there?” Joel muttered.
He rolled one shoulder as he moved, the motion stiff enough that you noticed it immediately. The impact must’ve hurt him too when he slammed into you. He masked it well, but the brief tightening of his jaw gave it away.
Still, the look he gave you afterward made it clear he didn’t care.
“Oh, darlin’,” he added quietly, voice dropping into that slow Texan drawl that usually meant trouble. “You’re in for a rude surprise.”
Two seconds.
That was about how long you had to swallow the sudden spike of unease rising in your chest.
Then the panic got burned away by something hotter.
The sheer audacity of this man.
You took two quick steps backward, widening the distance and shifting your weight the way you’d been taught during drills. Feet planted. Knees loose. Hands lifting instinctively toward your chest.
Fine.
If Joel wanted to play instructor like this, you’d show him you had actually listened during those classes.
Unfortunately, you were still underestimating just how serious he was about the lesson.
He moved before you could fully settle into your stance.
One moment he stood a few paces away.
The next he was on you.
Your hands shot up higher, ready to intercept a grab - because that was what the drills usually started with. Wrist control. Balance breaks.
Joel didn’t reach for your arms.
He swung.
An actual punch.
The movement came fast enough that your brain barely had time to process it. You ducked on instinct alone, dropping your shoulder just as his fist cut through the air where your head had been.
You avoided the worst of it.
But not all of it.
His knuckles clipped the side of your skull as they passed, the glancing contact sending a sharp buzz of pain through your temple that made your ears ring.
“Jesus, Joel!” you barked, staggering back a step as your hand flew to your cheek. “What the fuck -”
“Thought you might try talkin’ your way outta trouble too?” he grunted.
Another swing followed immediately.
You barely avoided that one too, stumbling sideways as the punch cut past your shoulder close enough to stir the air.
And that was when the realization finally clicked.
He wasn’t actually trying to hit you.
Not really.
If Joel had meant it - if he’d put his full weight behind those blows - you’d already be down. Nose broken. Lip split. Maybe worse.
This was controlled.
Terrifyingly precise.
“Of course not, you idiot,” you shot back, breath coming faster now as adrenaline started flooding your system. “I just -”
“You just what?” Joel cut in, circling closer. “Thought you could coast through patrols and let somebody else watch your back, kiddo?”
“I just thought -”
You never finished the sentence.
Because that was when he closed the distance completely.
One moment he was a step away.
The next his hands were on you.
His unyielding grip clamped onto your shoulders before you could react, momentum carrying straight through you as he hooked a foot behind your ankle and swept your legs out from under you in one brutal, practiced motion.
The world flipped.
Your back slammed into the old training mats hard enough to knock the air from your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp. Dust puffed around you as your vision flashed white for a split second, stars scattering across the edges of your sight.
You barely had time to register what had happened.
Because Joel was already on top of you.
His weight settled in fast, knees pinning your legs to the ground before you could kick free. One hand locked around each of your upper arms, forcing them down against the mat with a strength that left very little room for argument.
You tried to twist.
Tried to buck him off.
It didn’t move him an inch.
Joel leaned slightly over you, breath still steady despite the scuffle, his shadow falling across your face in the dim barn light.
“Weren’t thinkin’,” he muttered, voice low and rough. His grip tightened just enough to make the point unmistakable. “That right there’s the problem, darlin’.”
“Okay, you know what -” The words came out between clenched teeth as you bucked against his hold again, muscles straining even though every logical part of your brain already knew it was pointless.
Joel barely shifted.
Still, the flash of defiance in your eyes caught his attention for half a second. His gaze dipped toward you and he made a low sound under his breath as he adjusted his weight to counter your movement.
It wasn’t much.
Just enough pressure in the right places to remind you he was still very much in control.
He waited.
Actually waited.
Like he expected some brilliant comeback to fall out of your mouth.
So you gave him one.
“Fuck you, Joel.”
The words snapped out sharp and immediate, and before he could respond you twisted your hips hard - throwing your weight the way you’d been shown once during a half-forgotten training drill.
The motion had a name. Something about breaking a mount by shifting the opponent’s balance.
At the time it had sounded like wishful thinking.
But somehow -
It worked.
Almost.
Joel’s grip slipped just enough that you managed to twist sideways beneath him. Your shoulder rolled, your body following the momentum until suddenly you were face-down instead of pinned flat.
You didn’t wait.
You scrambled forward on instinct, boots digging against the mat as your hands clawed for traction in the dust.
Behind you, Joel sucked in a sharp breath.
The knee you’d driven into his ribs during the maneuver had clearly landed better than you’d planned.
For one brief, glorious second you thought you might actually get away.
Then his hand closed around the back of your belt.
The jerk backward was violent enough that your progress stopped instantly, your body sliding helplessly over the dusty mat as the inches you’d gained disappeared in a heartbeat.
Your fingernails scraped uselessly against the ground.
“Damn it -!”
You barely got the protest out before Joel leaned forward again.
One hand seized both your wrists, yanking them behind your back in a single brutal motion. His grip tightened until your arms were forced together, the angle making it impossible to twist free.
A second later his knees settled heavily against the backs of your legs, pinning you in place while his weight pressed down just enough to make resistance feel laughable.
You opened your mouth to curse him out.
Then you felt it.
The rough scrape of something fibrous brushing your skin.
Rope.
Your stomach dropped.
“Okay - Joel, wait!” The words came faster now as the cord circled your wrists, tightening with practiced efficiency. “Hold on a second -” The rope cinched tighter. “I said wait!” The sharp edge of panic in your own voice caught you off guard.
Joel didn’t react.
“Give me one good reason,” he said simply.
“What reason do you -?” You twisted your head, trying to glare up at him over your shoulder. “This isn’t funny, Joel.”
“It ain’t supposed to be.”
You squirmed beneath him as he pulled the knot snug, the rope biting just enough to make the reality of it sink in. It was too tight for a mere training unit.
You weren’t slipping out of that anytime soon.
Your body shifted restlessly under his weight, trying again to find leverage that simply wasn’t there.
Okay.
New strategy.
“Alright,” you muttered quickly, forcing the words out before the tension crawling up your spine could take over completely. “I get it. Message received. I should’ve paid more attention on patrol. That one’s on me.” The rope tugged tighter. “This is still unfair,” you added stubbornly.
Joel’s knee slid upward slightly as he finished securing the knot, pressing into the small of your back with deliberate weight.
“Fair?” he repeated. His voice carried a faint edge of disbelief. “You think the folks waitin’ out there care about your sense of fairness?”
You turned your head against the mat, cheek scraping the rough surface as you tried to look back at him.
Joel didn’t appear the least bit rattled.
His brows were drawn together the way they always were, deep lines etched across his forehead. The familiar salt-and-pepper beard framed a mouth set in that same firm line you’d seen a hundred times before.
But there was no anger now.
No smirk either.
Just a calm, steady focus that somehow felt worse.
You weren’t sure what exactly he was determined to do, and something about that thought made your chest tighten.
“No, it’s just…” you started, words faltering as you tried to find something that didn’t sound like outright surrender. “I wasn’t expecting you to be such a -”
The sentence cut off when Joel suddenly shifted.
His weight lifted from your back without warning.
Relief barely had time to register before his hands caught your shoulder and hip, rolling you over in one smooth motion.
You landed flat on your back again.
Joel settled over you almost immediately, kneeling around your legs the way he had earlier - only now your wrists were secured behind you, leaving your arms completely useless.
The position pulled uncomfortably at your shoulders, the rope tightening each time you moved. But you decided very quickly not to complain about that. Comfort clearly wasn’t high on Joel’s list of priorities today.
“- such a committed trainer?” Joel finished dryly.
You glared up at him.
“Such an asshole,” you corrected.
Your body twisted again beneath him, instinctively trying to knock him off balance. Your hips jerked upward, attempting to disrupt his center of gravity.
Joel barely shifted. If anything his crotch pushed into your center just as much to secure you.
“Newsflash, darlin’,” he muttered. “World outside Jackson ain’t exactly known for patience.”
You huffed out a breath, rolling your eyes despite the position.
“Yeah, alright. Point taken.” You shifted your shoulders experimentally against the rope. “So untie me already. Pretty sure the lesson stuck.”
Joel didn’t move.
Didn’t even look like he was considering it.
Instead he adjusted his weight slightly, settling into the kneeling position like someone getting comfortable for a long conversation.
Your stomach sank.
“Doubt it,” he said. The words were calm. Almost casual. “Lesson ain’t even started yet.”
Something flickered in his hand then.
Metal catching the faint light filtering through the barn walls.
And when your eyes dropped to it, the breath caught hard in your throat.
Joel had a knife.
For a moment you just stared at it. Then - unexpectedly - even to yourself, a laugh slipped out. It started as a short breath and turned into something sharper, almost incredulous.
Because this was Joel.
Joel Miller might be a lot of things - grumpy, stubborn, occasionally insufferable - but he wasn’t some deranged lunatic who’d decided to start carving people up during a training session.
The man patched fences for neighbors after long patrols. Helped haul lumber for repairs even when he’d already pulled double shifts. Joel Miller carried himself like someone who’d seen too much of the world to waste energy pretending to be nice, but you had never once seen him be cruel.
Rough, yes.
Unfair? Never.
So this?
This had to be part of the scare tactic.
A prop.
A way to drive the lesson home.
And hell… it was working.
Your laugh lingered a little longer than necessary, the sound edged with nerves you hoped he wouldn’t notice. When something overwhelmed you, that was usually how you dealt with it.
“Alright, alright,” you muttered, rolling your eyes toward him. “You can cut the theatrics now. What exactly are you planning to do with that?” You tilted your head slightly, trying to keep the tone casual. “Pretty sure the council won’t be thrilled if I walk back into town with knife wounds from a training exercise.”
You aimed for cool and unbothered. Joel’s eyes flickered briefly over your face. The faint tremor in your voice hadn’t slipped past him.
“Knife ain’t just for stabbin’ people,” he said flatly. “Might need to sign you up for a weapons lesson too while we’re at it.”
Before you could respond, the blade moved.
Not the sharp edge but the flat, dull side. Cold metal brushed lightly across your cheek.
Your head turned instinctively, trying to avoid it, but Joel followed the motion easily - guiding the blade downward along the line of your jaw and throat.
A slow trail of chilled steel.
The tip continued lower, slipping toward the collar of your shirt.
You stilled despite yourself.
The point of the knife tapped lightly against the first button of your flannel, clicking softly against the plastic.
Then the next.
And the next.
Each small contact felt absurdly loud in the quiet barn.
“Don’t see you doin’ much fightin’ right now,” Joel observed calmly. His chin tipped forward slightly, gesturing vaguely toward the position you were stuck in beneath him. “Someone got you pinned like this out there… what exactly’s your plan?”
“I wouldn’t get caught,” you shot back automatically.
Joel’s mouth twitched.
“If an old man can do it half asleep…” he said dryly, tossing your earlier insult right back at you, “I ain’t too confident you’d fare better with a group of raiders.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“If it were raiders,” you countered quickly, “I’d already be exactly where you said I’d end up. Dead somewhere in a ditch.” Your gaze flicked pointedly to the knife. “They’d want my gear. My rations. My weapons. Not my patience.”
Joel’s grin tilted sideways.
Not amused.
Just… knowing.
“You sure about that?” he murmured.
Before you could respond, the tip of the knife slid neatly between one of the lower buttons and its thread.
Your brain barely had time to register what he was doing before he twisted his wrist slightly.
Pop.
The button snapped free.
It shot somewhere over your shoulder, landing out of sight behind you.
“What the - Joel!”
Your head jerked up instinctively, more offended by the destruction of a perfectly good shirt than anything else. Still, something deeper shifted under your ribs.
Because Joel was right. Being captured out there - especially as a woman - wouldn’t end quickly.
Wouldn’t end kindly.
The next button popped.
