summary: Clark Kent is the perfect neighbor and the ultimate gentleman. Baking cookies, fixing stuff around your apartment, always there with his reliable smile. So who's he to say no when you ask him to help build your new couch and… break it???
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, neighbors to friends to lovers, whipped clark kent, he is a gentleman, clark and reader are horny for each other, oral (f receiving). clark has a BIG DICK, unprotected p in v sex, creampie.
wc: 3.4k words.
a/n: first of all... thank you so much to @tw1sters for managing and giving me the chance to take part in this SEXY event! i had so much fine writing it ahhh. second, hugeeeee thanks to @theworstwolvie and @clarknsun for being the first one to read and comment on this one, i am truly grateful. third, @sparklingsin!!!!!!!!! YOU AND YOUR TALENT HELLO i love the header sooo much thank you for making time to make it for me. i love all of you (and you readers too) very dearly <3
KENT masterlist | masterlist
You live in a humble apartment located in the heart of Metropolis. With a good amount of room for one person, every night, the sound of the traffic around you would hum like white noise, the high floor-to-ceiling window showing you the perfect view of the city’s nightlife—you mostly never closed the curtains in your living room—hell, you could even view Superman fighting one of his weekly villain fights through it.
Yet the thing that made you love it even more—to the point where you would rather be inside all day than go out with your friends, declining their offers—was not those.
It was your perfect neighbor: Clark Kent.
You pegged him as the ultimate neighbor since the first day you moved in. As the moment he saw you struggling with your boxes of too much stuff, he immediately offered to help.
Lifting up three heavy objects that were filled with your heavy kitchen appliances and bathroom necessities too easily, you can’t help but stare at those bulging biceps as he moved around. Quickly looking away every time you feel like he’d almost catch you.
And let’s just say your moving-in process was finished in just an hour, rather than the whole afternoon, with his help.
“I’m Clark, by the way,” mentioned the broad and tall man as he brushed his palm against his jeans, with his thick rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and his deep dimples and boyish smile that you were sure would make you do a double take if you saw him on the streets.
“I live next door,” he pointed to the unit next to you.
So– you have a good view of the city AND a hot neighbor too? You really felt like you hit the jackpot with this one.
You smiled and offered him your name. “Nice to meet you, neighbor. I hope we could be good friends then.”
He nodded, lips curling up even more. “Just knock if you need anything. I’ll leave you to it?”
Humming, you then lead him out of your boxes-filled apartment, thanking him one last time.
You thought it would stop with him acting like a decent person—just helping a girl out with her things, but it didn’t. Later that night, you heard a knock on the door.
Looking up from your kitchen floor, you fixed up your shirt before padding down the hall. Checking the peephole to see the same new neighbor—Clark—carrying a plate filled with what you presume were freshly baked cookies.
Your eyes widened as you opened the door and saw exactly that. His soft smile, the scent of sweetness and the warmth emanating from the cookies almost made your heartbeat quicken.
“Sorry to bother you,” he fixes up his glasses with his free hand, then offers the plate out.
“Housewarming gift. Freshly made– though please do not mind if it’s not that good.”
You looked down at the plate, taking it, then up at him again. “Clark– wow, you didn’t have to…”
His smile softened immediately. “I wanted to. Hope you enjoy it.”
You breathed out a small thanks before he left you to continue your organizing.
The next day, you knocked on his door. His once-filled plate with cookies was now replaced with chocolate muffins you made all morning.
His surprise was evident, soft red hues creeping up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I didn’t make those cookies just so you could bake me something as well,” his brows knitted.
“Well, consider it as a thank you for helping me out yesterday.”
He sighed softly. “Thank you,” with his classic, shy smile.
Then it continued. Always using the “I cooked too much” as a reason.
You’d give him your signature pasta recipe, and he’d return it the next day with a pan of freshly baked pie. He’d give you some homemade chicken dish he told you he learned to make from his Ma, you’d return it with a pint full of ice cream you made (just for him).
Though it went on and didn’t stop with the both of you casually exchanging meals.
Your kitchen pipes weren’t working? He’d be there in seconds with a wrench in his hand after you asked for help. Your eyes zeroed the moment his shirt went damp, making it practically transparent. You gulped as you stared at how his back muscles shifted with every move.
You didn’t know he could hear the way your breath hitched, though. His own body reacting the same as he could feel that you were also being affected by the closeness of the moment.
“Just need it to be tightened up,” he hummed, looking up at you from his knees just before the under-sink cabinet.
“Oh–” you straightened up, his voice breaking the trance you were in. “All fixed then?”
“Yeah…” he murmured as he stood up, his tall figure towering over you.
You felt your neck straining. “Thank you, Clark.”
“No worries. I’m open to help you with whatever, okay?”
Whatever, huh?
You almost choked at your own spit with the thought of him helping you with whatever. Immediately pushing those… thoughts down.
“Okay,” you managed to rasp out.
He smiled again before he continued with his day.
“Fuck…” you muttered to yourself the moment you closed your door, your forehead thudded against the wood.
More happened.
You were cooking, realized you were out of some ingredients, and went to him.
“Hey, sorry to bother you… but I’m cooking something, and I just realized that I’m out of onions. Do you potentially have any spare ones?” you asked him sheepishly.
Clark cursed to himself because he didn’t have any. He wanted to keep being the one you go to with every struggle you have; he wanted to keep being your lifeline and salvation, so what did he do?
“I’m sorry I don’t… though I’m gonna go out,” a lie. “Soap’s running short,” another lie. Clark literally just bought a full bottle yesterday.
“Really? Would you help me get some onions then?” your eyes gleaming with anticipation, but not wanting to burden him.
“Of course,” he smiled. “I’ll go get some for you.”
He returned less than 30 minutes later with a bag of onions and some snacks you mentioned you liked weeks ago.
You flushed, thanked him, and he nodded before leaving.
Week after week, it kept happening. It was like the both of you were trying to make excuses to see each other even more.
Purposefully switching up your mails with each other. When he saw your balcony railing wobbled just below an inch, he’d offer to fix it immediately. He heard you struggling with your shopping bags after a day out? He would take it from your hands, letting you carry nothing in your hands.
The both of you started to get closer. Unprompted movie nights in his unit, baking and cooking together, even doing nothing but enjoying a warm cup of tea as you both sit on the lounge chairs on your balcony, sharing childhood stories and laughing together.
Oh, both of you were falling deep.
The gaze held longer, smile now softer—deeper in a way—nothing like you ever shared with other people. You told him about your day, your stressful work, your family—and he told you about his life.
It was sweet, really. Clark Kent was sweet.
At this point, he knew everything about you. How you take your coffee, how your nose scrunched before you let out his favorite free laugh every time he made one of his stupid jokes, how sweet you smell whenever his touch lingered just on your thighs whenever you whispered a secret to him, how your pulse thrummed so evidently the moment he tucked a stray hair behind your ear.
And you knew everything about him as well. How his eyes would crinkle with amusement when you rolled your eyes and acted all annoyed, how his hand would linger around you as you both worked around the kitchen, how his body would tense, how his breath would hitch every time you told him something about yourself. Every time you draped yourself on his lap while watching one of the romcoms you forced him to see.
You felt it. The palpable tension, so thick you could cut it with a dull knife, through the not-so-innocent touches, the whispered words—He felt it too. The problem was, Clark Kent is too much of a gentleman to break those boundaries first, and there’s no way you’re the one who’d tear the bandaid off.
So the both of you didn’t advance into anything more than his arm around your shoulder as you both relaxed, or your arms around him as you let out your stress through the feeling of his warmth and scent wrapped around you.
Until one day.
You told him you were buying a couch, and even made him help you pick the color and measure your space. So the moment it arrived, he was at his feet instantly. Going down to carry the box filled with the parts.
It should be normal now; he’s helping you make furniture and fixing around your place, though he usually didn’t use this thin, figure-hugging compression shirt that made all of his muscles look swollen.
He made you stay out of it completely, just like always, not wanting you to do the work at all—yet you can’t help but linger.
You can’t help but ogle him—practically sexualizing him inside of your head.
The way his bicep would flex with every twist of the screwdriver, his veins popping under his sleeves through his forearm, making you wonder if those blood vessels would also look this enticing around his cock.
Your thighs clench the moment he lay under the couch as he tightened the bolts there. His shirt was riding up to reveal a patch of his skin, covered with soft hairs leading down to his crotch.
And he knew. He could practically smell the heavy, sweet smell of your arousal. He could hear the soft breaths you didn’t even know you let out every time he shifted, and his shirt went up even more.
His own body starts to heat up, flushing even though all of his blood was going south. He was thankful that he opted to wear his baggy sweats rather than his tight jeans.
Nevertheless, you saw his bulge start to thicken under the grey fabric. Eyes widening, you immediately looked away.
Clearing your throat. “Do you want some water?”
He looked up, noting the way that you were more fidgety than usual. “Yeah. Sure, thanks.”
You gave him a tight-lipped smile before walking through the kitchen.
Clark couldn’t help but fixate his eyes on your form. Your soft curves swaying with every step, ass peeking out of those short shorts that—the fact that it was always shorter than the last made it obvious that you want him to see. But he can’t. He can’t lose his control–
Gods, you were bending over the freezer now.
He shut his eyes, sucking a deep breath and letting it out shakily. He felt it wavering—his self-control thinning with every quiet hum you let out of your lips.
His fingers tightened around the whatever tool he was holding instantly. His cock throbbing inside his boxers, wanting—needing to be freed from the confinement and the pressure.
You knelt beside him, handing him the cold water. “All good?”
He cleared his throat, hand brushing over the couch’s fresh cushion to distract himself. “All good.”
You then helped him, fingers brushing his palm, lingering on his forearms whenever he asked you for a tool, and you’d give it. You also made it more obvious now that you saw him get hard.
You would blatantly eye him up and down, bare thighs brushing against his hands– you were horny.
Clark Kent made you horny, and he was the only one who could fix it.
His fingers would tighten around the wooden foot, and you imagined it was you instead. He’d let out grunts, and you imagined that it was you pulling it out of him, how he would probably praise you instead of dirty talking just because he was so respectful—too respectful.
He gulped as he watched how your breath starts to quicken, mirroring it unconsciously.
Then– Click.
The last bolt—the last piece of the couch was put in place. Dragging you back into reality.
“You’re done?” you asked.
He nodded, and you immediately sank down onto the new couch. Shifting around to feel the soft padding underneath you.
He joins, and your thighs grazed immediately, making you almost jolt—the neediness heightening back up inside you.
“It feels solid…” he murmured.
You finally glance at him, eyes low and half-lidded with lust. “Wanna test it?”
He eyed you, the way your chest heaved, pupils blown out before rushing forward and kissing the life out of you.
You stumbled with your lips, before wrapping your arms around him and pulling him flush on top of you as you sank against the armrest. Lips parting, swiping your tongue along his lower lip before nipping it, making him groan out your name.
His fingers brushed along the hem of your shirt, lips separating from yours so he could kiss down your jaw and neck.
“Ask me to stop and I will, sweetheart,” he whispered against your skin.
You shook your head profusely.
“I need words…” as he pulled away to study your face, the way your eyes glossed with want.
“Please– I need you, Clark, please…” You whined.
“Of course,” giving a soft kiss on your cheek. “Anything for you, sweet girl,” another on your lips. The nicknames and his gentleness burned you inside out, making you fall deeply towards him more and more.
He finally lifted your shirt off gently, kissing every inch of your skin revealed. Unclasping your bra, groaning at the sight of your breasts bare before him.
You squirmed underneath him the moment he wrapped his soft pink lips around your hardened nipple. Back arching as your hands found his shoulder and squeezed it.
“You’re so beautiful…” he murmured, kissing further down till his lips made contact with the waistband of your shorts. “Can I?”