Adrenaline flooded your bloodstream in a sudden rush and your body bucked beneath him again, instinct overriding reason.
The blade slipped. Not deep. But the point grazed your skin just enough to leave a sharp sting across your stomach.
“Watch it, jerk!” you hissed.
Joel stopped. But not out of concern.
Out of calculation.
Slowly the knife lifted from your half-open shirt and returned upward, the flat of the blade resting once again against the side of your neck.
“If I was one of them,” Joel said quietly, leaning closer, “and I had you stuck like this beneath me…” His voice dropped lower. “Best start pickin’ your words real careful.”
He was close enough now that you could see every line in his face.
Close enough that he had to see the flicker of fear creeping into your eyes.
And he didn’t stop.
Didn’t pull back.
Didn’t soften the pressure of his weight holding you down.
For one alarming second a thought flickered through your head.
He wasn’t ignoring your fear.
He was letting you sit with it.
Maybe even -
Enjoying the effect.
Your breathing slowed. When you spoke again, your voice came out colder than before. Enough that it caught his attention immediately.
“Yeah?” you murmured. Joel leaned a fraction closer, watching you carefully. “Then listen real close, Joel.”
But instead of the clever insult he was clearly expecting…
You gathered saliva.
And spat.
Right into his face.
Joel jerked back just enough that the dull side of the knife scraped lightly along your skin. The movement was quick - reflex more than intent - and for a second his brows pulled together in something close to surprise.
Then he huffed.
And laughed.
Not the dry little breath of amusement people in Jackson sometimes coaxed out of him. Not the brief exhale that usually passed for humor from Joel Miller.
This was different.
The sound came as a real laugh that rolled out of his chest before he could seem to stop it. It carried something sharp in it too - something edged with challenge that made the skin on the back of your neck prickle.
You realized, distantly, that you could probably count the times you’d heard Joel Miller laugh on one hand.
This one felt… new.
“Alright,” he muttered, still chuckling as he dragged the sleeve of his jacket across his face, wiping away the spit without much ceremony. “Go ahead. Act like a brat.” His dark eyes dropped back to yours. “Let’s see how far that attitude carries you.”
The knife returned to your shirt.
Before you could react, three buttons popped in quick succession.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
The sounds echoed in the quiet barn like small gunshots, fabric pulling apart under the pressure of the blade. Within seconds only the top button still held, the flannel hanging open enough that the cold air slipped easily against your skin.
Joel rested the tip of the knife against that final button, his gaze settling back on you.
“Tell me somethin’, darlin’,” he said, voice quieter now. “When does all that stubbornness finally turn into beggin’?” His mouth twitched faintly. “Be real interestin’ to hear you whimper for once.”
The knife didn’t move.
It waited there, hovering against the thread.
“I’d rather you stab me,” you shot back immediately, forcing the words out before hesitation could betray you. “You’re not getting a single plea out of me.”
It was a lie.
You both knew it.
The tension in your chest was already tightening, nerves and adrenaline twisting together into something that made your breathing shallow.
And yet… something inside you refused to back down.
Part pride.
Part curiosity.
Because a small, reckless voice in the back of your mind wanted to know just how far Joel Miller would actually push this lesson.
Surely not that far. Right?
You gave yourself a second to remember exactly who was sitting on top of you.
Joel Miller.
The same man who had barely glanced at you that one patrol when you’d slipped in the brush and torn your shirt on a branch. The fabric had ripped at exactly the wrong place, leaving your cleavage embarrassingly obvious for the rest of the trek back to Jackson.
Joel had looked away almost immediately.
Barely a second.
Like it hadn’t even registered.
That Joel Miller wasn’t about to take things further just to prove a point.
…Right?
And if he did…
Your stomach tightened unexpectedly.
Would it actually be so terrible?
“We’ll see about that,” Joel muttered.
The knife twisted.
Pop.
The final button gave way.
The front of your shirt fell open completely, the two sides sliding apart under the pressure of the blade as Joel used it to push the fabric aside. The cold metal drifted slowly down the center of your stomach, tracing a lazy line over your skin.
Your belly rose and fell beneath it, each breath a little quicker than the last.
“Not even gonna try bargainin’?” he asked, eyes lifting back to yours.
“What for?” you muttered, a little more breathless than you meant to sound. “Don’t exactly have anything worth trading.”
Joel’s grin tilted darker.
“Oh, I dunno,” he said quietly. “Seems like I’m gettin’ a pretty decent view already of what you gotta offer.”
Something in your stomach flipped unpleasantly - and not entirely with disgust.
“Try me, old man,” you shot back, the insult coming out sharper than intended. A thread of nervous energy slipped into the words despite your effort to sound confident. “Bet you wouldn’t even be able to.”
You held his gaze stubbornly, your own grin tight with defiance.
There was plenty of spite in it. Plenty of tension too. Because you still weren’t completely sure what Joel actually wanted here.
To scare you? Or rather something else entirely…
The jab made him chuckle again, deeper this time. His shoulders shifted slightly as the sound shook through him, his weight pressing more firmly against you for a second.
Then he leaned forward.
The knife disappeared between his teeth, clamped carefully by the handle so both hands were free.
Your stomach dipped as Joel’s fingers hooked into your belt.
Opening it took him almost no effort at all. He worked the buckle loose with the same calm efficiency he seemed to apply to everything, his other hand planted beside your head for balance. The knife still sat between his teeth, the metal glinting faintly when the dim barn light caught it. The grin around it was unmistakable - broad, wolfish, the kind that showed just enough teeth to make your stomach tighten.
Your breath hitched the moment his fingers found the button of your jeans.
That was when the realization finally settled in fully.
He wasn’t bluffing.
“Joel…” The word slipped out before you could stop it. It wasn’t exactly a plea - not yet - but it carried something close. A last attempt to catch his attention before the line you’d been dancing around disappeared completely. His head tilted slightly at the sound, like he was waiting for the rest. Waiting for the begging he had predicted earlier.
“You don’t have to,” you added, quieter now. “I get it.”
The sharp edge of your usual sarcasm had faded from your voice, replaced by something more honest - tension, a flicker of fear… and an uncomfortable thread of anticipation you didn’t quite know what to do with.
Joel’s mouth curved slowly at one corner.
The grin that followed wasn’t kind.
His fingers finished undoing the button, lingering a moment at the metal of the zipper without pulling it down. Instead, the back of his knuckles brushed lightly across your center through the layers of denim and cotton, the casual contact enough to make your body twitch in surprise.
Your hips jerked instinctively, trying to shift away from the touch even though the movement accomplished very little.
Joel adjusted his weight slightly, leaning back just enough to free the knife from his teeth. The blade slipped back into his hand, the flat side drifting lazily across your exposed stomach again.
“Bit late for that, ain’t it?” he muttered.
Before you could respond, he leaned forward again.
The knife drove suddenly downward, the blade burying itself in the mat right beside your head with a dull thunk that made you flinch hard enough for the ropes around your wrists to bite.
Joel’s chuckle rumbled low in response.
“Besides,” he added calmly, shifting his weight again, “I ain’t convinced you actually get it yet, kiddo.” His free hand returned to your jeans. “You’re still thinkin’ I’m gonna stop here. Scare you a little. Let you walk off and hope the lesson stuck.”
His thumb caught the zipper. Slowly he dragged it downward. The sound seemed absurdly loud in the quiet barn.
“All you’ve done so far,” Joel continued, voice steady, “is prove you only understand somethin’ once it’s right in front of you.” The zipper reached the bottom. He clicked his tongue softly. “And I ain’t exactly confronted you with much yet.”
“I - I’m gonna scratch your eyes out!” you snapped.
Joel’s brow lifted faintly.
“Be real curious to watch you try that with your hands tied behind your back,” he drawled. “Truth be told, you oughta be grateful you still got ’em.” His tone remained casual. “Seen what raiders do when they’re worried about people fightin’ back. Fingernails, teeth… anything sharp tends to disappear real quick.”
He paused just long enough to make the words settle. Then shrugged lightly.
“Think I can manage you just fine with your claws intact though.”
His hand slid forward again, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear where the open denim now left the fabric exposed.
Your body reacted before your brain caught up.
Your hips jerked upward, the motion automatic.
Joel noticed immediately.
“Now there’s a little fight,” he murmured, the darkness back in his voice. “Thought that tough brat already ran off and left me with somebody a lot more nervous.”
Instead of answering, you twisted harder beneath him.
Your knees drew upward slightly, boots scraping uselessly against the mat as you tried to shift your weight enough to disrupt his balance. It only gained you a fraction of an inch, but the effort felt necessary all the same.
Beside your face, the knife remained planted firmly in the mat.
A silent reminder.
Too close for comfort.
“When this is over,” you muttered through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna make you pay for it.”
Joel huffed softly at that. “When this is over,” he echoed, “you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere.” He tilted his head slightly, watching your expression. “That’s the theory, anyway.” His hand slipped forward again, the rough pads of his fingers brushing lightly against your hip as if testing the reaction.
“In practice?” he continued. His gaze flicked briefly down toward you, as his fingers slipped under the soft cotton of your panties, sliding slowly through your folds, way too wet already for the situation you were in. A slow grin followed.
“Seems like you’re not exactly hatin’ the lesson as much as you pretend.”
You tried to fight it.
Tried with everything you had left in you to keep the reaction from showing, to stop him from seeing what the smallest touch of his hand was doing. Pride alone demanded it. But when Joel’s fingers slid just a little deeper, gathering the slick wetness there before circling lazily over your clit, control slipped through your grasp all the same.
The sound that escaped you was small.
Barely more than a breath.
But it was there.
A whimper.
Joel froze instantly.
Not pulling away - just stilling, the pressure of his hand remaining exactly where it was. Then he leaned forward, lowering his head until his ear hovered close to your lips.
“What was that?” he murmured.
You clenched your jaw. “What, old man?” you muttered back through your teeth, trying to sound unimpressed even as the tension curled tighter in your stomach. “Can’t hear… anyth -”
Your voice faltered.
Because his fingers started moving again.
Slow circles, each motion stealing another piece of your composure until the bite in your words began dissolving into something softer, something harder to contain.
“…fuck,” you breathed, the sound slipping out before you could swallow it back. Another whimper followed, one you tried to stifle by turning your head sharply aside and pressing your lips together.
Joel huffed quietly. “Oh, I can hear those moans just fine,” he said, voice low and amused.
His fingers shifted again, sliding deeper before nudging forward to your entrance with a careful pressure that made your back tense against the mat.
“Just caught me off guard, that’s all.”
Your hands flexed uselessly behind you, fingernails scraping against the mat as your body reacted without asking permission.
“Didn’t realize you were this desperate for it,” he went on calmly. “Could’ve saved myself the whole training lecture if you’d just said so.”
“Don’t - get too excited,” you forced out. Your face remained locked in a scowl, brows drawn tight with irritation, but every small twitch of Joel’s hand kept betraying you anyway. Joel’s mouth curved faintly.
“Funny,” he muttered. “You look like the one getting excited here.”
Before you could snap back, he pressed two fingers into you, stretching you unexpectedly.
The sound that tore from you echoed far louder than you would’ve liked in the quiet barn, bouncing faintly off the wooden beams overhead. Heat rushed through your skin despite the winter air creeping through the walls, your breath coming quicker as your body arched against the pressure.
Joel let out a low hum.
“Well now,” he murmured. “That’s a helpful reaction. Good girl making it easy for me.”
The words good girl slipped from him almost lazily, like he wasn’t even thinking about them.
But they landed.
Harder than anything else he had said.
Being called a brat had been annoying. Something to push back against.
That?
That slid straight under your skin.
Joel shifted slightly above you, his hips grinding forward just enough that you could feel the effect of the situation for yourself. His hard cock clearly visible - and noticeable - through the denim fabric.
“Gotta admit though,” he added under his breath, “didn’t figure you’d let me get this far.”
Your chest rose and fell unevenly.
“Didn’t exactly have much of a choice,” you shot back.
Joel snorted quietly.
“Would’ve stopped the second I saw real fear in your eyes,” he said, almost casually. “That much I promise.”
His fingers moved again, angling just right, the motion pulling another involuntary arch from your back.
“Didn’t expect quite this much anticipation, though.”
Then he withdrew.
Just like that.
The sudden emptiness left you staring up at the rafters for a moment, trying very hard not to look as disappointed as you suddenly felt.
“Anticipating the moment I get to wipe that smug grin off your face,” you muttered.
“Sure,” Joel said mildly. “All talk so far.”
He shifted his weight again, giving your hips just enough room to move - but not enough to actually escape. Before you could twist away, his hand caught your arm, gripping firmly as he rolled you over once more.
The cold mat pressed against the bare skin of your stomach as you landed face-down again, the rough surface biting lightly against your skin.
“Haven’t seen much proof otherwise,” Joel continued. “Well… close to none…”
You could feel the weight of his gaze moving over you as you squirmed beneath him, ineffective against both his strength and the rope holding your wrists.
Then his hands returned to your jeans.
Before you could brace yourself, he dragged the fabric downward in one swift motion, shoving the denim down to your knees and leaving your legs tangled while your butt was suddenly exposed to the chill air of the barn.
“Look at you…” The words slipped out of Joel almost under his breath, less a taunt and more an observation that had surprised even him. His palm drifted across your exposed backside, the touch unexpectedly light at first - almost thoughtful. The calluses of his hand dragged slowly over your skin, tracing the curve there.
Then his fingers tightened without warning.
They dug sharply into the soft flesh, and the sudden sting ripped a startled cry from your throat before you could stop it.
Joel exhaled a low, amused breath.
“Easy now, darlin’,” he murmured. “You tryin’ to let the whole town know how hard you’re fightin’ back?”
The old barn swallowed his voice and threw it back in faint echoes. Winter air leaked through warped wooden boards, brushing cold against the parts of your skin left bare.
His other hand tugged at the hem of your flannel, pushing the fabric upward just enough to expose the line of your back. His fingers wandered there, following the ridge of your spine like a path. They traveled upward, past the tension between your shoulder blades.
From there, they slid higher still. His hand buried itself in your hair and Joel closed his fist.
Your head jerked back as he pulled, forcing your spine into a sharp arch. The position twisted your face just enough that he could see part of it - your clenched jaw, the stubborn crease between your brows.
“Should’ve gagged you,” he muttered, studying the way your expression flickered between anger and something far less controlled. “That’s what a raider would’ve done. Wouldn’t want you hollerin’ for help.” His grip in your hair tightened slightly as he tilted your head further. “You want that?” he asked, voice dropping lower. “Full experience?”
His knee planted firmly beside your hip, grounding your movements. The other nudged your legs apart a little more, creating space as his free hand drifted back down between your legs.
The moment his touch returned to your wet center, the sound that escaped you was impossible to disguise.
He huffed out a quiet laugh against your ear.
“Well… that settles that.”
His fingers resumed their slow movements, and your body reacted before your pride could catch up. Your words tangled in your throat as sensation swallowed them whole.
Joel felt it instantly as you clenched around his digits.
“Can’t lie,” he said after a moment, voice thick with amusement. “Kinda like hearin’ you make those sounds.”
You tried to respond immediately, some sharp retort ready on instinct - but the rhythm of his hand stole the thought clean out of your head.
It took effort to gather enough focus to speak.
“Funny,” you managed eventually, breath uneven but grin stubbornly tugging at your lips despite the pull in your hair. “You’ve said more in the last five minutes than in all our patrols put together.”
Joel clicked his tongue.
“That’s ’cause you never had anything worth talkin’ about, sweetheart.”
His hand slipped away from you abruptly.
The sudden absence again left a hollow ache you refused to acknowledge.
A moment later, the quiet clink of metal broke the air as his hand moved to his belt.
“That is,” he continued casually, working the buckle loose, “until now.”
You couldn’t see him.
That was the worst part.
The outline you’d caught earlier through the denim of his jeans had been enough to plant the thought firmly in your mind - but without seeing it now, you had no real sense of what waited behind you.
And it was coming.
That much had become unavoidable.
Joel Miller was going to fuck you.
Before closing the distance, Joel leaned forward again. His grip in your hair loosened just enough to guide your head slightly to the side.
His lips brushed near your ear.
The scrape of his beard against your skin sent a small shiver down your spine.
“Wouldn’t mind refreshin’ these lessons now and then,” he murmured. “What d’you think?”
His hips rolled forward slightly against your backside as he spoke and you could feel his rock-hard cock against your skin. The pressure alone made it very clear that whatever came next would be anything but gentle. Or small.
Your reaction betrayed you instantly.
Despite every ounce of pride screaming otherwise, your legs shifted apart a little farther - limited only by the jeans and underwear bunched around your knees. Your hips lifted instinctively, pressing back toward him.
Joel felt it.
The chuckle that rumbled out of him vibrated straight through your body.
“That ain’t an answer, darlin’.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Your lips stayed sealed for a few stubborn seconds longer.
Then the words forced their way out anyway, your head giving a tight nod against his grip.
“Y-yes… Joel.” The admission came out strained, breath catching halfway through. “I… wouldn’t mind that.”
“Mind what now, darlin’?”
You swallowed the last ounce of pride left in your body. “Wouldn’t mind you fucking me.”
You barely had time to register the shift behind you.
One moment there was the pressure of his cock lining up at your entrance, the heat of his body crowding yours, the grip on your wrists keeping you arched and exposed.
The next -
The breath punched straight out of your lungs.
Joel moved in one hard thrust, leaving no room for hesitation, no careful pause to let you adjust around his girth. This wasn’t patient. This wasn’t gentle.
It was rough, immediate, and entirely on his terms.
The sound that tore from you never had a chance to fully escape. His hand left your hair in the same instant and clamped firmly over your mouth, muffling the cry against his rough palm.
Joel groaned low behind you, the sound thick with the shock of it.
Your breath came hot and frantic through your nose against his skin as you struggled to drag air back into your lungs. That first impact had stolen every bit of oxygen from you.
“Fuck, darlin’…” Joel sounded strained as he leaned forward, pressing himself closer along your back. For a moment his forehead rested against the back of your head while he steadied his breathing and settled into the rhythm he wanted.
Despite the brutal beginning, he slowed.
Not enough to make things easy on you - far from it - but enough that the movements stopped feeling like a single overwhelming blow. There was a rough kind of control in it now, a measured pace that gave your body just enough time to keep up.
You mumbled something against the hand covering your mouth, the words lost in a garbled sound. The strain had tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
Joel huffed softly.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for such a good girl,” he muttered near your ear, the words carrying that familiar teasing edge. “All ready for me like this.”
The praise sounded almost mocking paired with the relentless rhythm he kept.
Then, unexpectedly, his lips brushed briefly against the side of your neck - a fleeting kiss that contrasted sharply with the roughness everywhere else.
Before you could process it, he shifted again.
His hand slid away from your mouth, leaving your lips parted as you pulled in a shaky breath. Instead, he grabbed hold of your bound wrists, using them like a handle to pull you upward into a deeper arch. The position tightened everything, forcing your back to curve as his other hand dug firmly into the side of your hip to steady you.
“Let's see how good you take me like this.” You could hear the grin in his voice.
“Will you ever shut the fuck up,” you snarled breathlessly, your voice rough from the air you’d been fighting to catch.
Joel laughed behind you - gravelly and clearly entertained.
“Actin’ tough ain’t gonna do you much good right now,” he replied.
Another sharp thrust stole the rest of your retort, a broken sound slipping from your throat before you could stop it.
“In the end,” he continued casually, “you’re gonna be the one babblin’ nonsense… ’cause the only thing left in that head of yours’ll be me fucking you senseless.”
The blunt boldness of his words hit harder than it should have.
Joel had always been many things - stubborn, gruff, irritatingly calm - but this kind of filthy confidence? That had never once crossed your radar.
And damn it, it worked.
Heat built relentlessly in your core, faster than you wanted to admit. Embarrassingly fast.
Joel noticed once more.
“Look at you,” he muttered, almost amused. “Already cockdrunk.” His tongue clicked softly. “Wouldn’t be much of a lesson if you were enjoyin’ yourself too much, now would it?”
The words sent a spike of panic through you.
You twisted your head, trying to catch sight of his face over your shoulder.
Surely he wasn’t serious.
Joel paused just long enough to lean down near your ear again.
“That is…” he added thoughtfully, “…unless you ask real nice.”
The cruelty in it was obvious.
He wanted it. The attitude stripped away, the stubbornness broken down until you were the one begging for more.
And the worst part?
You weren’t nearly as far from it as you wished.
“Joel…” you swallowed hard, your voice suddenly tight. “Please.” The word slipped out before your pride could catch it.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice softening just a fraction. “I got you, baby girl.”
Another deep slam made your whole body shudder involuntarily as he bottomed out once more.
“Gonna take real good care of you,” he continued, almost conversationally. “Might turn out you’re useful after all.” There was a faint hint of that raider roleplay creeping back into his tone, the mock threat hanging between the words. “Keepin’ you around’s startin’ to sound better than ditchin’ you out there.”
You let it slide. At that point, resisting the game would have taken more focus than you had left.
The tension building inside you climbed higher, tighter.
“Joel… I’m gonna -”
“There you go, darlin’,” he muttered, his own voice rougher now, the control slipping slightly. “That’s it. Show me how you can come on my cock.”
And when it finally hit, it tore through you hard enough to make the world blur at the edges. For a few seconds you forgot everything - where you were, what you’d been arguing about, even your own name.
Joel’s hand returned to your mouth just in time to muffle the loudest part of it, the sound trapped against his palm.
“Beautiful,” he breathed close to your ear as the aftershocks rippled through you. His grip on your wrists tightened briefly. “Wouldn’t mind seein’ that again.” He shifted slightly behind you. “But this barn ain’t empty forever,” he added, voice still low. “And you already got me so close.”
Before you could even process the implication, wondering if he would really fill you up, he pulled out, leaving you abruptly empty. A moment later hot ropes of his climax landed across your back, your bound hands, and the wrinkled fabric of the flannel pushed up around your waist.
Joel’s grunt came staggered, the sound dragged straight out of his chest as he worked through the last of it. One hand was clearly still wrapped around his length, last droplets dripping down and slow strokes guiding the final waves of his release while the warmth of it still marked your back and hands.
Beneath him, your own body hadn’t quite caught up yet.
The remnants of your orgasm still pulsed through you in fading ripples, muscles clenching instinctively around emptiness now that he’d pulled away. Each aftershock made your breath hitch, your nerves still firing long after the moment itself had passed.
The strength drained out of you all at once.
You sank fully down against the mat beneath you, cheek turned to the side as the cold surface pressed against overheated skin.
“Fuck…” It came out hoarse, barely more than a breath.
Behind you, Joel shifted. You could hear the rustle of denim, the quiet sounds of him putting himself back together, but you didn’t have the energy to turn your head and confirm it. Just lifting your arms felt like more work than you were ready for.
“Yeah,” he muttered after a moment, voice still thick. “That about sums it up.” There was a faint grunt as he adjusted his belt. “Could get used to training sessions like that.”
The comment hit your ears just as your mind began catching up with the rest of you.
Your wit returned the moment he was no longer slamming into you.
“Wouldn’t do your back any favors, old man,” you shot back from where you lay.
The sarcasm came automatically.
There was movement beside you that finally made you crack your eyes open.
You caught it just in time.
Joel leaned forward toward the floor, reaching for the knife still embedded upright in the mat where it had been planted earlier. His fingers closed around the handle and he yanked it free in one smooth, forceful pull.
The metal flashed briefly in the dim barn light.
“Careful there, kiddo,” he said, voice lowering again as the knife traced lightly along the line of your spine.