“Yes– Clark, yes…” his hips lifting instantly as he hooked his fingers around it, pulling it and your panties with such softness and gentleness that no other man could give other than him.
He let out a shuddered breath as he spread your thighs open. The delicious scent of you hits all of his senses immediately.
He hummed as he saw how your folds glistened—borderline dripping. “Don’t wanna make a mess on the new couch, don’t we, sweetheart?” he whispered, before hooking your legs over your shoulder and diving right into it. Collecting all of your wetness—dragging his tongue on your hole up to your clit, making you let out a quiet cry.
“Clark–!” fingers snaking through his curls, tugging them as you held yourself back from grinding your hips against his mouth.
He looped his arms around your thighs, mouth expertly working you out—all the while his gaze stayed on you. Watching every bit of your reactions, the way you threw your head back against the armrest, eyes rolled, lower lip stuck between your teeth as you hold back your sounds.
It was a sight he could never forget now. He was sure to etch it into the deepest crook of his brain.
You whined out his name the moment he pulled back, though. “I know… I’m gonna give you something better, okay?”
You nodded reluctantly, too weak, too drunk with pleasure to deny and fight him over it. You kept your eyes as he stripped out of his clothes. Hole fluttering and tightening around nothing the moment he was bare before you.
His cock—full of girth and length, was straining and slapping against his stomach. His tip red, glistening with his pre. “You’re– huge, holy shit…”
He let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll make it fit. Don’t worry,” as his fingers brushed your hair back, grazing along your cheekbones.
You hummed softly, parting your legs even more to accommodate his broad figure.
Clark lets out a moan as he begins to slowly slide his tip against your folds. “So wet… you’ve been wanting this, hm?”
The silent nod in your response made his heart bloom, because he had wanted this too. He imagined this happening too many times before—whether when he was with you or alone in his bedroom whispering your name as he stroked himself to the thoughts of you—and really, the reality was so much better for him.
The moment he finally pushed himself inside you? He broke. Letting out a deep guttural sound to the feeling of your velvet walls wrapped so perfectly around him—it was as if you were made for him, no– he was made for you.
And you felt the burn, the stretch, splitting you open from your inside. Your hands find his arms immediately. Making imprints of your nails as you dug into his skin from the feeling of the pleasurable pain.
“Clark–”
“Shh… open up for me, sweetheart. I know you can.”
He stayed still the moment he was buried deep inside you, fingers softly brushing along your bare skin as you began to relax.
You nodded, eyes looking up at him with adoration the moment the burn dissipates.
“All ready?” he asked softly.
“Yeah…”
The both of you let out choruses of moans as he began moving, slowly at first. He pulled your arms so you could wrap them around his neck, his own snaking around your back just to keep you close to him.
His forehead pressed against yours. “You feel so good…” he whispered, pulling you into a deep kiss filled with passion. He kept his easy pace, but it was like he was holding back.
“More…” you moaned against his lips.
Who was he to deny you, his sweet, sweet girl, from pleasure?
He picked up his pace. Still deep, reaching to every inch of your walls, but it was more punishing now.
The couch starts to squeak underneath you—but you both didn’t care. Too captivated by the feeling of each other’s bodies to even notice the foot of the couch.
“Fuck–!” you moaned the moment he angled your hips. Your fingers now sprawled on the span of his back, raking it. Your walls began to clench around him tightly, making him fuck you deeper and faster.
“More!” you cried. And he served. His thrusts now punishing, both your chests panting. Your gasps and his moans echo around your apartment.
Clark swore that you were like an angel before him. With your body wrapped around a thin sheet of sweat that made it seem like you're glowing, hair messily draped everywhere yet still beautiful, your breasts bouncing like an invitation, and your face… gods, your face. He could die peacefully thinking about it alone.
So utterly beautiful and broken, and he was the one who did it.
His hips are working like an animal now, brutal, feral.
You finally realized that the couch underneath you was shaking, but you didn’t care. All you could think about was him, him, and him.
He noticed the way the couch was groaning in protest with the amount of pressure it was being given, but the way your cunt was tightening around him meant that he couldn’t stop. “Gonna break this–” before your walls gripped his cock even further.
“Gonna come–!” you cried.
“Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on.”
And you obeyed. Letting out a sharp cry of his name as your body jolts—convulsing as the waves after waves of orgasm hit your senses—burning your body with the amount of pleasure.
“Fuck–” he cursed, fucking you deeper as he chased his own climax. At last, with a final and intense thrust–
Craaack.
The foot snapped completely, making you yelp out and scrambling to hold onto him.
Clark didn’t even realize that he had already came and spilled inside you, too stunned, too focused on making sure you’re not hurt.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” his eyes widened, doing a one-overlook look at you to make sure no blood came out of you.
Your arms tightened, before you burst out laughing. “I am–” you wheezed. “The couch though…”
He blinked, then huffing out a small and relieved chuckle. “Guess it’s not strong enough, huh?”
Before pulling you onto his lap, shifting you on the floor carefully—still seethed deep inside you, and tugging you closer into a soft kiss. Fingers cuping your cheeks gently.
Pairing: David!Clark Kent x villain/anti-hero!Reader | wc 450
Summary: Your cat-and-mouse game with Superman comes to a head. Day 2 of June Jukebox Scribbles
Tags: smutty, 18+, MDNI, close proximity, foreplay (m + f receiving), breast play, teasing, brief unprotected p in v
sorry I'm rusty and still recovering! any mistakes? you didn't see them!
event masterlist
You almost ghosted Metropolis with the rare Lunar Tear glinting between your fingers, intending to tuck it into the daring plunge of your catsuit, if only the vault’s failsafe hadn’t slammed home with a bone-deep snap.
That was who-knows-how long ago. Time warped under the crimson strobe.
Each pulse sculpted Superman beside you, etching every plane you’ve memorized on moonlit rooftops and rain-slick alley walls, where breathless pauses and sermons of "reform" always melted into desperate touches that stopped just shy of everything, leaving you both shaking and frustrated.
Months of pursuit taught you Big Blue's cadence: catch, kiss, release, repeat. Tonight, that rhythm fractured.
"I know you could peel this door like foil, baby," you gasped breathlessly, nails clawing into his cape while his thick thigh rides the soak-seam of your suit, sending sparks of pleasure through your clit. "G-get both of us out."
He answered with touch: large fingers capture your wrist with disarming gentleness, his thumb sweeping tenderly along your lifeline until the hefty slipped from your grasp and clinked forgotten between your feet.
Summer blue eyes, dark with storming desire, held your gaze.
"Not until you give it up," he rasped, palm skimming from waist to ass, grinding you harder onto the meat of his thigh.
The other finally drags with your zipper south, exposing the swell of your breasts. Rough fingertips brushed your stiff nipples, pinching lightly and drawing needy whimpers from your throat that ricochet off steel. "No more games, yeah?"
"Try harder, Big Blue," you teased back, arching into his touch with doubled enthusiasm. Your teeth nipped his jaw, tongue soothing the barely-there mark. "Isn’t playing cop to my robber a thrill?"
His groan answered for him, vibrating through your chest. One hand settles on your ass, squeezing, drawing you impossibly flush; fabric sparks against fabric, nipples pebbling as his cock twitches against your stomach. Zippers descended lower, belts clattered, all revealing flashes of tantalizing skin.
You quickly sank to your knees, tongue tracing the sculpted groove of his abs before freeing him with practiced flicks. He’s heavy, jerking when your mouth envelopes the crown. His head thuds back against the door; your name escapes from his throat like prayer while you hollowed your cheeks, stroking the thick length and savoring the shudder rolling down his frame.
"Good God— sweetheart—" The plea broke as you pulled off with a wet pop, licking a slow stripe up the underside.
"P-promise me you’ll behave,” he tried again. "Walk away clean otherwise," he panted hotly against your ear, fingers finally slipping between your slick folds to thrust two thick digits deep inside. "No more thefts."
"No, I can't promise that I won't do that," you moaned, words spilling out shakily as pleasure coiled tighter. "B-but I’ll make it— worth your while if — if you let me keep— playing bad, baby—"
Superman's control snapped once again.
His eager mouth claimed yours in a ruinous kiss, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with the blunt head of his cock, nudging and pushing into your dripping heat, and finally, finally, filled you.
"Kal—!" You clenched around him, lost in raw surrender.
All the while, the Lunar Tear lies ignored, winking with each crimson flash while you and you and Big Blue burn hotter, brighter than any jewel this vault could ever guard.
Description: Johnny Storm needs a change in his life. So when he goes looking for an apartment to move out of the Baxter Building and live a “normal life”, he ends up being your roommate. As you both struggle with the highs and lows of dating in New York, through shared takeout on the living room floor and dances under the refrigerator light, you may realize what you needed has always been right in front of you…or in the room next door.
This is a Part 1, loosely inspired by the movie When Harry met Sally. Set in the early 80’s of the Fantastic Four canon retro-futuristic world.
Tags/Warnings: romcom vibes, fluff, domestic moments, johnny loves women and johnny loves music, talks about sex, one smut-ish scene, cheeky easter eggs and cameos.
Note: When I tell you I’ve been wanting to write this since December!!! When @nexxen24 made me watch When Harry met Sally for the first time 🤍 This is by no means a retell of the film, but it’s inspired on the essence of it. I had so much fun writing this part, enjoy 🫶🏼
Masterlist
Johnny spent a lot of time feeling stuck.
Stuck at the Baxter Building, for starters. Living with his sister, brother in law, Ben and a droid as the world’s most renowned family, could be considered ‘fantastic’ most of the time, but it could also be…exhausting.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love them, of course he did. They were his team. His family. But lately, Johnny had started wanting something different. For once, not something shiny, or bigger or better. Quite the opposite really, just something…simpler. Something a little closer to normal.
Which was laughable, considering who he was. Johnny Storm had never had “normal” a day in his life, even before the powers.
Maybe that’s why he craved it so bad. Or…maybe it was just a quarter life crisis.
He didn’t exactly know when it started, but suddenly he wanted to know what it felt like to walk through a lobby where no one greeted him like he was the president. To buy laundry detergent and groceries and whatever people who don’t have a Herbert to do it for them, well, have to do. To have a mailbox in a locker with a little key, and no need to go through a dozen levels of security clearance just for some fan mail.
Maybe that’s why he found himself going through rental listings at two in the morning in the darkness of his room. Half laying on his round bed, one arm raised up in flames to illuminate the newspaper in front of him.
This is ridiculous, he thought. He told himself he was just looking. Killing time. He wasn’t going to do it, he was just thinking about it. Swear to God he was not actually going to do it. But an ad caught his eye.
Roommate Wanted
Apartment in Brooklyn, Park Slope. Two bedrooms, one bathroom. Looking to split rent 50/50. 4th floor. Girls only, unless you’re famous, then we can talk. Call after 7pm if you’re interested.
“Unless you’re famous,” Johnny chuckled, re-reading the ad, and the name attached to it.
The ad was pretty vague, but Johnny recognized the location. Safe neighborhood, no rooftop pools in that area, and definitely no doorman.
It was perfect.
The next day he counted the hours until 7pm came. He wanted the full experience, so instead of using the fine piece of technology on his wrist to call the number he saw on the ad, he took some coins from Franklin’s piggy bank in exchange of a generous twenty dollar bill–you’re welcome buddy–and found himself a random telephone booth at Central Park, just in time.
Big breath, here goes nothing.
-
The landline phone hung on your kitchen wall rang exactly at 7:01pm. You cleaned your hands with a napkin, leaving a bowl of heated leftovers on the counter before picking up.
“Hello?” You said, holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder.
“Hey! I’m calling for the apartment ad, I’m very interested.”
The voice on the other side of the line surprised you. So far only women have called you and unfortunately none of them had agreed with the rental fee. “Uh, sure…what’s your name?”
“I’m Johnny Storm,” he said immediately.
Okay, pause. Is this guy being for real right now?
“…Right,” you said after a moment, dragging your words and fiddling with the tangled cord. “And…you’re looking for an apartment?”
The disbelief in your voice made Johnny sigh. Only when the words left his mouth he realized how ridiculous his name probably sounded. But what else was he supposed to say? He wasn’t planning on hiding who he was, even if it was just a call. That felt wrong.
“Yeah…listen I–uh…I know this may seem a little off, but I’m looking for a place for…personal reasons, and your ad caught my eye. I really like the area and I can definitely pay rent on time.”
He chose to leave out the fact that he could actually pay rent four years in advance. That seemed a little overkill.
“I swear I don’t set couches on fire, not unless you ask,” he added with a nervous laugh, but his whole body relaxed when he heard the chuckle you left out. “And you said being famous was the exception so…can we talk about it?”
You contemplated for a moment. To be honest? It seemed too good to be true. On the other hand, you had nothing to lose…and you wanted to go back to your dinner. So you just shrugged.
“Alright,” you said, “I’ll tell you what, Johnny Storm. There’s a café a few blocks from the apartment, called “Geta’s”. Let's meet there, Saturday at noon. If you’re actually who you say you are, you’re paying for coffee. If you’re not, I’m calling the cops.”
“Geta’s” Johnny grinned. “Roger that. I’ll be there.”
You weren’t actually planning on calling the cops. Or well, you hoped you didn’t have to call them.
Worst case scenario, some random guy was pretending to be Johnny Storm, and you’d have to ditch the clown and go back to answering calls. Best case? Well…you hadn’t really considered that one, because come on. Johnny Storm, Manhattan’s golden boy, Mr. Baxter Building himself, apartment hunting in Brooklyn?
Absolutely not.
Still, you got to the café ten minutes early. Picked your favorite table by the window, with a good view of the street and a close exit in case things get weird. You ordered your usual drink, a side of mini croissants, and the wait began.
You were mid sip when you heard the familiar ring of the bells above the cafe’s door.
"Mr.Storm!" someone called from behind the counter, way too cheery to be greeting a conman. “Welcome to Geta’s!”
Your head snapped up, and…yup. There he was.
Johnny Freaking Storm. Golden hair, golden everything. A pair of sunglasses perched on his head, paired with some designer jacket and perfectly fitted pants and that pearly white smile you’d only seen on billboards.
He looked unfairly good in real life.
He nodded to the barista, who was currently having a mini stroke behind the register, then turned his gaze toward the tables, looking for…you?
Right, yeah. You.
You raised your hand awkwardly, giving a tiny wave that said yep, that’s me, the girl who didn’t think you’d actually show up. He smiled wider at your stunned expression, and strutted straight to you, sliding onto the chair across from you.
“I didn’t actually think Johnny Storm was going to show up today,” you blurted out, making him chuckle.
“I get that a lot,” he said, shrugging.
“Do you…want a mini croissant?”
“Only if they’re not poisoned,” he joked, narrowing his eyes playfully.
“Right. You’re the Johnny Storm. You probably have someone test the croissants for you.”
“That would be Herbert, yes,” he nodded cockily, getting another chuckle out of you.
This time you narrowed your eyes at him, trying to process the entire fever dream. He just tilted his head, matching your face expression in amusement. You shook your head and leaned back a little, crossing your arms.
“Okay, I feel like I need to say this out loud so I know I’m not hallucinating. My apartment is not in Manhattan. It’s not a penthouse. I don’t live next to models or celebrities. Are you sure you replied to the right listing? Or is this just you…pulling a bit? Like a prank show? Because I really do need a roommate.”
Johnny chuckled, shaking his head.
“No cameras, I promise,” he reassured. “I know where the listing said it was. Park Slope. Two bedrooms. 4th floor. You said girls only unless you’re famous, which, considering…”
He leaned back with a shrug, gesturing at himself.
“Yeah but that was a joke. I mean you could, I don’t know, live anywhere. Somewhere crazier like…the moon or space in general,” you gesture vaguely, because him living in another galaxy sounds more realistic than him sharing a couch with you.
He seems to find it funny, at least, but something in his face softens before he lets out a sigh.
“Listen, I know this is weird but…I’m not joking. I don’t want a penthouse. I’m not looking for anything “crazy” or fancy or with zero gravity. I just…want something a little quieter. A little more normal, you know?”
You raised your eyebrows, still skeptical. “Well, Johnny, life in an apartment building is not necessarily “quieter”,” you chuckle. “Normal? For sure. But you’re telling me the big Human Torch, who flies over the stadium to see the Mets, wants normal?”
He shrugged, but there’s no cockiness to it anymore.
“I know. Shocking, right? But I do," he said. “I mean, the tower’s great and all, but it’s…a lot. And it’s all I’ve known for most of my life. Cameras, tech, Reed in general, it just…never stops. It always feels like everything needs to be perfect, you know? I kind of want a door I can lock and a couch I don’t have to share with a 500 pound rock man. Maybe just with…a normal roommate."
You stared at him in silence. If there was anything you learned from Johnny Storm in that short interaction, it was that he had the bluest of eyes, and the way they were looking at you, like he needed to be understood by some random girl he just met, made something in your heart clench.
Still, you had questions. You weren’t going to be swooned into giving away half your apartment.
“A normal roommate…” you drawled, still waiting for the punchline of this whole situation. “So, you don’t mind the fact that I have a regular job and I don’t throw superhero parties?”
That makes him grin again. “Well, I was kind of hoping you threw superhero parties. But that’s okay, I can tell spidey to meet me somewhere else.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. Okay…maybe you’re getting a little swooned. You looked down at your drink, trying to play it cool.
“And you know I probably won’t scream when you come out of the shower shirtless or whatever?”
Johnny grinned wider.
“I mean, you can. You’d have shirtless privileges as long as you don’t go around selling pictures of me.”
That makes your smile grow. Damn him.
You really tried to stay skeptical. Tried to keep a cool head and ask more serious questions. But shit, they weren’t lying about the Storm charm.
And the sad truth was…you liked it. The way he made you laugh. The way he was looking at you. Not just in a flirty, over the top Johnny Storm way. He seemed genuine, not necessarily trying to impress. You could tell he was truly interested…maybe even hopeful.
And I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? You really needed a roommate like, yesterday.
“Okay, Johnny Storm,” you shrugged. You had nothing to lose. “Wanna go see it?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to fly up the fire escape?” You tease, eyeing the four flights of stairs ahead of you as you walk into the building.
“Please. I’m going for the full normal experience, remember?” He gives you a smug little smirk.
You snort, then pretend you don’t hear him panting by the third floor. But all the amusement goes away as you open your front door, totally not freaking out about the fact that Johnny Storm–your potential roommate–is about to come inside.
Time for the house tour.
The apartment is not that big, not like anything in New York is anyway, but the layout looks decent under the soft light coming through the windows. The ceilings are high, the wood floors shine when the sunlight hits them right and the open kitchen is small but cozy.
Johnny walks in with an unreadable expression in his face. Still, you can’t help but look at it the way he must be seeing it now; the single couch in the living room with carefully picked mismatched throw pillows, the thrifted coffee table you sanded and painted yourself, the small black and white TV, the organized mess on every surface but…it’s home. It’s been home for a year now.
He turns around in a slow circle, taking it all in, eyes landing on a small desk by the window with a typewriter on it and stacks of paper all around it. He wanders over there, leaning a hand on the window frame as he looks out over the rooftops.
The view isn’t breathtaking, not at all like the one he’s used to back home, or the one he sees when he flies over the city, but it’s beautiful nevertheless. Lived in. Rows of shoulder to shoulder red brick facades, dozens of arched doors with molding and tall trees lining up the street.
Standing here, he feels small. In a good way.
“It’s actually very nice,” he says, turning to you with a smile.
“Thanks…” you say. Relief washing your features. “Does it meet the great Johnny Storm’s expectations?”
He shrugs playfully, eyes darting across the floor like he’s looking for something. “I’m still expecting at least one cockroach cameo.”
You gasp in mock offense, but can’t fight the smile on your face.
“Give it time.”
You gesture for him to follow you into the mini hallway to access the rooms, separated by a bathroom in the middle.
“This one’s my room,” you say, pointing to the one that faces the front street. “Yours would be the one on the left. It has good light in the morning.”
He hums, peeking inside the empty room. “I like that.”
“And then…there’s a smaller third one next to yours. I’m using it for storage, and I wasn’t planning to fill it but…I was actually going to talk with my new roommate about considering renting it too. But–”
“How much more do you need to make it work?”
“What?”
“Well, if you’re gonna have to bring in a third roommate, then I assume the math doesn’t quite work yet. I can do more than 50/50,” he offers like it’s nothing.
“Johnny…”
“60/40? 70/30? Just tell me what you need, I got it.”
“That’s not really the point,” you say softly, shaking your head. “Look–I just…I’ve loved this apartment for over a year now but rent went up and it’s been a bit tough finding someone who can help afford this place. The building is nice but people’ve been turning me down when hearing their part. So, I thought I might have to split it in three. But I’m not trying to take advantage of anyone, of you...it’s just a big deal for me, living here you know?” You shrug, suddenly feeling self conscious.
“You’re not taking advantage of me if I want to help,” he says, just as softly. “Seriously. I like it here. This whole thing I’m trying is…kind of a big deal for me too.”
Your shoulders relax a bit, and a smile tugs at your lips.
“So you really want to live here?”
Johnny looks at you like obviously, before that cocky grin sneaks into his face again. “I already committed to the stairs. I’m invested now.”
That gets a laugh out of you.
“Well,” you smile, stepping toward him, extending your hand, “then I guess we are roommates, Johnny Storm.”
“Roommates,” he nods, sliding his warm hand into yours.
“Better than the moon, then?” You tease.
“Way better,” he smiles. And oh, that smile is trouble.
Four months later.
Living with a celebrity has been…surprisingly uneventful.
No paparazzi hiding behind the trees, no fans camping outside the lobby, no wild afterparties. In fact, it’s been almost too normal…if you ignore the fact that your roommate is technically flammable.
Johnny hasn't set anything on fire. Not on purpose, at least.
The kitchen had two close calls. Both were an attempted murder breakfast. He claimed the stove was not user friendly because “it has no lights like the one at home”, so you had no choice but to ban him from using it unsupervised.
Still, he tries. On some nights when you come home dragging your feet from work, he’s already waiting by the TV with takeout bags in hand and his sweater sleeves pushed up as if he made the meal himself.
You’ve also noticed his little communicator/watch thingy beeps every Wednesday at 8 pm for family dinner back home. He flies off the fire escape, only to return a few hours later with something delicious like Ben’s lasagna or Herbert’s infamous cheesecake (you’ve learned he’s actually a droid and not a private chef.)
“Figured you could take some for lunch tomorrow,” he’d say casually, placing whatever he brought carefully in the fridge.
Oh, and the fridge! We have to talk about the refrigerator. A ridiculous piece of fine technology he barely managed to fit through the apartment door. It’s framed in shiny silver, with curved glass doors you didn’t even think was possible a fridge could have. He said he had a similar one at home, and figured your place could use something with the same aesthetic.
His words.
And you still remember the day he moved in like it was yesterday. He arrived with an obnoxiously big truck that had to return half full to the Baxter Building, because he overestimated the space he was moving into.
The bed was the funniest, for sure. Or at least…the attempt to get it in. It took him forty whole minutes of directing two movers to realize his round, ridiculous, king sized bachelor bed would simply not fit through the apartment door, let alone his designated bedroom. Not by angle, not by disassembly, not even with your upstairs neighbor offering unsolicited advice from the stairwell.