The cool steel sent a sharp shiver through you.
“Taught you a pretty solid lesson the first time about runnin’ that bratty mouth, didn’t I?”
The blade slid down between your bound wrists.
With a quick, practiced slice, the rope gave way.
The tension disappeared instantly as the fibers snapped apart.
“Don’t mind turnin’ up the heat next time,” Joel continued, cutting the last strands free. “If I get the impression you’re still too stubborn to learn.”
The moment the rope loosened, you moved.
Your arms came forward instinctively, and you twisted beneath him to roll onto your side and then upright, pushing yourself into a seated position, pulling up your jeans cumbersomely while he shifted just enough to allow it. Joel settled back on his heels in front of you, watching as you immediately began rubbing at your wrists. The skin there was red, angry where the rope had bitten in. You circled them slowly, working the stiffness out.
“Maybe,” you said after a moment, lips curling slightly, “you’re just a shitty teacher.”
The smirk that followed was impossible to hide.
Joel’s answering grin was just as quick.
“Sounds like I wasn’t clear enough then,” he replied. His voice carried a tired edge now, the exertion finally settling in, but it did little to hide the faint spark of satisfaction underneath.
For a moment, he simply looked at you.
His gaze drifted over you again, slow and assessing.
Then he pushed himself upright and, almost casually, extended a hand toward you.
You ignored it.
Instead you scrambled to your feet on your own, tugging at your clothing in a half-hearted attempt to put yourself back together. The flannel hung crooked, your jeans still unbuttoned and loose around your waist, and you weren’t entirely sure what you were supposed to do next.
Joel solved that uncertainty by stepping closer. He closed the small distance easily, his broad frame towering over you.
Before you could react, the cold tip of the knife lifted beneath your chin. It nudged your face upward just enough that you had to meet his eyes.
“Better head home now, darlin’,” he said quietly. “And maybe pray I don’t catch up to you to drill the next lesson into that pretty head of yours.”
Your throat tightened.
You actually gulped.
One hand clutched the ruined flannel closed over your chest while you held his gaze just long enough to let him see that stubborn spark still burning there.
“Yes, sir,” you murmured.
Then you took a step back.
Joel didn’t move.
He simply stood there watching as you pulled your coat on and made your way toward the barn door.
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦Author's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollen✦
It doesn’t bother you. If you tell yourself enough, you’re really going to believe that it doesn’t bother you.
But he’s everywhere.
There isn’t a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and he’s there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks you’re going to bite him. In the gym he’s at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think he’s doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but he’s spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.
Because it’s not just Bucky’s eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. It’s that you like it.
That when you’re next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your body’s connect. He’s warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts it’s like you’re being shot up with a drug.
“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”
You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”
“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“
“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m not-“
“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.
“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.
“Congratulations.”
You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-
Get a fucking grip.
“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”
Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.
You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.
It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.
“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.
That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.
You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.
As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.
Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.
The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.
“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.
Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.
You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.
“I was busy.”
“Too busy for your job?”
“It’s not my job-“
“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.
“Have you been carrying that around all day?”
“That doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it really does-“
Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“
“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“
“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“
“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”
“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.
But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.
“Why’re you skipping.”
You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.
“I have a date.”
“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.
“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.
Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.
“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”
“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.
“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“
The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.
“What’s-“
“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.
“No, he’s not-“
“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”
Then he’s gone.
And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.
You just need to know what the fuck that was.
There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.
He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.
You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.
And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.
“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.
You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.
At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.
“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”
He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.
The mission is over.
Two days early.
Your jaw tightens.
Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.
Something went wrong, and they have to come back.
You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.
But they’re back early.
And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all.
You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.
Maybe they really did just… Finish early.
You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.
Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.
“You need to go, Buck-“
“I’m fine-“
“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“
“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“
Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.
He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.
His hand is hot.
Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.
He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.
“Hi.” You whisper.
His throat bobs. “You’re back.”
“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“
“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”
Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.
“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.
He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.
“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.
“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“
“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.
He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.
“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”
Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.
“How was your date?” He grunts.
“Bucky-“
“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.
The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.
You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.
Get a fucking grip.
“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”
And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.
But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.
“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”
Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.
Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.
Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.
You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.
“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.
You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.
“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”
Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.
That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.
You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.
Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.
He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.
You somehow—just barely—fight it.
“Why can’t I access these files.”
Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.
“Barnes-“
“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”
You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“
“Steve should change that.”
God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.
“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”
Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.
“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”
You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.
And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.
You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.
Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.
Instead, you find Bucky.
He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.
You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.
“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.
He just nods.
You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.
“You want hot chocolate?”
A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.
And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.
His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.
Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.
“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”
You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.
But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.
You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.
That he wants to be here.
Near you.
He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.
Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.
It’s almost a moan.
You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.
But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.
You feel almost sick.
It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.
His fever is building again.
You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.
When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.
You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.
If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘
But it is Bucky.
And he’s never going to make anything that easy.
You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.
“Hi.” You say lamely.
He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“
“Bucky, are you-“
“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.
You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.
But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.
“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“
“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”
You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.
And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.
“Bucky-“
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”
You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.
But you do go right to Steve.
“What happened on the mission.”
Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.
“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“
“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”
Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’
“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“
“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”
You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”
Steve sighs. “Is it you?”
“Yep.”
He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.
“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“
“I really don’t care.”
“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.
You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.
“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“
“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.
“No, you just won’t tell me-“
“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“
“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“
“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”
“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.
“I know how it sounds-“
“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“
“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”
You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole.
“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Steve-“
“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”
You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.
“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”
Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.
“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“
You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.
And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.
“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”
You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”
Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”
You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.
But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.
“What are the symptoms?”
Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”
“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”
“But- Bucky-“
“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”
“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”
Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”
“Before or after the mating?”
Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“
“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”
“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“
Steve says your name plainly. You blink.
“What-“
“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”
You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.
“Steve-“
“I didn’t say anything-“
“Yes, you did-“
“Nope.”
You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”
Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.
“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”
This is a bad idea.
Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.
But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.
After you fix this for him.
If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.
Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and move to Indonesia.
But if he doesn’t turn you down…
You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.
“Fuck off, Stevie-“
“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response.
Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.
He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.
His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.
You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.
“You shouldn’t be here-“
“Steve said you need me.”
You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-
“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.
“I- I made him.”
He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”
“I was worried about you-“
“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“
“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”
Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.
“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.
“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“
“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”
He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.
“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“
“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“
“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.
“Who says?”
“You’re an ass to me-“
“You’re an ass to me.”
“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”
Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.
“Me neither.”
You nod. “But…”
“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”
You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.
“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“
Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.
It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.
Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.
You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.
“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”
And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.
But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.
You didn’t know you could want him more.
“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”
For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.
Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.
“You- You got no idea, do you?”
Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“
“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”
And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.
“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.
“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”
“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”
He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.
“Didn’t you?”
You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“Bet I imagined more.”
And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.
You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.
“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”
You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.
“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”
Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.
You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.
“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”
He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.
“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“
Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.
“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“
He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.
Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.
You can’t have that.
“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”
Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.
“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”
You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.
“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”
He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“
You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.
“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.
“How?”
“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“
His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.
“You think this is funny?” He rasps.
You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”
He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.
“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“
“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.
He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“
Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.
There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.
A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.
Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.
“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.
Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.
Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.
You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.
He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.
“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.
And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.
“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.
You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.
Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.
“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”
You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.
Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.
“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”
You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.
You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.
“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”
And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.
So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.
Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.
“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”
You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.
“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”
He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.
“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”
You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.
Permission to go further.
His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.
“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”
In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.
A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.
Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.
“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“
“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“
His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.
Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.
“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”
He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.
“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“
Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.
He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.
Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.
You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.
“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”
You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.
“Aren’t you?”
“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“
“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”
You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.
“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“
He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.
And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.
“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“
The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.
Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.
He’s jerking off while he eats you out. He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.
Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.
Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.
“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“
Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.
You don’t want to.
With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.
“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“
Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles
“Good girl.” He coos.
You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.
“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.
You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.
“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”
You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.
But you’re at an advantage.
Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.
You want him to give in.
So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.
Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.
His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.
“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”
You almost beam. Yes, please.
Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.
He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”
If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.
But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.
The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.
“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“
Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.
He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.
You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.
“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“
His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.
That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.
Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.
“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.
He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.
“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“
“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“
Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.
And he’s not even done.
The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.
You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.
He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.
You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.
Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.
“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.
You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”
You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.
They’re blue again.
“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.
He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.
“I’m back.”
You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.
You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.
He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.
God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-
Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.
He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-
“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”
Oh.
Or that. That’s nice.
You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.
Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.
“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”
You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.
“Yeah. I’m staying.”
✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
i don't care if you wanna fuck fat people or hairy people or trans people or the elderly or disabled people or whatever. can you treat them like human beings
Not even this prickly witch can withstand the rough charms of a certain Drow 💅🏻
@meanbossart I borrowed your big boy for a hot minute 👀
Love this close-up 🤭
More insight on this one below the cut my lovelies 💖
I have WANTED to draw these two for a good while, believe me. And now that my art is liberated from the dreaded instagram format, I am actually having fun making comics again.
Alas, have this little interaction. Given Nim has a reputation of being an abrasive prick, I could see there being a lot of looks but no real approaches— which she then takes into her own hands.
The Drow is a really interesting specimen to her, not just in what/who he is but also just visually he is appealing to her (she likes everything falling outside of the norm/leaning into questionable territory). So even though she rarely initiates anything as an aroace, there certainly are exceptions 😏
Summary: August is going to hell and he is dragging you down with him.
Pairing: August Walker x Reader (2nd person Pov)
Word count: 2.3K
Warnings: Serious smut, GRAPHIC depictions of sexual intercourse, auto-voyeurism (Is that a thing?)
A/N: @luclittlepond made this request! I obliged. Honestly, I feel like it’s the dirtiest thing I’ve ever written and I want to thank @agniavateira for being my beta and @wondersofdreaming for giving me feedback since it was not an easy write for some reason.
Please leave feedback 💖🥺 and more importantly, enjoy.
Title: Full Attention
Pairing: Dark!August Walker x Female Reader
Warnings: Explicit Content, Minors DNI, 18+, Power Play, Degradation, Restraint, Overstimulation, dub con, spit (…in a mood)
Words: 277 words
A/N: Entry for January Jumble Scribbles @societynsoelsscribbles
Prompt: Jan 6th “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Your wrists burned where he’d pinned them above your head, one of his large hands wrapped around both, holding you down like it was nothing.
Your back arched. Legs spread. His hips slammed into yours with a force that had the bedframe groaning and your breath catching in your throat.
“Don’t look away,” August warned, voice low and rough.
You turned your head, panting…eyes fluttering shut as the pressure built.
He didn’t like that.
His hand shifted from your wrists to your jaw, forcing your face back to his. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
You gasped as he shoved deeper, the blunt weight of him punching another cry from your lips. You didn’t dare close your eyes again.
“That’s better,” he growled. “Eyes on me while I use you.”
Your skin was slick, your thighs trembling, every nerve stretched tight and tingling. He filled you, possessed you, the agents pace relentless, your body already long past any edge of control.
“Thought you were a tough little thing,” he mocked, his breath hot against your cheek. “Where’s all that mouth now, huh?”
You whimpered, lips parting..but no words came. Just broken sounds and his name caught between moans.
He spat down on your chest, watching it drip between your breasts as he drove into you harder.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you like being used.”
“I like it,” you breathed, voice wrecked
“Yeah, you do,” he snarled. “So fucking pretty when you’re broken for me.”
His hand slid back to your throat, pinning you more.
You kept your eyes on him, even as they filled with tears.