Funny times.
Your favorite part of that day, though? When Johnny took out a shiny, white sphere-shaped turntable out of a blue velvet lined case with more care than you've ever seen a man apply to anything in your life.
He brought his entire record collection too. Countless boxes of them. He even had custom shelving made for the living room, right above the small tv stand. The wood midcentury curves contrasted perfectly against the brick wall, and were packed to the brim with all his colorful records. Johnny was very proud of it. Back then he’d even said they were for “shared enjoyment,” and you took that to heart.
Johnny hadn’t noticed how many romantic records he owned until you started wearing them out. He doesn't mind at all, he’s caught himself smiling more than once when he hears you play one without asking for permission anymore. He even keeps your favorites on the shelf closest to the turntable.
Cause that’s what roommates do.
He admits it’s a little weird, sharing a space with someone who’s not family or you’re not romantically involved with, but he likes it so far. The simplicity. Sure there’s no cabinets that open with a clap of his hand or a rocketship parked in his backyard, but there’s walking out of his room for a midnight snack only to find you already there making some tea, humming in your pjs under the soft glow of the refrigerator light. That, until he lifts his hand and starts bragging about his flames heating your tea faster than a kettle. There’s watching you spend an entire Sunday hunched over your desk, giving the poor typewriter a run for its money while you play Sinatra in the background.
You also notice things about him. Cause that’s what roommates do.
Johnny likes dancing. It’s not a rare occasion to find him swaying his hips to Marvin Gaye or Michael Jackson in the middle of the living room when you get home at night. He’s been trying to master the moonwalk, which you discovered one day you arrived early from work (he’s getting there.)
Johnny likes to be active. He gets very fiddly when he’s not saving the world, so he always has to be doing something. Whether it’s cleaning his custom golf clubs, doing push ups in the middle of the living room, or trying to figure out a rubik’s cube Franklin can solve in less than five minutes, but who’s counting?
(Not Johnny.)
He has an unhealthy obsession with cereal, but we all have guilty pleasures, don’t we?
Johnny also pays the bills. All of them. You’ve tried to argue, even tried to pay some as soon as the receipt came, only to find out he’d already done it because it gets automatically drawn from his bank account. He even goes grocery shopping like you have a pantry the size of the entire apartment.
“No Johnny, you can’t keep buying in bulk, we don’t have space for all that stuff!!”
And…he’s still The Human Torch.
He disappears sometimes. You just hear the beep of his watch and he’s gone in a yellow blur. You’ve learned not to worry. Not because you’re not worried, but because he always comes back.
It’s your new normal. It’s easy. Domestic in a way you didn’t expect after the last…person you lived with. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep deflecting the question that pounds your head every now and then. Is this–whatever this is–the best mistake you’ve ever made?
“What do you do for a living anyways?” Johnny asks, his attention going from the movie to your spot on the floor next to the couch.
It’s almost 9pm on a random Tuesday. You’re folding some laundry into baskets after Johnny convinced you into joining him watching “The Godfather.”
“You see me leave every day with a lanyard that says New York Times, Johnny,” you chuckle, still focused on the shirt you’re folding.
“Yeah, but with the way you abuse that typewriter at night I’d think you’re running a secret gossip column about me or something.”
You finally look up, only to find him munching his popcorn in amusement. You reach for his bowl to steal some, he pretends to pull it away only for a second, only to extend it closer to you with a grin.
“Sure Johnny, because I have nothing better to do than write fan fiction about you for the Flaming Heart’s club zines,” you snort, shaking your head, but his tilts in confusion.
“...What’s a fan fiction?”
The question makes your wrist full of pop corn stop mid-air.
“Uhm…you’re better not knowing,” your voice comes out a little too high pitched, trying to brush it off.
“Right…” he says hesitantly, making a mental note to get the next Flaming heart’s club issue.
“I write for the paper’s lifestyle section,” you say, trying to stir the conversation away from that topic. Fortunately, he seems to perk up at that. “But it wasn’t always like that, I actually started writing about sports.”
“Sports?” He asks, lowering the tv’s volume and turning his body more towards you. “You never talk about that.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly passionate about it. They hired me for whatever they needed. And they needed someone to write about the Mets.”
“The Mets…so you’ve seen me there?” He wiggles his eyebrows, making you roll your eyes playfully.
“I covered four seasons Johnny, four. I think I saw the human torch painting the game score on the sky a few times,” you chuckle, wiping your hands on your shorts to grab another piece to fold. “Don’t think I could watch another one, though.”
“Do you hate them?”
“I don’t hate them specifically but…I can’t really stand being in a stadium anymore. My head hurts and it makes me feel sick. It’s so loud, and the games last so long. I had no idea they were that long.”
He tries to be serious, he really does because you’re opening up, but the words leave his mouth before he can stop them.
“That’s what she said.”
You look at him stunned for a second, before you both burst into laughter. Of course. But you don’t get mad. If anything, it helps ease some tension off your shoulders.
“Okay, okay, sorry,” he apologizes after a moment, clearing his throat when your laugh subsides. “So, lifestyle then?”
“They moved me last year. Which is better…I guess.”
It’s not just your hesitant tone that makes Johnny soften, but the way you start to fold a pair of socks like your life depends on it. His gaze goes to your desk by the window, still stacked with mountains of papers and the cup of tea you forgot to take to the sink last night.
“That still doesn’t explain the aggressive typing at midnight,” he adds, prying a little more. “Unless you’re too passionate about throw pillows or vitamins or whatever a lifestyle column is about, but by the way you told me about it…I’m guessing that's not the dream, right?”
You chuckle at his analysis, but there’s more sadness in it than amusement.
“I want to write novels,” you admit quietly. “Romance, actually.”
That makes his eyebrows go up.
“Oh, now that makes sense,” he says with a teasing grin.
You whip your head toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh come on,” he laughs, leaning back on the couch to look at the ceiling, gesturing dramatically in the air. “The girl who listens to love songs repeatedly, wants to write romance novels? Not very surprising.”
You gasp, nudging his knee so he looks at you.
“May I remind you those are your records I’m playing?”
“Oh, please. You put them on more than I do.”
You try not to smile, but with Johnny…you’ve learned that’s impossible.
“Yeah, well, it’s not my fault you’ve got a softie’s taste in music,” you tease, going back to your stupid pile of clothes when he finally looks at you, feigning offense.
“I will not tolerate slander in my own home.”You both fall into soft laughter again, before he decides to turn the volume back up, not really caring about what he might’ve missed. Romance novels, huh. He’s definitely using that against you later.
It’s supposed to be another random Tuesday night.
You’ve called it a day, and intend to sit back and relax and enjoy your evening. You’re about to walk out of your room to make some tea for bed, when you hear the familiar rustle of Johnny’s keys on the front door, but it’s not just his footsteps you hear.
No, there’s a giggle. A girl giggle.
“Oh my god, you weren’t kidding about the stairs!” She says, followed by a breathless little laugh. “Wait…this is it?”
You’re still in your room where you can't see them, but by the sound of the girl’s voice, she’s not exactly impressed about the place Johnny Storm brought her into. But he doesn’t seem to mind, instead, you can hear his footsteps going toward the turntable, probably rummaging through his “setting the mood” shelf.
“Yep. This is where I live.”
There’s a brief pause, where you assume the girl is looking around trying to find a camera that would explain this is just a bad prank.
“…Really? I thought you lived in a penthouse,” she says, laughing nervously again. “I don’t know, something with a view, at least?”
“Nope,” Johnny says, and you can hear the unbothered smile on his face. “This is home.”
She doesn’t say anything back, but you’re guessing she’s probably trying to smile politely like her life depends on it. After all, she’s not stupid enough to waste the opportunity of spending the night with the human torch.
You don’t know what makes you step out of your room, maybe curiosity killed the cat, but you regret it the moment you see the girl Johnny brought home. The brunette looks like her face belongs in a billboard as much as he does. She’s still standing by the door, shifting awkwardly, and her eyes widen when she sees you walk out in pj’s.
“Oh hey!” Johnny says quickly, gesturing between you with a little laugh before she spirals. “This is my roommate. And this is, um…Paige.”
You smile, just enough to be polite, crossing your arms over your chest to try to keep at bay whatever you’re feeling.
“Hi, Paige.” That’s all you can manage to say. Johnny pretends going back to choosing a record, but he watches you from the corner of his eye.
Paige straightens on her spot, smiling way too cheerfully for the expression of bewilderment she had just seconds ago. “Hi! I love the place. It’s so…cozy.”
You nod, ignoring the way she looks up and down at you, and decide it’s wiser to forget about that tea.
“Nice meeting you. I’ll uh…leave you both to it…” you mutter, before doing the only thing a sane person would do.
Retreat to your room, shut the door, and pretend you don’t exist.
You decide to go back to your plans of enjoying the evening, and curl up with a good book in bed–thinking a glass of wine wouldn't be the worst idea–when you hear music coming from the living room. And it’s not just any song. Of course it’s not.
The opening sultry sequence is unmistakable, so instantly recognizable that your eyes go wide as your head snaps toward the door.
“I’ve been really tryyyyyyin’, baby…”
“No fucking way,” you whisper to yourself.
“Tryin’ to hold back this feeling for so looooong…”
You rush to the door, pressing your ear to the wood to confirm you’re not hallucinating. Johnny really is shooting his shot with Marvin Gaye in the background.
Way to set the fucking mood. Literally.
“Oh my God,” you slap a hand over your mouth to stop the disbelieving laughter bubbling out of your chest. “That’s his move?”
You can’t help it. You have to see this. You crack the door open just enough to take a peek of the living room. The record spins on the turntable, as Johnny stands in front of the couch Paige is sitting on.
“Let’s get it on…”
And girl, Johnny’s getting it on. He has his arms up in front of him, elbows bent, fists and eyes closed, completely surrendering to the groove. He rolls his shoulders seductively, and his hips are doing a slow sway that makes your jaw drop to the floor.
He’s performing, right in the middle of your apartment, and you’re not sure if you should be horrified or turned on.
The girl on the couch is surely eating it up. She giggles, covering her mouth like this is the most charming thing she’s ever seen. Johnny throws in a little hip circle, that feels unnecessarily dramatic in your humble opinion, but she squeals louder, clapping as she melts under his mating spell.
“Let’s get it on…let’s love, baby…”
You can’t believe him, you can not believe him…and yet, your lips twitch at the way he’s completely unaware of how stupid he looks because he’s too busy having fun doing his weird seduction ritual.
Of course this is how he flirts. Of course he dances like that. And of course people fall for it.
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. Paige laughs again, and Johnny grins wide, clearly proud of himself. He offers his arm to her with a wink, leaning forward, and she takes his hand with a delighted gasp that seems to seal the deal.
That also means you’ve seen enough.
You close the door softly, pressing your back against it as the music and the giggles muffle behind it. You tell yourself that you should be annoyed. You should be rolling your eyes. But god help you, there’s this weird tender feeling blooming on your chest, and you hate it. Because even when he’s being ridiculous, even when he’s dancing to Marvin Gaye for someone else…You still find him stupidly endearing.
-
Unfortunately, Johnny’s wasn’t the only performance of the night.
Oh no, you wish you could go back to the stupid mating dance instead of…this.
First you just heard the creak of a bed. His bed. Followed by a sound that could only be described as a high, breathy, and absolutely overdone…moan. A performative moan. The walls are thin, not paper thin, but still enough that every exaggerated sound from his guest bleeds through.
“Oh my goood, Johnnyyy…”
You try covering your ears with your pillow, hoping it’ll help muffle the show Paige is putting on next to your room. But no, this girl is committed. She’s moaning as if she’s trying to convince someone. Anyone. Everyone.