It’s the year of the horse and I’ve always been a horse girl at heart, so I’m finally taking advantage of the excuse to fill the world with fat little horses! These felted friends are about the size (and shape!) of an apple, and if you happen to have any apples to share I’m sure they’d help you out! This one is based on a G1 My Little Pony who has never appeared in any version of the show and has a silly name, because I’m the most annoying kind of MLP fan
This piece is SOLD but I’ve heard the enthusiasm and will be making more for Anthrocon! I’m also open to custom orders for similar pieces.
summary : clark loves you. but unfortunately, super-strength doesn't exactly have it's place in the bedroom.
warnings : shy!clark, big softie clark, smut, p in v, established relationship, praise, swearing, the list goes on.
word count : 9.4 k
a/n: i recently had someone ask me if i did DC- so this is my attempt ! I've legit only really watched this movie in the DC universe so if theres any issues pls lmk ! as usual, nor proofread !
The Daily Planet is surprisingly full today, and you snake your way through the crowds of reporters and journalists, carrying your bag pressed against your chest- too afraid to get something picked out of it.
You glance at your watch, biting on your bottom lip as you crane your neck, trying to look around to find your boyfriend.
Usually, he isn't hard to find. Large and bulky, yet always trying to fade into the background.
Except today, Clark Kent is nowhere to be seen.
Which is strange. Clark is many things — chronically late is not one of them. You pause near the elevators, adjusting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder while the bullpen buzzes around you at full volume. Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. Someone arguing three desks over about city permits. The air smells like burnt coffee and printer ink. Normally, Clark’s desk would already have a coffee waiting for you. Normally, he’d glance up the second you stepped onto the floor, face softening instantly in that quiet way that still makes your stomach flip. Today his desk is empty.
You frown.
A couple reporters brush past you, forcing you aside. Your grip tightens reflexively around your bag. God, this place is packed.
“Looking for Smallville?” Lois Lane appears at your elbow so suddenly you nearly jump out of your skin. She eyes you knowingly over the rim of her coffee cup. “You know,” she says, “for someone dating the human equivalent of a lighthouse, you’re weirdly bad at spotting him.”
“I can usually find him,” you defend weakly, glancing around again. “He’s just—”
“Late?” Lois snorts. “Yeah, that’s suspicious enough to file a missing persons report.” Before you can answer, the bullpen doors swing open.
And there he is. Clark steps inside like a man trying very hard not to take up space despite being objectively built like he could carry a pickup truck over one shoulder. His glasses are slightly crooked. Tie loosened. Dark curls wind-tossed like he came here in a hurry. The second he sees you, he stops moving. Not visibly enough for anyone else to notice.
But you notice.
Clark always looks at you like finding you in a crowded room is the best part of his day. The tension leaves his shoulders immediately. Then his eyes narrow slightly. Concern. You know that look. And sure enough, thirty feet away and through the chaos of the newsroom, your boyfriend has somehow already picked up on your mood.
You sigh internally. Super senses are honestly unfair.
“Hey,” he says softly once he reaches you. Lois makes a dramatic gagging sound before walking off. Neither of you pay attention. Clark’s gaze flicks carefully over your face. “You okay?” There it is. Not hello. Not good morning.
You okay?
You try to smile.
“Yeah.” His expression does not change. Because unfortunately for you, Clark can probably hear the tiny hitch in your heartbeat right now.
“You sure?” You glance around self-consciously.
“Can we maybe not do the concerned x-ray vision thing in the middle of your office?” Immediate guilt flashes across his face.
“Sorry,” he says at once, lowering his voice further. “I just—”
“I know.” And you do. Clark's concern never feels invasive. Just earnest to a fault. Still, the bullpen is crowded enough that bodies keep bumping into you from all directions, and every accidental shoulder check makes tension crawl higher beneath your skin. Clark notices that too. Of course he does. His eyes flick downward briefly as another reporter jostles past you too close for comfort. Then he shifts. That’s all. Just one subtle step closer. But suddenly the chaos parts around you. People unconsciously reroute before colliding with him, glancing up at the last second as though only then realizing there’s a massive man standing there. Within moments, Clark has effectively boxed you into a pocket of calm without touching anyone at all.
Your breath catches slightly. Because this is another thing about Clark: He is always aware of exactly how much space his body takes up.And exactly how to use it gently.
"You’re doing it again,” you murmur.
“What?”
“The weird protective farm-boy bodyguard thing.” A faint blush colors his cheeks immediately.
“I’m not—”
“You literally just became a human barricade.” Clark ducks his head sheepishly, which would work better if he weren’t six-foot-whatever and built like a rescue helicopter.
“I just didn’t want people shoving you around.” The sincerity in his voice hits you straight in the chest. You stare at him for a second too long. Clark notices instantly. “What?” You smile helplessly.
“You’re ridiculously sweet.” His ears turn pink. Adorable. Catastrophic.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he mutters.
“It’s not.” You step closer instinctively, fingers brushing the front of his tie. “It’s just unfair sometimes.” Clark goes very still at the contact. Not tense. Focused. Hyperaware. You feel it every single time he touches you — or gets touched by you. Like some part of him is constantly calibrating pressure, distance, restraint. Even now, his hands hover near your waist without settling there. Waiting. Always waiting. Your chest aches a little at the sight.
“You can touch me, you know,” you say quietly. Clark’s gaze flicks up to yours.
“I know.” But he still asks: “Can I?” The newsroom noise fades around the edges for a second. God. You nod once. Clark’s hands settle carefully on your hips like he’s handling something precious. Not possessive. Not casual.
Intentional. His thumbs stroke once, tiny measured movements that somehow feel more intimate than if he’d dragged you into his lap.
“You’re stressed,” he murmurs.
“You can tell?” A tiny smile tugs at his mouth.
“Your heartbeat’s been fast since you walked in.” You groan softly.
“Dating a Kryptonian is humiliating.” Clark laughs under his breath, warm and low. Then his expression softens again.
“Did something happen?” You hesitate. And immediately his attention sharpens. It’s almost frightening, how quickly Clark focuses on you. Like the rest of the world lowers in volume the second he thinks you might need him. You look down, fussing unnecessarily with his tie.
“Train was crowded,” you admit. “Some guy kept trying to get into my bag.” Clark stills completely. You feel it happen under your hands.
Not anger exactly. Control. Tightening.
“Did he touch you?” The question comes out dangerously calm. You blink up at him.
“What?”
“Did he put his hands on you?” Your stomach flips a little. Not because you’re afraid of him. Because every protective instinct in Clark Kent clearly just lit up like a solar flare beneath his skin — and he’s trying so hard to keep it contained.
“No,” you say quickly. “No, I’m okay.” Clark exhales slowly through his nose. His grip on your hips loosens by a fraction. Measured. Always measured. Still, his eyes scan your face carefully like he’s making absolutely certain you mean it. Then, quieter:
“You should’ve called me.” Your heart melts a little.
“It was just a crowded train, Clark.”
“I know.” His thumbs brush your sides gently. “I still would’ve come.” And there it is again. That devastating sincerity. Like protecting you isn’t an obligation to him. It’s instinct. Breathing. Gravity. You smile softly despite yourself.
“You really can’t help it, huh?” Clark looks genuinely confused.
“Help what?”
“Taking care of me.” His expression changes instantly. Softens into something unbearably tender.
“No,” he says quietly. Then, after a tiny pause:
“I really can’t.” You sigh and pat his arm.
"Come on, Superman. You promised me a date night." Clark’s mouth curves immediately. Small. Soft. Fond enough to make your knees weak.
“Right,” he says. “Date night.”
“You did promise.”
“I remember.” But he still looks reluctant to let the subject go. You can practically see him replaying your train ride in his head, cataloguing every possible thing that could’ve happened to you. Honestly, sometimes you wonder how exhausting it must be to care this much about everyone all the time. Especially with the ability to hear the world constantly asking things from him. You slide your hands up his chest, smoothing down the front of his tie.
“Clark.” His eyes drop to your hands instantly. Focused. Always so focused on you. "Can we go, please ? If we stand in this crowded bullpen for one more minute I might have an aneurysm." Clark huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Yes, ma’am.” You grab his hand immediately before another reporter can cut between you, threading your fingers through his. Clark looks down at your joined hands like he always does — brief, soft surprise followed by something warmer. Something so openly affectionate it still catches you off guard. Then, automatically, his grip adjusts.
Gentle.
Measured.
Like even holding hands requires conscious calibration for him.
The two of you barely make it three steps before someone calls his name again.
“Kent!” Clark visibly resists the urge to sigh. You snort.
“You’re the people’s princess.”
“I don’t think Perry would describe me that way.”
“You underestimate your brand.”
Clark shakes his head, smiling helplessly, and lets you tug him toward the elevators. The second the doors close behind you, the noise of the bullpen disappears. Silence. Private. Clark’s shoulders loosen instantly.
You lean back against the mirrored wall with a dramatic groan.
“Oh my god.”
“You okay?”
“You work in a sensory nightmare.” Clark laughs softly.
“You get used to it.”
“No, you get used to it because you’re apparently emotionally equipped to hear twelve conversations at once without exploding.” His expression turns sheepish.
“It’s… a process.” You eye him knowingly.
“You’re listening to things right now, aren’t you?” A pause.
“…Maybe.”
“Clark.”
“I can’t really turn it all the way off.” The apology in his voice makes your chest ache a little. You step toward him before you can think too hard about it, smoothing your hands up the front of his shirt again. His tie is still crooked from earlier. Immediately, Clark’s attention locks onto you completely. Like a compass needle snapping north.
“You know,” you murmur, fixing the knot properly, “for someone who can hear basically everything, you’re surprisingly bad at listening to yourself.” His brows knit slightly. “
What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” you say gently, “you’re exhausted.” Clark opens his mouth automatically. Probably to deny it. Then stops. Because lying to someone while they’re adjusting your tie in a tiny elevator is apparently beyond him.
“…Maybe a little.”
“A little,” you repeat flatly.
“I had three rescues before lunch.”
“Clark.”
“And there was a chemical fire in Hob’s Bay.”
“Clark.”
“And then Lois started a fight with a city councilman—” You reach up and cup his face. That shuts him up instantly. Clark goes completely still beneath your hands. Every time. Like affection still surprises him.
“You’re taking tonight off,” you say firmly. His eyes soften behind his glasses.
“I’m trying to.”
“No listening for disasters unless the city is literally on fire.”
“That feels irresponsible.”
“You are not responsible for every single person in Metropolis every second of the day.” Clark’s expression does something complicated at that. Not disagreement exactly. Just guilt. Because of course he feels guilty. You soften immediately. “Hey.” His gaze flicks back to yours.
“You’re allowed to have one nice night.”
The elevator dings softly. Neither of you move. Clark looks at you for another long second before finally nodding once.
“Okay.”
------------
Date night starts at a tiny little restaurant tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop downtown. Somewhere warm and dimly lit and quiet enough that Clark visibly relaxes the moment you sit down. No emergencies. No newsroom. No crowds pressing too close. Just you and him in a corner booth with low lighting and a bottle of wine Clark absolutely cannot get drunk from normally. Though apparently red solar radiation exposure from last week’s fight with some intergalactic asshole has temporarily lowered his tolerance. Which you discover approximately forty minutes in when Clark laughs too hard at one of your jokes and nearly crushes the stem of his wine glass in his hand. His eyes widen immediately.
“Oh my god.” You stare at the bent glass. Then at him. Then burst out laughing. Clark looks horrified.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“You folded it like origami!”
“I was distracted!”
“You’re Superman!”
“That’s not helping!” You laugh so hard your stomach hurts, and Clark finally starts laughing too, ducking his head into his hand with obvious embarrassment. The sound of his laugh settles warm and glowing somewhere beneath your ribs.
God.
You love him.
You love him so much it’s honestly a little unbearable sometimes.
By the time dinner ends, you’re pleasantly tipsy. Clark is… maybe slightly tipsy. Which manifests mostly as him becoming even softer somehow. More openly affectionate. Easier smiles. His hand resting warm at the small of your back as the two of you walk home through the city. Metropolis glows around you in gold and neon. You stumble slightly on the sidewalk. Clark catches you instantly. Not dramatic. Just immediate. One second off-balance, the next securely steadied against his chest. His hands settle carefully around your arms.