God, what if your neighbors think that’s you?
Your groan is muffled by the pillow. This is torture, absolute torture. You know Johnny must be good in bed. That’s not the problem. The problem is that she sounds like she’s aware she has an audience.
You lift yourself on your elbows to glance at the clock and sigh at the time. 1:07 a.m.
Who goes on a date on a Tuesday?
Granted, if you were fucking Johnny you probably wouldn’t mind the day, or the hour–alright STOP right there. That’s not the point!
You plop back down, exhausted, but sleep doesn’t come easily. You just stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks you’ve never bothered to notice before, in an attempt to ignore Johnny’s muffled groans.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re a grown adult who can handle the fact that her roommate has a sex life. There was never a rule against Johnny bringing someone home. He lives here. He pays for almost everything for God’s sake. He’s allowed to bring anyone wants.
It's just…you were naive enough to think he wouldn't.
Girl, whatever.
Wednesday’s morning sun hits you like a slap in the face.
You couldn’t sleep well, not with the symphony next door. So you forced yourself up from bed and got ready for work by a miracle. Now, yawning and barely keeping your eyes open, you drag your feet toward the kitchen to find some salvation in the form of caffeine, but you don’t make it two steps outside your bedroom before you collide directly into something solid.
And wet. And warm. Too warm.
Johnny.
Who was just stepping out of the bathroom with water dripping down his golden skin. A white towel hangs low on his hips. Like low low. His clenched fist barely keeps it in place. Blonde hair sticking in strands to his forehead.
You freeze in place.
“Morning,” he says, smirking, “You okay? You look like you just saw a very handsome man.”
You don’t really hear him. And you absolutely do not stare at his chest, his abs, or the water trickling down his happy trail. But you do notice the hickeys adorning his glistening pecs. Bright and fresh and mocking you.
“It’s okay if you want to scream.” His teasing voice makes you roll your eyes as you shove past him.
“Put on some damn clothes, Storm.”
Johnny lets out a chuckle, leaning over the bathroom’s door frame with his arm.
“Why? You looked like you were enjoying the view,” he adds, and just to show off more, he steams the water off his body in a matter of seconds. “You know, you can just say I’m hot. I’d be flattered, really.”
He expects you to say some witty remark, or give into him with a laugh like you always do, but you give him the cold shoulder treatment. Then you distract yourself by stabbing the buttons on the espresso machine he brought in just last week. Johnny notices not only that, but your sudden aggression toward the cereal box and the bowl you set a little too harshly onto the counter. He frowns, stepping slowly into the kitchen.
“Hey…wait, are you–“
“I’m not mad,” you say, still not looking at him.
“I didn’t say you were,” he shrugs, lifting one hand innocently before smirking again. “…but are you not though?”
“I’m just tired, okay? Some of us had to sleep last night instead of entertaining their very loud…guest.”
“Ohhh,” he clicks his tongue, grin only growing bigger. “So this is about last night. That’s what you’re mad about.”
“I said I’m not mad!” You snap.
There’s a few seconds of silence where Johnny debates turning around and hiding in his room before you throw a knife at him or something, but since he apparently has no survival instinct, he leans closer, tilting his head inquisitively at you.
“…Are you sure?”
You set your palms on the counter with a sigh. But instead of going for the knife in the drawer to your right (very tempting) you step away from him.
“Johnny–listen I’m not mad that you brought someone over,” you start explaining, a little hesitant because wow, this is awkward. “You live here too and you can bring whoever you want. It’s not about that.”
“Okay…” he drags the word, waiting for the but.
“It’s just…it was a weeknight, alright? I have work today and I could barely sleep.”
You see the shift in Johnny’s face when he takes in your exhausted features, your slumped shoulders and the lame work outfit you didn’t seem to care much about. His brows furrow in something that looks like concern as a mild pink paints his cheeks. That’s when you straighten up, shaking your head in an attempt to take it back as sudden embarrassment takes over you.
“Sorry, that probably sounded dumb. Swear I’m not trying to police your sex life–you’re an adult! You can…you can do whatever you want, whenever you want–” you fumble through your words, but this time Johnny is the one shaking his head as he steps closer to you, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his bare chest.
“Shit. I didn’t even think–you’re right,” he says, scratching the back of his head as he turns redder. “I’m sorry…I should’ve thought about that. I really didn’t mean to…make you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t, not in the way you think,” you reassure, lowering your eyes to the bowl on the counter with a little shrug. “Maybe I just didn’t need to hear…all of it. You know?”
He nods a little too quickly. “Yeah yeah, totally, I get it. This uh–this roommate thing’s still new to me, but I’ll be more careful next time. Promise.”
Next time. Promise. You’re not sure why that didn’t make you feel better. Next time. Next time you’ll–
“Thank you,” you mumble, feeling Johnny’s gaze fixed on you as you nod and turn away from him toward the coffee machine again.
Johnny hums, and decides to retreat back to his room, bare feet dragging over the wood floor. The roommate thing is not necessarily new new to him, but living in a shared apartment with thin walls is. At least back at home no one complained about his night endeavours anymore after Reed installed a soundproofing system specifically for this purpose.
He stops right outside his room, his hand resting on the doorknob when he turns to you with that charming smile he wears when he knows he’s done something wrong and he needs to fix it.
“Lunch tomorrow?” He asks casually, almost laughing at the way your head snaps up toward him with wide eyes. “To make it up to you. It’s your day off.”
The perplexed expression on your face doesn’t change.
“You…know?” You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes at him.
“You marked it on the calendar with a little face next to it.” He grins, shrugging cockily.
“I didn’t–” Your eyes land on the calendar next to the landline phone on the wall, and sure there is a little smiley face next to your circle. “You drew that there!” you accuse with a small laugh he follows.
“Whatever. It’s still my treat, what do you say?”
“But…Paige won’t be mad?” you tease, and he bites back a chuckle as he shakes his head.
“She was just a one time thing.”
His expression doesn't falter, but something about the quickness of his reply makes your heart do something stupid again.
“Then…yeah, guess I’d like that,” you say softly.
“Good. I’m picking the place,” he nods with a smile.
You definitely don’t stare at his back as he disappears into his room.
“I got sunshineeee, on a cloudy day…”
The music coming from the jukebox is lively, and matches the bright diner Johnny brought you to. He’d tried hailing a cab to get there, but you dragged him toward the subway, where he insisted on getting his own card to cover your fare at least.
He adored the subway, though! That poor innocent soul.
You weren’t really sure where he was taking you, but you liked the place he chose.
“Can I get you anything else, honey?” The waitress asks Johnny after scribbling down your order. A kind middle aged woman with bright red lipstick, who has apparently known Johnny since he was a kid.
“That’s everything for now. Thank you, Glinda,” he smiles, sending a wink her way.
She laughs, shaking her head, used to him doing that every other day. Then her gaze travels between you two with a smile you can’t quite decipher.
“You two are cute,” she says suddenly.
“We’re not–”
“Thanks!” Johnny cuts you off, and before you can protest, he nudges your foot under the table until Glinda leaves. He chuckles when he sees you narrowing your eyes at him. “Let her believe it. We’ll get better service.”
“Huh. Did that work with Paige too?” You tease with a tilt of your head, and Johnny raises his eyebrows in surprise.
“Wow. So we’re doing that today?”
You shrug, a laugh escaping your lips. “I’m just saying, if I’m gonna be one of your girls of the week, I should know if you’re using the same techniques.”
“Oh don’t worry, you’ll meet the rest of my harem later and you can ask them yourself,” Johnny plays along, making your grin widen. “But if it makes you feel better, you’re the first one I’ve ever brought here.”
Something about the comment makes something flutter in your stomach. You look around, and this is definitely not the place you imagine the girls Johnny dates hanging out. No wonder he hasn’t brought them here, after all, this is just a casual “I fucked too loud the other day and I need you to forgive me” spot.
“How do you know this place?” You ask.
“Sue used to bring me here when I was little,” he explains, smiling softly as he recalls the memory. “Best burgers in the city. I didn’t want to eat anywhere else."
You smile, and shake the bad thoughts away, grateful to be the first one he decided to share this space with besides his sister.
Your food arrives eventually, and the conversation flows easily between you, just as if you were sitting on the floor of your living room. He always shares stories about his missions that seem too good to be true, and when you share stories from your job, the craziest thing you can tell him is the absurd HR drama of the week.
“...I guess you'd say
What can make me feel this way?...”
The music fills the restaurant, and the food is so good, you can’t help the delight on your face.
“Oh my god, you weren’t lying about these,” you say, a little muffled, after the last glorious bite of your burger.
Johnny chuckles, nodding like ‘I told you so’. You’re too busy tasting heaven to notice when he leans forward on his booth, and before you know it, his hand is reaching toward your cheek, wiping some leftover sauce with a napkin.
“There you go,” he says softly.
The gesture is so sudden that you freeze on your spot and stop chewing, but Johnny looks unbothered as ever, leaning back again with both arms resting on the edge of the booth like that was nothing. You stare at his relaxed position, and finish swallowing what was in your mouth, trying to ignore the lingering feeling of his warm fingers grazing your skin.
“Thank you,” you manage, clearing your throat.
“Anytime,” he shrugs, flashing you another one of his pearly white smiles.
“...My girl (my girl, my girl)
Talkin' 'bout my girl (my girl)...”
-
“Well, I think that should cover the noise,” Johnny says, following behind as you enter the apartment after getting back from the diner.
“Fine. Apology accepted, Storm.” You roll your eyes, but can’t help a smile as you go straight to the living room.
You plop down onto the couch, and Johnny throws himself beside you. There’s a comfortable silence for a few seconds, one he couldn’t wait to ruin by opening his mouth.
“Don’t worry, next time I’ll keep it down,” he says nonchalantly. “I can be considerate.”
Maybe he meant it as a joke, you tell yourself. Next time. It really shouldn’t bother you, but it’s the second time he says it like the idea of having another woman on his bed is as casual as eating a burger.
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t–
“Well, hopefully the next one doesn’t fake it so loudly.”
The words left your mouth before you could think about their impact. Johnny turns fully toward you, straightening up on the couch.
“I’m sorry, what? Did you just say Paige was faking it?”
You consider getting up and ignoring the conversation altogether, but that would make you look worse than you already do.
“I didn’t say any names,” you try to brush it off.
“You absolutely meant Paige,” he retorts. “And she wasn’t faking it.”
“…Okay,” is all you say, pursing your lips together. Johnny narrows his eyes.
“You don’t believe me,” he says defensively, and it’s a little hard not to laugh at Johnny's genuine offense.
“Well, did you believe her?” You ask, raising your eyebrows.
He looks at you like you’ve gone mad. “Yes, of course I did! I’m very attentive with those things. I would know.”
“Okay then,” you shrug, leaning forward to take the tv remote from the coffee table, but he beats you to it, and hides it behind him. “Johnny!”
“No! Don’t patronize me,” he points at you with his finger, “I pay attention, okay? I’m not saying I’m Casanova–”
“You kind of are.”
“Well not the point,” he glares at you, but you just bite back a smile and wave your hand for him to continue. “What I mean is, women don’t fake it with me.”
He says it with such conviction, that all you can do is bite the inside of your cheek to not burst out laughing. I mean, of course certified hot stuff™ Johnny Storm would believe that.
“Okay–”
“Stop saying okay!” He groans dramatically, running his hands through his hair like this is physically wearing him out, and then holds them in front of you. “You wanna hear the details? Fine. She said she came ten times.”
“Ten times?”
“Yeah.”
“Johnny.”
“What?”
“Ten??”
“Yes. Ten,” he says proudly, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Did you also come ten times?”
He goes quiet for a moment, his mouth opening and closing in offense. You raise your eyebrows and nod with your head, prompting him to talk.