“You okay?” You grin up at him lazily.
“You have insane reflexes.” Clark’s mouth twitches.
“Occupational hazard.”
“You smell good.” That catches him off guard. A blush rises instantly across his cheeks. “
I— thank you.”
“You’re pretty.” His entire face goes pink. It’s adorable.
“You’ve had wine,” he says weakly.
“And you’re huge.” Clark chokes on absolutely nothing. You laugh against his shoulder as he guides you carefully down the block. His hand never leaves your back. Measured pressure. Constant awareness. Like he’s tracking every tiny shift in your balance. By the time you get back to your apartment, you’re warm and sleepy and buzzing pleasantly enough that your filter has mostly dissolved. Clark notices immediately. Of course he does.
“You need water,” he says gently as soon as the apartment door closes behind you.
“You need to kiss me.” Clark freezes halfway through taking off his coat.
Slowly, he turns to look at you. You lean against the door, smiling lazily at the sight of him. Tie loosened. Hair messy. Cheeks still faintly pink from the wine. God help you.
“You’re staring,” he says softly.
“You’re beautiful.” Clark inhales sharply. There it is again. Praise hits him like a physical thing every single time. His eyes darken slightly behind his glasses.
“You’re tipsy,” he murmurs.
“Mhm.”
“And very affectionate.”
“Mhm.” A helpless smile tugs at his mouth despite himself. Then he walks toward you slowly. Carefully. Always carefully. His hands settle lightly on your waist.
“Water first,” he says quietly.
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m responsible.”
“You’re sexy when you’re responsible.” Clark looks like he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with that information. You giggle softly and loop your arms around his neck. Immediately, his entire body tightens. Not rejecting you. Restraining himself. His hands stay very deliberately at your waist.
“Baby,” he says softly. “You keep looking at me like I’m going to break.” Clark’s expression flickers. Because that hit something.
“You won’t,” he says immediately. Then quieter:
“But I could hurt you.” Your heart squeezes. Even now. Even after all this time. You and Clark have been phsyical. In more ways than one. Hell, he loves burying his face between your legs on any give day, or even feeling you clench around him, but he's always so soft and slow with it. As if he's constantly second-guessing himself. You brush your thumb gently along the back of his neck.
“Clark.”
“I’ve had wine,” he admits carefully. “You’ve had wine. My control’s already…” He exhales slowly. “Different tonight.” The honesty in it makes your stomach flip. Because he’s not saying he wants to hurt you.
He’s saying the possibility terrifies him. You soften instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Clark closes his eyes briefly at the name. You feel the tiny shudder that runs through him. “I trust you,” you whisper. His forehead drops to yours immediately. And god, the restraint in him is palpable now. Every inch of his body careful despite the way he’s holding you close.
“You shouldn’t say things like that so casually,” he murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because you sound sincere.” You pull back just enough to look at him.
“I am sincere.” Clark’s composure cracks slightly. You can literally see it happen. His grip tightens by the smallest fraction before immediately loosening again with visible effort. Measured. Always measured.
“You make this very difficult,” he says softly. You smile.
“You’re cute when you’re trying not to manhandle me.” Clark makes a strangled sound somewhere deep in his chest. “Oh my god,” you whisper, delighted. “That did something to you.” He looks away immediately, embarrassed. Which only confirms it.
Your poor, sweet boyfriend.
So powerful.
So careful.
So devastatingly affected by being wanted.
You cup his face gently, guiding his attention back to you.
“Clark,” you murmur softly, “kiss me before your brain explodes.” His eyes search yours one more time. Checking. Always checking.
Then Clark kisses you like he’s still trying to be careful even when he wants you desperately. He kisses you like he’s afraid you’re going to vanish if he lets go. Soft, at first. Always soft. His mouth is warm, patient, gentle as anything. When he finally lets himself press you back against the door, you feel the solidity of his body in every careful inch; that same measured tension, all strength packed away like a secret. Clark’s big hands cradle your waist, fingers splayed wide, and you can tell by the way he keeps adjusting his grip that he’s thinking very, very hard about just how hard to hold on. You tease at his bottom lip, smiling into him, making a delighted noise that vibrates through his chest. The sound derails him instantly. Clark’s hands flex with the smallest want. He kisses you again and again, losing the rhythm each time you sigh, each time you gasp his name. Still, every motion is heartbreakingly careful—like he’s terrified of making a single wrong move. You break the kiss first,lips tingling, pulse in your throat. Clark draws back, breathing hard. His hands are still on your waist, thumbs pressed in careful circles, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you by touch alone.
“You’re so good at that,” you whisper, a little out of breath.
Clark’s tongue darts over his bottom lip. He looks startled; then, a crooked, shy smile cracks across his face.
“You make it easy.” He nudges your nose with his. His breath is sweet, dizzying, and it makes your knees loosen under you. You don’t think about it before saying,
“Can we go to bed? Or the couch? Or the wall? Literally anywhere as long as it ends with you inside me.” For a second, you think Clark will argue, or redirect, or do that thing where he tries to slow down to a G-rated crawl. Instead, he leans his forehead to yours and, without a word, lifts you off the ground. That carefulness, again: his hands are steady beneath your thighs as he carries you down the short hall. Every step is slow and measured, but you know - god, you know - Clark could have you on the bed in a microsecond if he wanted.
If he let himself.
If he let go.
He doesn’t.
He sets you down on the mattress like you’re made of spun glass and then kneels between your knees, bracing himself on the edge of the bed. He’s breathing harder than you, a line of color still rising in his throat. You run your hands under his shirt, palms splaying wide across his chest, feeling the way his heart hammers against your fingers. His hands are careful as he slowly peels your shirt off of you, his hands so incredibly soft as he cups the swell of your breasts through your bra. You sit up, fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons, biting your bottom lip. Clark makes a low sound when you finally get his shirt off, that soft farmboy sigh you know by heart. You’re both clumsy with the zipper of your skirt—his big hands fumble, like he’s too afraid to rip it right off—and when it hits the floor, there’s a heartbeat where you both just look at each other, breathless. You don’t feel remotely self-conscious in your underwear; Clark looks at you like every inch of skin is something holy. He’s not much better off, kneeling on the carpet in those ridiculous boxers you bought him—blue, with tiny red capes patterned all over. You reach for him, and he lets you, coming down over you so slow it’s almost funny, like he’s afraid to crush you under his weight. You thread your fingers into his hair and tug, and Clark shudders, mouth dropping open against your throat. He kisses you there, slow and careful, until the only thing you can say is,
“Please, Clark.”
God, you need him so bad.
You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the sexual frustration of him always holding back whenever he fucks you- but your entire body is on fire. Clark’s mouth is all over you—your throat, your jaw, the edge of your collarbone—every kiss so impossibly careful it’s like he’s terrified you might bruise. The room smells like him, clean and cotton-sweet, and you’re vibrating with want. Still, he treats every inch of you like it’s breakable, like his hands are a privilege he has to earn every time. He kisses lower, tongue flicking under the wire of your bra, and just the wet heat of it nearly turns your knees to jelly.
You squirm under him, hands winding through his hair, and when you arch up, Clark pauses. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and you can feel how much he wants to just let go. Like he’s barely keeping himself from snapping your panties with a single flick. He pulls back, breath ragged.
“Are you—” His voice is a rasp. “Do you want…?”
“I want you to fuck me, Kent.” Clark freezes, just for a second. His breath hitches, warm and humid against your jaw. Then his hand slides down, slow, deliberate, catching your thigh and drawing it up around his waist. Every movement is a test, a calibration, as if he’s waiting for the universe to sign off on each fraction of pressure. You nearly laugh, except all the air in your chest had vanished.
“Clark,” you whisper, “stop thinking. Please.” And then, less brave, “I won’t break.” He shudders, and when he kisses you again, it’s harder. Not rough—never—but with a hunger that startles both of you. The carefulness has an edge now. Like he’s holding back a tide. Clark’s hand cups behind your head, cradling, while his hips press you deeper into the mattress. The heat between your legs borders on unbearable. You arch up, greedy for all of him.
Truth is, all Clark wants is to fuck you the way you want. God knows he wants it too. But god, his strength- he can’t control it when it comes to you. When it comes to this.
Clark buries his face in the pillow next to your head. He’s shaking, and you can feel it: every muscle in his body strung tight as piano wire, teeth grit so hard you wonder if he might shatter them. You roll your hips up, seeking friction, and he whimpers, honest-to-god whimpers, before catching himself, arms trembling on either side of your body. His hand reaches between the two of you, slipping his jeans and boxers down, freeing himself. You bite your bottom lip, shimmying your underwear down your thighs before settling back down beneath him. You cup his cheek, smiling up at him as he kisses his way down your jaw, your neck, softly pushing his tip between your folds until it notches inside of you. You whine, hands flying up to dig into his shoulders, your eyes rolling back at the mere idea of having him deep inside you. He pushes in slow. So slow. The stretch is almost unbearable, a champagne fizz of pressure and fullness, but Clark doesn’t move except to spread your thighs wider, settling you around him like he’s setting the table for two. You dig your nails into his back, desperate for more, and he makes a torn noise in his throat, hips shuddering as he bottoms out. The first thrust is nothing. Gentle. Like he’s more focused on mapping out every centimeter inside you than getting anywhere. The second is deeper. Careful, reverent. Clark groans into your skin, burying his head against your shoulder as he moves, like the pleasure is almost too much. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and the next thrust is better, closer to what you need.
He’s big; that’s the understatement of the year, but he’s so careful—excruciatingly careful. He groans against your neck, whispering apologies and,
“Is this okay?”, while his hips rock in gentle, shallow thrusts, barely moving at all. It’s sweet and unreal and so frustrating you might lose your mind. You clutch his back, dig your nails in, desperate for him to just move, to just stop worrying and fuck you like he wants. The slow push and pull inside of you is building, and you try to screw your eyes closed, to focus on how he’s breathing and kissing your temple, but fuck- it’s not enough. If it were any normal night you’d tough it out. Do it for Clark, because he loves you and that look on his face whenever he’s terrified to hurt you. But you can’t - god, tonight, you just can’t. Your body is on fire and the pressure in your stomach is lessening by the second.
“Clark,” You say, and her voice is glassy with tears and need, “please, can you—can you just—” You can’t finish it. Can’t say all the things throttling your brain at once. That you want to feel him lose control, just a little. That the pressing thought behind your forehead is not fear, not even close, but the sick, needy thrill of being precious enough to destroy.
That you want marks.
That your bones want to feel how strong he is.
That your insides ache for the honesty of his strength, not just the gentleness of his hands.
Clark’s eyes snap up towards you.
“Shit, baby - are you- are you okay ?” He asks, his moments coming to a stop. The sudden cut off of the sensation makes you choke on a sob, thighs clenching around his waist, trying to drag him back towards you. Just that motion has you seeing stars, the sheer girth of him pushing in just a little farther. Clark’s hand fists in the blanket, knuckles whitening, the entire curve of his body straining with denial. He looks at you, really looks—eyes wide and blue and full of guilt, of fear, like he’s the only thing standing between you and a firing squad that just so happens to be his own goddamn body. His chest heaves. He pulls almost all the way out, a slow, trembling retreat, and you actually moan in protest, clutching him with everything you have. You want to scream at him, at yourself, at the whole rotten world for ever making him believe he needed to hold this much of himself back.
“Baby, tell me,” he begs, that Kansas drawl scraping raw across your skin, “tell me what you need—” You lock your ankles behind his hips, drag him in close so the blunt pressure of him is right there, so you can look him in the face when you say,
“I need you.” You whine. “Clark, please.” You grab his hand, latch it around your throat. “Just be rough. God, just fuck me.” You whine, shaking your head. Clark freezes, his hand limp around your throat.