“No that’s…that’s impossible,” he huffs. All you have to do is give him a look. See? “Okay–stop. It’s different for women.”
“Yeah, I know it is. That’s why you don’t understand,” you sigh, trying to sound nicer now because despite everything, you’re not trying to humiliate him. “Listen, I’m sure you’re good in bed, but sometimes it just doesn’t happen for us. And sometimes girls don’t want to stop everything and explain that in the middle of it, so they fake it to be…polite.”
He looks flabbergasted to say the least.
“Polite? So you’re saying faking orgasms is what, being generous with us?”
“I think she was very generous, making you believe it was twelve times.”
“I said ten,” he snaps.
“Right, ten. God forbid I say an unrealistic number.”
Johnny narrows his eyes at you, but your amused smile doesn’t falter. That’s the moment when the devil on his shoulder whispers something to him, and a glint appears in his eye.
“Well, what about you, then?” He asks casually.
“What about me?” You narrow your eyes.
“Do you have to fake it a lot with the guys you are with?”
“Johnny…” you laugh, rolling your eyes at how he turned it around.
“I’m just saying,” he smirks. “You seem to know a lot about it. Did you have to do it a lot?” He’s teasing, you know it, but there's a bit of genuine curiosity under all that.
“Like I said, sometimes it just doesn’t happen for us,” you shrug, chuckling again but it doesn’t reach your eyes this time, “my last partner was…attentive. So I didn’t have to. At least…not at first.”
“Your last partner?"
You hesitate for a second, then nod.
“We were together for five years.”
“Five years?” Johnny straightens up, unconsciously sliding himself closer to you on the couch. “You were with someone for five years?”
“Yeah. I actually thought I was gonna spend the rest of my life with him,” you smile sadly. “His name is James.”
Johnny hates James.
He’s not sure what to say besides that. You’ve never told him this before, and God, that look on your face…makes him watch you more carefully now. No more teasing, no smirk.
“Did it end badly?” He asks softly. You shake your head.
“It wasn’t ugly per se, just…sad. We didn’t want the same things anymore,” you sigh, he just listens. “We had dreams, you know? Big ones. Penthouse in Manhattan, fancy dinners, skiing holidays. He wanted to go into politics, make it to congress, I wanted to become a New York Times best seller. So, we’d agreed we didn’t want kids or the whole marriage thing. Just success,” you chuckle, because it sounds so foreign to you now. “But after so many years together I changed my mind. I wanted a family. I wanted…more. I wanted to live the love I was writing about.”
“And he didn’t,” Johnny adds quietly.
“No. He didn't. Didn't think we could have both.” You meet his gaze, and you see true concern there, so you smile. “It’s been about a year since we called it off. I’ve healed a lot since then. Found this place and made it home.” you say, as if he’s the one who needs reassurance.
Johnny’s heart burns under his chest. He’d never stopped to think about the life you had before him. There was a whole imagined future that someone destroyed, and he had no idea.
“I heard he made it to congress last month,” you add, toying with the hem of your shirt. “Guess that leaves me here, still writing in my pjs thinking I can make it big one day,” you chuckle, but Johnny doesn't find it so amusing.
“Hey. Don’t say it like that,” he says softly, shaking his head. “You’re doing it. You’re writing, maybe not in some fancy tower office or bestselling list yet, but you’re on your way. I’ve seen you type for hours on that thing,” he points at the typewriter by the window. “And you’re going to find someone who wishes the same things as you. You deserve someone who wants to give you all that, and more.”
“Yeah…maybe,” you nod. He huffs, nudging your leg playfully with his support.
“Definitely.”
This time you let yourself smile genuinely. You’re not sure why you let yourself share all of that with Johnny. Surely, he’s never had to worry about success, and there’s a line of girls who would gladly marry him anyday. But the way he’d looked at you, so…earnest. You deserve someone who wants to give you all that, and more. His words echo in your head, but maybe you shouldn't dwell on it. He was just being nice–
“It’s a little quiet in here, isn’t it?” His voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and when you turn to look at him, he’s got his devilish smile back on.
You narrow your eyes, but he just raises from the couch and walks toward the turntable.
“I say, we need some music to lighten up,” he half turns to you without stopping, winking.
You snort, shifting on the couch to peek at what vinyl he wants to play, but he purposefully covers it with his body. You don’t have to guess for long, because a familiar groove fills the apartment when he drops the needle.
“Johnny, you can’t be serious right now,” you chuckle when you recognize the tune.
He turns away from the turntable, and he already has that mischievous glint in his eye, making a “come here” motion with two fingers. His hips start moving to the rhythm as he walks toward you, and you have to bite back a smile.
“Come on, I already heard your sad story. Let’s dance now.”
“My sad story?” You gasp in exaggerated offense. “Oh you're dead, Storm.”
“Yeah?” He grins, stopping right in front of you but never halting his moves. “Why don’t you stand up and show me you can move, then?”
“I won’t–”
“Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man no time to talk…” he cuts you off, singing and pointing at himself. His voice comes out so high it matches the record, and you cover your mouth to hide your smile. He keeps dancing to the groove, “And now it's all right, it's okay. And you may look the other way…” you do just that, but Johnny slides to stay in your line of sight.
“…Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother
You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive…”
You cover your face, peeking through your fingers. He keeps moving so easily, so unashamed, and for a moment it feels too familiar. It’s just like the other night, except today, you are the girl he’s dancing to.
“Ah ah ah ah, staying alive…” Johnny channels his inner Travolta, and busts out the signature disco move: left hand on his hip, the other moving up and down in the air as the chorus hits. You can’t hide the delight on your face anymore. A giggle escapes out, and he just smiles brighter, stopping his move only to offer his hand. “Come on, dance with me.”
You want to say no.
“Scared of a little fun?” He teases.
It’s a trap. It’s a trap. But he’s standing right there with his hand outstretched, hips swaying to the beat, and those impossible blue eyes daring you to stop thinking about fake orgasms and failed relationships and just join the moment. He looks so ridiculous, yet you’re rising up from the couch before you can really think about it.
Johnny cheers approvingly, stepping back to give you space, and you let yourself go. Your own moves are looser, less practiced than his, but still good enough to raise to the challenge. You shake your hair playfully, spinning around so Johnny is standing behind you as you join the rhythm. You sway from side to side in opposite directions, catching brief glances of each other’s faces. He lets out a low whistle.
“Ohhhh she dances,” he praises, eyes shamelessly trailing your movements.
“Shut it,” you shoot back.
And you both dance.
“…Well now, I get low and I get high
And if I can't get either, I really try…”
The apartment fills with music and laughter, and you get lost in your own Saturday Night Fever extravaganza. At some point he reaches for your hand again and twirls you, making you stumble into him, and you collide chest to chest. The song keeps playing, but it fades out when his bright blue eyes set on you.
You’re breathless, and you try to play it cool, but it’s impossible when he’s right there.
“You’re smiling,” he says teasingly, but you don’t try to hide this time.
“Only because you’re ridiculous,” you manage.
Johnny shrugs smugly, making you yelp when he steps back and spins you around faster than before, then prompting you to dance again. “Then be ridiculous with me.”
As you both laugh and surrender to the rhythm, you come to the realization that you could learn to love this.
The dancing.
It’s Friday night, and you decide to give dating a chance again. It’s about time after all.
You smooth down your outfit, fix your hair one last time, and give yourself a final look in the mirror of your room. It’s been a while since you actually dressed up for something that wasn’t work, and god, it feels good to remember you still have it in you.
You step out of your room hoping to leave without making too much of a fuss, when you come across a shirtless Johnny leaning on the breakfast counter, wearing his human torch pj pants– way too low to be considered PG– and eating from the cereal box in his hand. Only the glow from the refrigerator bathes the kitchen in a pale golden hue.
Not an unfamiliar sight at all, yet…you always find yourself staring longer than you should. For Johnny, however, watching you come out of your room looking like that as you leave a trail of expensive perfume he’s sure you’ve never worn before, is unfamiliar.
“Wow,” he says, straightening up against the counter, a teasing smile on his face. “She actually cleans up nicely.”
You snort, looking around for your coat and pretending you don’t feel Johnny’s burning gaze on you when you put it on.
“Date night?” he asks. His voice definitely didn’t come out higher than normal.
“...Yeah,” you mumble, fixing the collar of your coat. “Guy from work. He’s um…we’re going dancing.”
“Dancing? People still do that?” He teases. Hypocrite.
“Ha. Ha. Very funny Storm,” you retort, walking to the door to grab your keys on the little hook next to it. “Please don’t burn the place while I’m out.”
“I can’t promise anything,” he shrugs unapologetically, rounding the counter as if to walk toward the couch in the living room, but he really just wants to get a better look at you before you leave. “You look very beautiful.”
His words make your hand freeze over the doorknob. There’s something about the softness in his voice that knocks the breath out of your chest. You turn around to look at him with a small smile.
“Thank you, Johnny,” you say, but before you can reach the knob again he perks up.
“Wait–he’s not coming up to get you?”
“No…he said he’d be outside at 8,” you shrug, but Johnny doesn't seem to take it as lightly as you do. If anything, you’d say he looks scandalized to say the least.
“Yeah–no. That’s not happening,” he shakes his head, dropping the cereal box on the counter as he walks towards you.
“Johnny–”
“No way I’m letting you wait outside alone in the cold while some guy honks his car like he’s doing you a favor,” he says, walking ahead to open the door. “I’ll wait with you.”
“...You’re only wearing pants.”
“Yeah, and they’re my favorite pair,” he deadpans. “Let’s go.”
“Okay…” you shrug, but can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips as he guides you outside the apartment. “Thank you,” you whisper, when he offers his arm to help you down the multiple flights of stairs.
Date night hasn’t even started and you’re already flustering.
Once you’re in the lobby, Johnny doesn’t seem to mind the fact that he’s standing shirtless and barefoot next to the glass doors. If anything, he’s more interested in seeing who this mystery man is, if he even has the decency of at least walking inside to get you. For a moment he just stares at you from the corner of his eye, resisting the urge to send another compliment your way.
The clock ticks, minutes go by, and you’re still smiling but the slight waver of your stance doesn’t go unnoticed by Johnny.
He glances at you, then at his watch. 8:15. Shit.
"Are you sure he said eight?" Johnny asks carefully.
“Yeah. Eight. Michael called me yesterday to confirm it,” you nod, eyes still glued to the street outside.
Johnny hates Michael. He hates him so much and he doesn’t even know him. But he forces a reassuring smile for you.
“Maybe traffic?”
“Yeah,” you agree too quickly. “You know how it is on a Friday.”
He just nods, and turns back to the street. He doesn’t feel the bite of the cold, but he notices the way you wrap your arms around you. He silently steps closer to you, increasing his body temperature so can share some with you. You don’t say anything, or even move, but time does.
8:25.
You shift your weight from side to side, trying to come up with something to at least make the silence a little less awkward, but nothing comes out.
8:30.
Johnny’s gaze turns to you again, and you fear he sees the moment of cruel acceptance in your face. Why did he have to wait with you? This would be less embarrassing if he’d just stayed upstairs so you had time to come up with an excuse less pathetic than “I was stood up.”
At 8:40 you decide it’s been enough of this humiliation, so you exhale, turning back to the stairs while avoiding Johnny’s eyes.
“Well, he probably got caught up in something,” you shrug, trying to sound casual. A shaky laugh escapes your lips. “Maybe an emergency. Or maybe he just didn’t want to come...”
“I don’t think–”
“I’m gonna go back,” you cut him off, clearing your throat. “I’ll just change and order something. It’s no big deal.”
Johnny doesn't have time to offer his arm this time, because you’re already halfway up the stairs ahead of him. So he follows behind, no questions asked.
The hurt is not even about the guy who didn’t show up, because you haven’t known him long enough for this to be a proper “heartbreak”, but you hate that you got all dressed up and hopeful. How you let yourself believe someone might want to see you that badly. Oh he’s gonna hear it from you on Monday.
And now you’re walking back upstairs with your roommate in the front row of the whole shitshow.
Your roommate who held the door open and helped you down the stairs.The one who hasn't made a single joke about the situation even when you’re sure he’s never had to worry about being stood up in his entire life. The one who said you looked beautiful with such softness in his voice that your stomach still flips thinking about it.
Your roommate who also happens to be Johnny Storm.
And the worst part?
Part of you wishes he was the one who stood you up. Because at least then, it would’ve meant he wanted to take you out in the first place.
God, you’re being ridiculous.
You don’t really want to talk when you approach the apartment. Johnny closes the door behind you with a soft click, and you don’t even bother turning the lights back on since the idea of ordering something doesn’t seem that appealing anymore, instead, you bend down to take your shoes off. Your night ended before it could even begin anyways.
“Goodnight, Johnny.”
You don’t wait for a reply as you straighten up and make a beeline for your bedroom, but you stop when you feel his warm fingers wrap gently around your wrist, the same one holding your shoes.
“Wait,” he says softly. “Just…wait.”
He lets go almost as quickly, his brief touch a mere ghost feeling on your wrist as you watch him walk with determination toward the turntable in the living room, flipping through the basket of records on rotation you keep next to it. You’re about to open your mouth to tell him you’re really not in the mood for this, but he beats you to it.
“Ah ha!” He celebrates when he finds the one he was looking for, but from your spot it’s hard to recognize the cover in the darkness. He places the record on the player, and turns to you a little bit shyer. “This isn’t, you know…a fancy dance floor. But I figured you deserved your dance anyway.”
His dashing smile is soft and lopsided and even a little sheepish as he waits for your response. Your heart thumps so loud and quickly you struggle to process everything you feel in that moment, and the sting in your eyes doesn't help either.
You stay speechless, but Johnny doesn't mind, he only turns again to drop the needle on the vinyl before walking to your spot.
You expect the melody to come out of the turntable to be lively, something ridiculously sexy or extravagant like the other day, but when you recognize the soft chords of a guitar, you have to stop yourself from gasping.
“I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me…”
Frank Sinatra's voice dances across the apartment, just as Johnny stops in front of you and extends his hand with a soft smile.
“What do you say? Wanna dance under the glow of our ridiculous fridge?”
A chuckle escapes your lips. To think that you would’ve expected him to mock you for what happened, but no, he’s offering you a dance instead. Again. Words are foreign to you still, but you drop your shoes to the floor and take his hand.
“And if we go some place to dance I know that there's a chance you won't be leaving with me…”
His hand finds your waist, and yours land over his bare shoulders almost instinctively. You start to sway to the melody, glassy eyes meeting his piercing blue ones. His face is washed by the faint glow coming from the kitchen, enough to look ethereal as he guides your hips from side to side. His body is hot beneath your touch, and you find it hard to coordinate your moves with the unsteadiness of your breathing.
“And afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two…”
The record choice doesn’t help your state either. That song. That damn song. The one you’ve been playing every Sunday morning. The one you sing along to in the middle of typing as you try to recreate that love with your words. The one you reach for when the apartment’s too quiet and you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts.
This is not like the other day. This…this is everything.
“And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like ‘I love you’...”
Johnny breaks eye contact to spin you around softly, almost letting out a tiny huff when your chests collide back together. That’s familiar. His grip on your waist tightens ever so slightly, and your fingers find their way to play with his hair.
You don’t want the moment to end. And neither does he. So you keep going, careful not to let your face bury into his bare chest, as you sway barefoot under the refrigerator light.
“The time is right, your perfume fills my head
The stars get red and, oh, the night's so blue…”
Maybe getting stood up wasn't so bad.
“And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like ‘I love you’...”
Maybe this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
The next time you decide to try dating, it’s with a better man. A totally normal, grounded, emotionally available man who shows up at your doorstep when he says he will.
Joseph has brown eyes and brown hair. A warm voice with an accent that had you internally giggling and kicking your feet when you were introduced at a work event. He’s sweet and listens and laughs at your jokes and doesn't have a superhero suit in his closet.
Nope, he just works in finance.
That’s good. That’s smart. Joseph’s normal. He doesn’t light on fire at will. And he's oh, so handsome. Which is why, after many successful dates, you knew you wanted more with him.
Johnny hasn't been home on a Saturday night since he moved in. You don’t know exactly where he goes; missions, friends, clubs, space? Who cares, Saturday is his disappearing act, so you were counting on having the apartment to yourself.
So when Joseph said I’d love to come inside after kissing you against the front door, you said sure with a little grin and the warmth of two glasses of wine running through your veins. You fumbled with your keys a little, giggling when Joseph’s hands roamed down your waist when you opened the door…only to find him on the couch.
Johnny.
Wearing sweatpants and a white t-shirt with a 4 logo. Bowl of popcorn in his lap and a movie glowing on the screen. His head whips in your direction when he hears your little messy entrance, and smiles a little too wide for someone who just ruined your plans entirely.
“Heeey,” he beams, leaning back on the couch as his eyes narrow at the man standing behind you.
“Hi,” you say, clearly taken aback. “...You’re home.”
“Yep.”
Ugh. Can’t a girl get laid in peace?
“Everything alright?” Joseph asks hesitantly, clearly not expecting to find Johnny Storm on your couch.
“Yeah–yeah, sorry. Come in,” you step aside, gesturing awkwardly between them. “This is uh–Johnny. My roommate.”
“That’d be me,” Johnny throws a salute in his direction. “And you are?”
“Joseph,” he flashes a confident grin, tightening his grip around your waist. “Nice to meet you, torch.”
Johnny nods at him, eyes traveling to his hand placement, and you swear you catch his posture faltering for a second, the thousand alarms going off behind that perfect smile. So she doesn’t like blonds…
“Don’t you uh…have somewhere to be?” You ask, gesturing with your eyes toward the door in a silent plea, but he just shakes his head, smiling wider and leaning back onto the couch. He even has the audacity to laugh when you glare at him.
“Oh please, don’t mind me here! I’ll just finish my movie.”
Your eye twitches. So he wants to stay? Fine. You’re not leaving either.
“Well!” you say a little too enthusiastically, one hand reaching for Joseph’s to pull him toward your bedroom. “Don’t mind us either, then.”
He shrugs, pretending to turn to the TV again but you feel him watching as you walk away.
“Don’t forget the walls are thin!”
You don’t turn around or answer to him, just tug Joseph inside your room and shut the door. You twist the lock and try the knob a few times, just in case.
It doesn’t take long before Joseph is all over you. You’d already been worked up on the way there and the drinks fogging your mind helped you ease the nerves. This is what you wanted after all, a normal night with a normal man. A very sexy one at that.
His roaming hands are warm and his mouth finds places that have you leaning on the wall behind you so you don’t fall apart completely.
You really try to be quiet. Respectful. Because unlike him, you’re not trying to put on a show. Seriously, what was he thinking? He’s gone every single Saturday and today he chooses to “watch a movie”. I swear to God, he can be a pain in the ass when he wants to–
Okay, maybe let’s not think about Johnny Storm when another man is on top of you.
But your bed creaks, just like his that night. You tell yourself to relax, to let go, yet you bite your lip and keep your sounds low. Careful little breaths barely muffled by Joseph’s neck. That is, until it starts to feel too good, and the moans slipping out stop being something you can control.
Outside, the movie is still playing. Johnny, however, doesn’t even know what’s going on in that screen anymore. He turns the volume up and tells himself that whatever is happening inside your room is none of his business.
You brought a guy home, big deal.
It explains why you’ve been giggling on the phone late at night and disappearing every now and then all dolled up. Not that he has noticed, really. You have every right to do whatever you want, with whoever you want. Really. He’s even glad this guy didn’t stand you up like the last one. You deserve to be happy.
Even if he’s not happy right now. Because he really shouldn’t be listening to you like that.
She’s faking, he thinks immediately, when the sounds start to slip past the walls of your room. You have to. There’s no way that guy is that good.
Something in his stomach twists when the sounds you’re letting out just prove your theory from the other day: he’s an idiot who can’t tell.
But he would know with you, he would–no.
He stands up so abruptly the plastic bowl of popcorn goes flying from his lap, making a mess all over the woodfloors. Whatever, he’ll deal with that later. Right now, he has to leave, or he’s gonna die in this house. And in a whoosh of raging fire, he’s gone.
Weeks went by, and Johnny never brought up that night. Just like you never brought up finding the TV still on and the popcorn all over the floor next morning.
You both went back to normal. You kept seeing Joseph and Johnny went back to disappearing on Saturdays. You even had a feeling Johnny was seeing someone too, and confirmed it the day you found a pink bra peeking out of his laundry pile.
So you were both dating…other people. Big deal.
Despite that, things didn’t really change between you. Because at night? You still came home to each other. You still ate takeout together on the floor, still watched movies, still bickered over who jammed the garbage disposal.
Normal, normal, normal. Just like tonight.
“So, when are you moving in with your boyfriend?” Johnny asks playfully, setting down an empty noodles box on the coffee table.
For a second you choke on your last bite of noodles, and cover it up with a cough that has him looking at you amusingly.
“It’s a little early for that,” you shrug casually, fiddling with your chopsticks on the empty box.
He nods, serious for only a second before he sighs dramatically, putting one hand over his heart and the other over his eyes. “And here I was, thinking it was because you liked living with me too much.”
This time you snort, shaking your head. The worst part is that he might not be wrong about that, but don’t tell him that I said that!
“Don’t flatter yourself, Storm,” you scoff instead.
“Oh, come on,” he whines, pushing your thigh with his foot. “I’m great to live with. I know you’d miss me if I left.”
I might wither and die.
“I would not,” you say firmly. “What is there to miss, the burnt toast and the bra’s in the laundry?” You tease.
“Those aren’t mine,” he says seriously.
“Well thank you for clarifying that, Johnny. I was really having doubts if you were a C cup or not,” you shake your head, and this time you can’t fight the laughter that flows so easily between you. “And for the record, if there’s anything I’d miss, it's the refrigerator, or your vinyls.”
He snorts and rolls his eyes, standing up to take the empty box from you and walk toward the kitchen to throw it away. You can’t help but glance in his direction, and heat warms your cheeks when he turns around and catches you staring. But the teasing never comes, no, only a sweet smile, softly illuminated by the fridge in question.
You look away before you say something you're not supposed to.
Wow, look at that! Another Saturday Johnny didn’t disappear. Why? Because this morning Johnny decided to casually announce that the Fantastic Fucking Four were dying to see your shared apartment and finally meet you, the roommate, tonight.
So yeah, he had you running like a headless chicken all day from store to store–dragging him along, of course–to have everything decent for them. He even bought a dining table with express delivery and ever faster assembly service, since your thrifted coffee table wasn’t gonna fit his fantastic family.
Perfectly normal Saturday.
“Johnny, does your sister have a preference for napkins?” You ask, holding up as many brands as you can, the fancy ones, but when you turn to him, he’s in deep conversation with that watch thingy he has.
“No, it’s a family thing…” he says to the person on the call. “...I know, baby. But I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, alright?...Come on, don’t be like that…”
You move farther away when you realize who he’s talking to, but when you watch him from the corner of your eye, he looks like he’s trying to bargain something with a toddler. A few minutes later, he sighs and hangs up, and you pretend to read the back of two napkin brands like your life depends on it. A casual whistle was the only thing missing.
“So…” he says nonchalantly when he reaches you, or at least that’s how he thinks he’s coming off like, “…Vicky is coming tonight too.”