“Sweetheart-” God. You can see the war inside him, the way his jaw flexes, the way his hand just hovers—like to even pretend to grip your throat is a holy act. You want to be filled to breaking; you want to be shattered, not by fear, but by love so bright it could burn your bones to glass and leave you still begging for more.
“Clark, please.” You whine, biting your bottom lip. “Please.”
“Baby, i don’t- I don’t wanna hurt you.” Clark’s hand is a trembling thing on your throat, as if any pressure at all might snap your head from your shoulders. His mouth works soundlessly and you can feel the heat of shame and need radiate off him in waves. It’s everything inside you, every raw nerve, screaming for him to just give in. You reach up, wrap your smaller hand over his and squeeze.
“I want you,” you whisper. “All of you, Clark.” The look in his eyes- like you’ve just given him permission to step out of a burning building- nearly splits you apart. His grip tightens, miniscule. Barely there, but it’s enough. The pressure is more suggestion than force, a soft claim that makes your breath flutter instead of halt.
"Fuckin' break me. Please." Clark’s eyes go wide, and for a second, you can feel him recalibrating, testing, searching for the exact threshold between safe and too much. He doesn’t test long.
He grabs your thighs and slings them over his shoulders, securing his arms around your knees as he pins them to his chest. A loud, unabashed moan breaks out of you as his cock drives in deeper, and your hands fist in the sheets as you nod.
"You're sure ?" He asks, kissing your calves gently. You moan.
"God, yes. Please, Clark, please." You whimper, writhing. His cock gives an impatient twitch.
He’s only human, after all.
Or at least, there’s a human inside him, somewhere under all the impossible muscle and bulletproof skin.
It’s the human part that finally cracks—the carefulness, the measured movements.
As soon as your back hits the mattress and Clark hears the way you moan for him, something inside him gives. Not all the way, not in a way that’ll snap you in half, but he stops thinking about every single Newton of force and just. Takes. You. He fucks you like every ounce of his restraint is spent. The thrusts are deep and sharp, Clark’s hands gripping so tight around your hips you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow. The thought only makes you wetter, makes your head spin. You claw at his back, desperate for any kind of anchor, and he grunts, a raw sound that’s nothing but animal. When you look up, his eyes are wild and shining, his chest heaving. Your nails scrape at his thighs, his name falling past your lips in desperate little whimpers.
He’s relentless, and it’s perfect. Every thrust is a wet, bruising promise that leaves you gasping, unable to do anything except clutch at him and ride the shockwave pleasure tearing through you. Clark’s hand never leaves your throat; his palm is so big it nearly cuffs your whole neck, holding it steady while he fucks you into the mattress with the abandon of someone who’s been waiting lifetimes to do this. You can’t think. The world’s narrowed to the heat between your legs, his muscled chest caging you in, and the ragged, helpless way he keeps whispering your name like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.
And he’s still so tender. In between the rough snap of his hips and the bruising grip on your thighs, Clark’s voice never stops—soft, frantic, endless praise spilling out between the curses and the whimpers.
“God, You’re doing so good,” he rasps, and the words are almost choked.
The praise is the best part. Clark can’t shut up, not when he’s this far gone. Every word comes out hoarse and desperate, like he’s praying you through the act:
“That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, look at you, I—God, I love you so much—”
He says it like it’s never enough, like the words are the only anchor keeping him from bursting out of his own skin. Every time you moan, his grip tightens, and every time you sob his name, he gets rougher, like some ancient part of him needs to prove it can wreck you and put you back together in the same breath. You feel the world narrow to the places Clark touches, to the sound of your own pulse in your ears and his inhuman body above you, caging you in, worshipping you even as he fucks you senseless. He’s everywhere, all heat and muscle and the taste of your name leaving his mouth feels like sugar. He’s fucking you like maybe he’s allowed. Like maybe he can finally give you everything, the way he’s always wanted. There’s something wild in his face now, wet around the lashes, desperate and so needy.
God, where has this Clark been all these months ?
You should’ve pushed him earlier.
“Mmph, Clark-” His hand shifts from your throat to the underside of your jaw, thumb stroking the slick heat of your pulse, and he groans, a shaky, reverent sound that makes you want to sob. Each thrust is a little harder, a little less measured, until it’s just ragged need and the endless press of his body into yours. The sounds coming from your mouth barely resemble words, but Clark drinks them in like the air itself.
“Fuck, honey—” He breaks, voice cracking, hips snapping forward. “You’re perfect, you—God, you’re so good, you make me feel—” He grips your legs tighter, biting softly into your calf by his head. You arch into him, breath snagging as the pressure builds and builds, coiling up the length of your spine, white-hot and desperate. You’re so close you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams, every nerve ending tuned to the rough clutch of Clark’s hands and the wet heat of his breath on your skin. He’s relentless, each drive of his hips slamming you deeper into the mattress, and it’s not fear that has you gasping, but the bright, raw pleasure of knowing he’s finally, finally giving you everything. The words spill from him in a messy loop—praise, love, disbelief, every syllable a pulse that tightens the coiled heat inside you.
“Never—God, I’ve never wanted anything more than this, you hear me?” he groans, voice breaking over your name. “You’re fucking perfect, so good, so good, I—” He can’t stop, and you don’t want him to. Every time you moan for him, he answers with a desperate, reverent curse, his body shaking as he holds himself back from absolutely destroying you. Clark’s entire body trembles, the line of his shoulders drawn tight as live wire, but he doesn’t stop—won’t stop, now—his hips punching forward with a rhythm that’s all hungry madness, the way he bites your thigh a claim and a question in one. Each blunt, wet thrust goes deeper than the last, the force of it steady and unyielding, and your vision is already white at the edges. God, you’re so full, you’re not sure how the world has room for anything else. His hand tightens at your jaw, thumb stroking up your cheek; his mouth is hot and frantic on your skin, kissing everywhere at once as if he could memorize every atom of you in the time it takes to burn down to nothing.
He says your name between clenched teeth, voice all gravel and smoke, and you can hear the panic in it—like he’s scared he’ll break you, even now, even as you beg him to keep going.He drops your legs back down, wrapping them around his waist as he cages you against the mattress, his lips latching around your neck, biting and sucking at the skin before soothing it with his tongue, his fingers tangling into your hair as his free hand drifts down to grasp at your breast.He kneads, thumb skating over your nipple, gently at first—then not, because you’re arching into it, because you want him to take. His mouth follows, hot and wet, and you gasp as his tongue flicks, as his teeth find flesh and close. The sensation spikes, a live wire straight to your cunt. Your hips buck, helpless, and Clark’s groan vibrates against your chest. He’s everywhere, all at once. The world is only this: the way his cock fills you, the rough drag of his palm at your jaw, the wet heat of his mouth and the friction of his chest hair against your skin. You’re pinned, absolutely, but safe. Nothing could ever feel safer than this. Than Clark’s voice, hoarse and cracking, moaning your name like it’s a rescue signal. Like it’s hope. He snaps his hips into you, again and again.
“God, Clark- Fuck, yes.” You whine, eyes rolling back. He bows his head, lips parted, and the next groan is a prayer tangled in your name. His thrusts get rougher—each one flecked with apology, each one more desperate, more honest. He’s out of words for a second, just panting, his whole body trembling against yours like he can barely stand the way you feel, all soft and clinging and wet around him.
You grab at his hair and pull. His head snaps up; his face is flushed and wild, glasses fogged and askew, and you want to die for the way he looks at you.
“So good,” he chokes out, and it’s less a compliment than a confession. He pounds into you, the bed groaning in protest, but the only thing you can think of is the way he won’t stop touching you—hands everywhere, your jaw, your tits, your cheek, his thumb brushing reverent and possessive over your lips as if to remind you how soft he can be. When he pushes your knees nearly to your ears and pounds into you, the world goes white. The sound of skin on skin is obscene, the wet slap echoing in time with your pulse, with the rush behind your eyes, and you’re not thinking anymore, just feeling: the stretch, the pressure, the way he fills you until you’re sure you might rip open.
Clark’s rhythm turns ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding back and the wild, greedy need to let go. Each sharp thrust sends you up the mattress, the baseboard groaning in protest. He’s breathing hard and wet into your mouth, his voice unspooling desperate, broken, helpless praise against your lips. The world funnels down to this: Clark’s cock driving into you, filling you so completely you can feel the reverberation in your ribs and the fuzz of your brain. Your vision blurs—white-hot static behind your eyelids, ears ringing with the wet slap of bodies and Clark’s name clawing out of your own throat. He braces one hand on the headboard, the other cupping your jaw, thumb stroking the line of your cheek with an obscene kind of tenderness as he fucks you into the mattress. Your hands strain for an anchor—his back, his hair, shoulders slicked with sweat.His name leaves your mouth in a wrecked gasp, every syllable ragged, desperate, a prayer. You can’t keep your eyes open—sensation is all there is, your body trembling under the endless, pounding pressure of Clark’s cock, your hands clawing for any scrap of him you can hold. Every wet slap is a promise, every rough thrust a gift. The praise pours out of Clark without any filter now, no shame, just joy and need and awe. “Perfect, you’re perfect, you take me so good, so good, fuck—” It goes on forever, the world grinding down to the rhythm of his hips and the bright, sparking ache in your cunt, the way Clark’s hands grip you like you’re a lifeline.
You try to say something—no idea what—but it gets lost in a sob. Clark’s head drops, lips finding your cheek, your throat, your jaw. He can’t stop touching you, kissing you,biting at you, his hands squeezing, fingers digging into your skin like he needs to physically meld you into him. For a few, infinite cycles, it’s Clark’s mouth on your skin, the furnace of his breath, the thunderous rhythm of his body, and the not-quite-painful clutch of his hands. You’re dimly conscious of how you sound—all raw, animal noises stitched with Clark’s name—but the pleasure is too much, too bright, and you have no room for shame. You’re not sure if you've ever been fucked like this in your life, not even in the most fevered, secret version of your imagination. Not when every inch of your body is mapped by a kind of reverence, not when every bruising thrust is cushioned with gratitude, with the ceaseless pulse of I love you, I love you, I love you.
His weight over you is a living thing, heat and muscle and trembling restraint. Clark grinds in, again, again. When he shifts your legs back up, folding you nearly in half, your eyes roll back and everything comes flooding out. You can’t hold it. Not with the world blurred out, snapped to the star-burst pressure at the base of your spine. Clark’s cock hits the most impossible spot and you’re gone, body shuddering around him so hard your vision blows out in white. You claw at his back, desperate for an anchor, silent scream ripped out of you by the endless, perfect friction. Your cunt clenches down, over and over, and you hear Clark’s answering whimper—wrecked, panicked, impossibly sweet.
“Good girl, oh fuck, that’s it, take it, you’re so perfect,” he chokes, not even a full second before he comes apart. He groans, biting down on the meat of your shoulder, his whole body going rigid as he empties himself inside you. You feel the heat of it, the wild pulse, the way he tries to slow down his hips even as his control snaps. He buries his face in your neck as you whine, your pussy clenching around him pathetically as he keeps your hips pinned to his, desperate to make you take every drop. He collapses with exquisite, shaking care, braced on his elbows so his weight never really lands. His body is wracked, heaving, pure animal satisfaction laced with the panic of someone who’s just realized he might have gone too far. His chest presses yours in a damp, perfect seal, and for a long time all you can do is lie there and feel how fast his heart slams against your ribs, beating in time with your own.
Clark’s breath is everywhere—on your cheek, your ear, warm puffs that smell like wine and sweat and something sweet that’s just him. He doesn’t move, not even a little. You realize he’s looking at you, searching your face for any sign of hurt, any flicker that you want to take it back. You’re dazed, trembling, but you manage a smile. Somehow, you’re the one who brushes at the wetness on your temple, smearing the tears you didn’t even realize you had shed out of pleasure. He kisses your temple, your cheek, your neck.
“God, you’re crazy. You’re fuckin’ crazy.” He hums, shaking his head. He leans up on his arms, groaning as he peels himself off you. You whimper, thighs clenching as he pulls out, your walls spasming around nothing.
Clark hears it, of course he does, and his breath hitches like you’ve just struck him.
And then he sees you.
Really sees you.
His eyes, soft and hazy just a second before, sharpen with a sudden, horrified clarity. He’s looking at your neck, at the dark, blooming marks his mouth left behind. His gaze drifts lower, to the fingerprints already purpling on your thighs, the red lines on your hips from where he held you too tight. He’s tracing them with his eyes, his face going slack with disbelief, then flushing a deep, sickly shade of pale.
“No,” he whispers, the sound barely there. “Oh, God. No.” The rough, adoring man from moments ago vanishes, replaced by this stricken creature looking down at you like you’re a masterpiece he’s just defaced. His hand, which was stroking your hair so gently, freezes mid-air. He looks at his own palm like it’s a weapon, then back at the bruises on your skin. A tremor runs through his whole body, violent and profound. He’s off you in a flash, not with the smooth, controlled grace you’re used to, but with a clumsy, desperate scramble that sends him tumbling off the bed and landing hard on the floor. He doesn’t even seem to notice the impact. He’s on his knees beside the mattress, his hands held up in front of him, palms out, as if to show you they’re empty. As if to prove he’s no longer a threat.
“Are you okay?” The words are a ragged, desperate rush. “God, tell me you’re okay. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I wasn’t… I lost control. I didn’t mean to. I would never—”
"Clark-" You croak, trying to reach for him, your throat dry and a little achy, and you bring your hand up to press against the skin there. You hiss in a breath at the tenderness and you look down at yourself. The bite mark on your shoulder as bled a little, and you have bruises forming on your hips already, the indents of his finger. There's a slight bruise near your throat, compiled with about twenty other hickeys spread over your body. Clark looks devastated. Not embarrassed. Not awkward.
Devastated.
Like the sight of your bruises physically hurts him.
“Clark-”
“I hurt you.” His voice breaks on the words. You push yourself upright immediately despite the pleasant ache in your limbs, reaching toward him again, but Clark flinches back before your fingers can land. That hurts worse than the bruises.
“Hey,” you say softly. “No.” His eyes flick up to yours.
God. He looks terrified. Not of you.
Of himself.
“You’re bruised,” he whispers. “I left marks all over you.” You glance down again. Honestly, it’s a little intense. Your thighs are definitely going to ache tomorrow. There’s already the shadow of fingerprints darkening your hips, your neck a mess of red and purple where his mouth lingered too long. And maybe a tiny irrational part of your brain feels a pulse of satisfaction at the evidence of him all over you.
But Clark looks sick over it.
“Baby,” you murmur carefully, “I asked for that.”
“You asked me to trust my control,” he says hoarsely. “And then I lost it.”
“You did not lose control.” Clark laughs once. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“The bedframe is cracked.” You blink. Then glance over your shoulder.
Oh.
Okay, wow.
The headboard is, in fact, split down one side.
“…Huh.” Clark buries his face in his hands. You would laugh if he didn’t sound so genuinely miserable.
“I shouldn’t have—” He cuts himself off hard enough his jaw flexes. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve kept going.” Your chest tightens painfully. Because that’s the thing. Clark could’ve ignored you. Could’ve treated you like you didn’t know your own limits. Instead he listened to you the entire time. Checked constantly. Stopped the second he thought something was wrong. Even now, all his panic is centered on whether you’re okay. You slide carefully off the bed, wincing slightly as your legs hit the floor. Clark’s head snaps up instantly.
“You shouldn’t get up.”
“There’s the bossy farm boy again.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” You step toward him slowly. Clark stays frozen where he kneels beside the bed, looking deeply conflicted about whether touching you is still allowed. That alone nearly breaks your heart. You stop directly in front of him.
“Clark.” His eyes lift reluctantly. “You did not hurt me.” His gaze flicks instinctively to the bruises blooming across your skin.
“You are literally bruised.”
“I bruise easily.”
“I left fingerprints on you.” You soften your voice further.
“And I asked you to.”
“That doesn’t mean I should’ve.” Oh. Oh, there it is. The real fear. Not that he crossed a boundary. That he enjoyed it. You kneel carefully in front of him, ignoring his immediate distressed expression at you putting pressure on your knees.
“Clark,” you say quietly, “look at me.” He does. Eventually. Blue eyes wrecked with guilt. "I'm okay." You breathe. He's quick to shake his head and before you can even process what's happening, you've been put back on the bed, his movements frantic.
"I'm- I'm gonna- I need to uh- Clean you up- fuck." He shakes his head, storming out of the room.
The second he’s gone, you hear it. Not with super-hearing. Just regular hearing. Cabinets opening too hard in your tiny bathroom. The sink turning on. Then off. Then on again. Clark panicking. You sit there for a moment in the wrecked bed, sheets tangled around your legs, chest still heaving faintly from everything that just happened.
Your body aches. Not badly. Warmly. Deep in your hips and thighs, the kind of soreness that settles after being thoroughly loved. And somewhere beyond the doorway, Clark is unraveling. You sigh softly and drag the sheet around yourself before standing carefully. Your knees wobble immediately.
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath. From the bathroom, Clark’s voice comes instantly, strained and alarmed:
“What happened?” You blink. Then laugh helplessly despite yourself.
“Nothing happened, babe, my legs are just jelly.” Silence. Then, quieter:
“Oh.” You pad slowly down the hall. Clark is standing at the bathroom sink like a man preparing for emergency surgery. The sight nearly destroys you. There’s a washcloth folded with painful precision beside the sink. A little first-aid kit open on the counter. Three different ointments sitting out like he’s trying to identify the correct treatment for “overenthusiastic alien boyfriend.” Clark himself looks wrecked.
Hair a disaster.
Chest flushed.
Glasses gone.
And his hands— God. His hands are shaking. He notices you instantly in the mirror.
“You shouldn’t be standing.”
“You keep saying that like I survived a car crash.” His expression twists.
“That’s not funny.”
Okay. Right.
You soften immediately.
“Clark.” He turns then, fast enough to make the towels flutter slightly from the displaced air before he visibly reins himself back in. Even upset, he’s controlling every movement now. Overcorrecting. Like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. Again. The words hit you like a bruise.
“Hey.” You walk toward him slowly. “Stop apologizing for a second.”
“I bit you hard enough to bleed.”
“You barely broke skin.”
“I bruised your throat.”
“You barely touched my throat.”
“I cracked your bed.”
“…Okay, that one’s fair.” Clark looks actively miserable that you joked. His shoulders are so tight they look painful. You step between them carefully and reach for his hands. He hesitates. That hesitation hurts.
“Clark.”
“I just—” His voice catches hard. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to make sure I never hurt anyone.” You wrap your fingers around his carefully trembling hands.
“And you think one rough night suddenly makes you unsafe? It doesn't. It makes you human.” His jaw tightens. Clark’s expression crumples slightly around the edges.
“You make it sound noble,” he whispers.
“It is noble.” His laugh comes out rough.
“Baby, I had your legs over my shoulders while I was—”
“Yes, thank you, I was there.” Clark shuts his eyes briefly like he cannot believe this conversation is happening. You squeeze his hands gently.
“You didn’t become cruel, Clark.”
“No,” he says immediately, horrified.
“Exactly.” His eyes open again slowly.
“You were rough,” you continue carefully. “But you were still you.” Clark looks unconvinced. “You were still checking on me. Still holding me like I mattered. Still acting like my comfort was important even when you were halfway out of your mind.” A flush creeps slowly back up his throat. Because he remembers. God, he definitely remembers.
“You literally called me perfect every thirty seconds.” His entire face goes crimson.
“Oh my god.”
“No, it was actually very informative.”
“Please stop talking.”
“You’re apparently incapable of shutting up when you’re emotional.” Clark drops his forehead onto your shoulder with a groan. The tension finally breaks a little. Just enough. You smile softly and thread your fingers through his curls. He stays there for a second, breathing you in.
“You wanna know something?” you ask quietly. He nods once against your skin. “I’ve never felt safer with anyone than I do with you.” His inhale catches sharply. “Even tonight,” you continue softly. “Especially tonight.” Clark looks up, genuinely stunned by that.
“How?”
“Because you were paying attention to me the entire time.” His eyes search yours like he’s trying to understand. “You know how many people treat roughness like they stop having to care?” you murmur. “You didn’t. You cared more.” Clark’s expression shifts slowly. Not relief. Not fully. But something gentler than panic.
“You really mean that?” You smile softly.
“Clark Kent, you looked ready to call an ambulance because you left hickeys.” His ears turn pink instantly.
“I panicked.”
“You catastrophized.”
“The bedframe split in half.”
“You're superman, unfortunately.”
“That’s not helping your argument.” You laugh quietly, and this time Clark’s mouth twitches too. Small. But real. Finally, carefully, he lifts one hand toward your throat again. He pauses just before touching the bruised skin. Asking silently. You nod. Clark’s fingertips brush the marks with heartbreaking gentleness. Like apology stitched into touch. His expression turns conflicted again almost immediately.
“Jesus." A strange flicker crosses his face then. Something warmer.
Darker. Immediately followed by guilt for feeling it. You catch it anyway.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. Clark instantly looks alarmed.
“What?”
“You liked it.”
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did.” His entire body betrays him at once. Flushed throat. Averting gaze. Tiny flex of his jaw. You stare at him in delight. “Clark Kent.”
“I’m having a very difficult evening.”
“You’re having a bisexual farmer crisis because your girlfriend likes your giant hands.”
“I am begging you to stop saying things like that.”
“You manhandled me a little and now you’re emotionally compromised.” Clark makes a helpless sound and drops his head against your shoulder again. You laugh softly into his hair, wrapping your arms around him carefully. After a long moment, he finally murmurs:
“…Did you really like it?” The vulnerability in the question nearly kills you. You pull back enough to kiss him gently.
“Yes,” you whisper against his mouth. “I really did.” Clark exhales shakily. Then, after a tiny pause: "Now, Superman, you better carry me back to our room and help me get dressed because I think my legs have just stopped working."
Clark laughs. It comes out breathless and disbelieving, the sound muffled slightly against your mouth like he still can’t quite process the fact that this conversation is real.
“You can’t walk?” he murmurs.
“You folded me like a lawn chair, Kent.” His entire face goes red again.
“I said I was sorry.”
“And now you have to deal with the consequences of your actions.” Clark’s hands slide carefully to your waist again, hesitating for only half a second this time before settling there fully. Still gentle. Always gentle. But less afraid now.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. You tilt your head.
“You’ve asked me that approximately forty-seven times.”
“And I’ll ask forty-seven more.” Your chest warms painfully.
God.
You reach up and smooth a curl back from his forehead.
“I’m okay,” you say softly. “Little sore. Extremely satisfied. Mildly concerned about my structural integrity tomorrow morning. But okay.” Clark groans quietly and drops his head back.
“You are impossible after sex.”
“You made me like this.”
“That feels scientifically unverifiable.”
“You’re a journalist super-hero. Investigate it.” A reluctant smile tugs at his mouth again. There he is. Finally. You tap his chest lightly.
“C’mon, big guy. Rescue mission.” Clark’s expression softens into something unbearably fond.
“Yes, ma’am.” Then he bends and slides one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. And even now—even after all of that—he lifts you like you’re precious. Not fragile. Precious. The movement is so smooth your stomach barely swoops. You instinctively curl against him, arms looping around his neck while Clark carries you back toward the bedroom.
Well. The partially destroyed bedroom.
“You know,” you murmur thoughtfully, “we probably should’ve had the super-strength conversation before my bedframe died in the line of duty.” Clark huffs out a laugh.
“I can buy you a new one.”
“You shattered this one with your hips. I think you owe me at least three.”
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