He smiles, even if he’s ready for you to snap at him since it was just supposed to be his family. But you just purse your lips together.
Of course she’s gonna come. The bra girl.
“Great!” you say, maybe a little too fast, then clear your throat because you have bigger things to focus on. “Now help me with the napkins, I don’t want your family to silently judge us for having the wrong ones.”
Johnny’s shoulders sag in relief and amusement. “My family doesn't have a preference, it’s just napkins,” he says, but then he eyes the multiple brands on your hands and feels as lost as you are. “You know what, let me ask Herbert to be sure.”
You should get extra points for not passing out when he introduced you to his family. Especially when Sue Storm hugged you like you’d known each other your whole lives. Johnny had then decided to give them a full tour of the small place, and you’d made yourself scarce with the excuse of putting away the dessert Ben brought. The truth is, you just needed a moment to process the fact that four superheroes were in your apartment right now.
You tried not to think about how crammed it looked right now, since the sitting area had been reduced due to the space the new table took. If they noticed, it never showed in their kind faces.
Just as expected, his family was as golden as him.
You’re sliding the dessert tray into the fridge when you hear the soft click of heels behind you. Turning around, you find Sue standing there with crossed arms and a curious smile. She’s dressed in cashmere and a pair of boots that probably cost more than your rent. You look over where Johnny is, proudly showing them the view, completely unaware that his sister had left the audience.
“So, this is the girl my brother hasn’t stopped talking about,” she says, drawing your attention back from Johnny.
“Oh…me?” You ask a little confused, closing the fridge and wiping your hands on your legs.
“Unless there’s another roommate with a fondness for love songs and typewriters, I think I’ve got the right one,” she says teasingly, and you notice she has the same spark in her eye Johnny does.
Wait, she…she knows those things?
You resist the urge to glance at Johnny again, and nod. “Oh yeah, I just..thought maybe you meant Vicky,” you chuckle nervously.
“Vicky…?” She tilts her head with a frown, trying to place the name, but then she shakes her head. “No, he’s only ever mentioned one girl. His roommate…and that’s you. He says he likes the–” she cuts herself off, finding the right word. “...Balance, this place gives him.”
“He said that?” This time you can’t keep from looking at him, demonstrating to Reed how comfy our worn couch is. Our. Sue nods.
“He didn’t really have that growing up, you know. The world’s always been loud for Johnny, and it felt like he was always chasing something. But now…” she looks around the apartment with a big sister smile, “he’s still chasing things, but he has somewhere stable to come back to. And I’m glad it’s here.”
You let the words sink it for a moment, as you swallow the lump in your throat. Sue’s eyes soften, and she reaches to squeeze your hand reassuringly. The brief moment breaks when the bell rings, making you both jump and then laugh at each other’s reactions. You clear your throat, and walk toward the little intercom by the wall.
“Yes?” you ask.
“Hi! It’s Vicky!” a bright voice rings louder than the bell itself.
“Come on up,” is all you say, pushing the button to open the lobby door.
A good glass of wine doesn’t sound like a bad idea right now.
Sue lifts a brow curiously from her spot when she sees you pour yourself a cup and then one for her, but you just flash a smile and excuse yourself, smoothing your clothes and fixing your hair before opening the door.
And there she is…Vicky. Golden hair, golden everything. Just like Johnny. Just like…his world.
“Hi! Oh my god, the stairs always get me,” she exhales with a little giggle, and yet not a single bead of sweat on her forehead or a piece of hair out of place. “I brought appetizers!” she beams, holding up a tray.
“That’s so nice of you,” you smile politely, but narrow your eyes when you realize they look a little suspicious. “Are those–”
“Oh, shrimp bites! They’re to die for.”
You barely manage to keep your polite expression in place, ready to explain that Johnny hates shrimp and would rather die than be in the presence of it, but the king of Rome itself materializes next to you before you can.
“V!” His voice comes out way more affectionate than it did at the store earlier, as he approaches her. “You made it, baby.”
You step aside just in time to witness him plant a loud smooch to Vicky’s cheek, and that’s the perfect moment to take a big sip of your drink. Or maybe not, because the second you get distracted, Johnny reaches for the tray.
“Well, don’t mind me,” Johnny says, popping one of the little shrimp abominations into his mouth before you even bring your glass down. But you look just in time to see the exact moment his eyes go wide when he chews, and his entire soul leaves his body.
Vicky, absolutely oblivious to the horrors Johnny is going through, has already set her gaze on something behind you.
“Oh J, this must be your sister!” she squeals. She barely gives you time to balance your glass as you catch the tray she tosses to you, shouldering past you to wrap Sue in a big hug.
Johnny has never been more grateful to throw his sister under the bus, using the distraction to discreetly spit the whole bite into a napkin, wiping his tongue dramatically and trying very hard not to gag. You bite back your amusement as you walk up to him, placing the tray gently on his hands. He immediately scowls at it, looking up at you in betrayal.
“Here you go,” you grin, taking a sip of your wine as you walk away toward the couch where the rest of his family is.
Sue looks past Vicky, who keeps yapping away about how much she’s heard about Johnny’s big sister and can’t believe they haven’t met yet so she had to come tonight, and finds Johnny looking in the direction you took off.
Interesting.
–
After brushing his teeth twice, Johnny had survived the shrimp fiasco, and everything was going well so far. Vicky had sat on his lap as you all got to know each other, chatting away in the living room. Honestly, he’d actually planned this to be just his family and…you. But then things happened, and well, seems like he wasn’t the only one with surprise guests.
His gaze followed you as you excused yourself from the conversation, to open the door to Joseph (🙄) with a bright smile on your face. Of course. It’s only fair you invited him too. Not that Johnny cares anyways.
Joseph walks in wearing a loose black suit, with his stupid wavy brown curls tousled by the stairs trials, and holding a stupid bouquet of flowers in his hand.
“Hi, darling,” he says with a warm smile, meant only for you. “You look beautiful.”
Your soft laugh dances through the room as he steals a kiss from you. Johnny turns back to the conversation. He doesn't notice how he sits up straighter on the couch or how he sets his drink down a little too hard on the coffee table. He doesn't even notice when Vicky leaves his lap to go to the bathroom. But what he definitely notices is the moment your smile turns from genuine to polite, when you get handed flowers he knows you don’t like.
He knows that, because you scowl at them every time you pass them by the supermarket, so why doesn’t your boyfriend know?
Joseph leans in to kiss your cheek now as he steps inside, and you lead him toward the kitchen. Johnny notices how you set the flowers down on the breakfast counter instead of looking for a vase to display them.
“So…” Ben, who’s sitting to his right, nudges his arm. “Are we not gonna talk about it?” He mumbles.
“About what?” Johnny whispers back, still looking at you.
“About how her boyfriend looks exactly like you.”
“What?” Johnny’s head jerks toward him, looking baffled as Ben just shrugs with a knowing smile.
“Just saying, man. It’s like seeing you with brown hair…and lawyer shoes.”
“No it’s not. We do not look alike.” Johnny scoffs.
“You do.”
“We don’t.”
“Do too.”
“Do not.”
Ben leans back with a grin. He enjoys rage baiting Johnny whenever he can, but there’s truth in his words. Johnny looks back to his alleged doppelgänger and shakes his head.
“Seriously?” He says. Ben chuckles, and shrugs. Johnny rolls his eyes, and leans toward the armchair his sister is sitting at, “Hey Sue, psst.”
Sue looks away from her conversation with Reed, and lifts her eyebrow at Johnny.
“C’mere,” Johnny says, patting the spot on his left side. Luckily, she excuses herself from her husband and takes the spot. Ben and Johnny turn to her expectantly, whispering, “Okay, do not say yes just to annoy me, but…do you think I look like him?”
“Who?”
“Joseph,” Johnny deadpans. “Do I look like Joseph?”
Sue tilts her head, pretending to be analyzing the British man making you laugh in the kitchen, but there’s a knowing smile creeping on her face.
“Oh…a little,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.
“A little??”
“Well, yeah. He’s like you, if you had brown eyes…and less of a tan…or a cute accent…” she says, watching her brother grow more scandalized by the second.
“A cute accent?” Johnny mocks. “Please. He sounds like a knockoff Beatle.”
Sue and Ben share an amused look.
“I don’t think he’d be a singer. He has more…actor vibes,” Sue taunts, adding fuel to the fire inside Johnny’s veins.
He almost choked in offense.
“Okay, so he’s an actor now? He doesn’t even have that kind of face,” Johnny huffs, reaching for his drink again because what kind of fuckery is this.
“So you’re saying you don’t have that kind of face either,” Ben adds, this time Sue snorts, shaking her head.
“I do have that kind of face. The face. He doesn't because we don't look alike.”
“Sure, Johnny.”
Sue stands up before he can protest like a toddler again. “I’m gonna help her with the food,” she announces, winking mischievously at them and walking away.
“Oh I love these napkins!”
He hears her say when she reaches the new shiny table setup.
That makes you perk up from the kitchen. Right in that moment, your gaze moves from Joseph to Johnny, and you smile proudly at him like “told you so.” Johnny smiles back, but before he can get up and say anything about how much influence he actually had on the napkin choice, a pair of long legs trap him on his seat.
“What did I miss, babyboy?” Vicky asks as she plops down on his lap again, wrapping her arms around his neck to play with his hair.
Reed and Ben pretend to look everywhere else. Johnny just smiles, taking another sip from his drink.
–
Vicky had left earlier than anticipated, claiming a friend called her to get her out of a shitty date, or something like that. Johnny didn’t really ask.
He has to admit he was a little nervous about this whole get together. Afraid that they would be too much. But he wanted nothing more but to brag about his apartment and his roommate, and the little life he’d managed to build for himself. Even if their world had always been filled with big things. This could’ve gone wrong in many ways, but all things considered, he finds himself smiling when his eyes land on you.
He's standing close to the front door, and seeing you confidently showing Sue, whose kitchen had been designed by Reed–the king of gadgets himself–the tiny spice rack you installed last week, made something inside him flutter.
“Hey, man. Have you been to a lot of Mets games?” A familiar British accent startles him.
The fluttering dies immediately.
Joseph has stepped beside him, glass in hand and that stupid smile plastered on his face. He forces himself to look away from you. You’re close to them, but not enough to hear the conversation.
“I mean, yeah. It’s kind of hard not to, I can fly,” Johnny replies drily, but Joseph just laughs easily.
“Right, right, of course,” he says, glancing toward the kitchen, mirroring the way Johnny was just looking at you seconds ago. “Sometimes I forget she lives with a superhero...”
Johnny chuckles, shrugging nonchalantly (he’s actually trying very hard not to puff his chest right now.) “Why do you ask?”
“Ehh…just wanted to know if you got any recommendations for seats? I’m still new to the city, but I’ve been told not to miss the games,” he shrugs. “I’d like somewhere not too close to the cameras, if possible. I’m not…really into all that.”
“The cameras?” Johnny frowns.
“Yeah, the whole crowd cams, people watching you all the time, that whole thing.”
Johnny listens and tries not to judge. But see? This guy could never be an actor. Or a Beatle. Johnny could, shame there’s not a blonde Beatle. Ohhh, but there’s always wigs though! He’s sure he could rock one, with his bone structure and all–
“Mate?”
Johnny snaps back to reality, and just flashes a golden smile.
“There’s cameras everywhere, mate,” Johnny replies, “but I can hook you up with the good tickets, if you’d like. How many do you need?”
“Oh wow that–that’d be perfect, yeah, thank you,” he says, not really expecting that. “Just two, man.”
“…Are you going with a friend?” Johnny narrows his eyes, but Joseph chuckles, shaking his head.
“I’m taking her,” he says, gesturing at you with his glass.
Fuck.
“You…are taking her to a game?”
“Yeah. It’ll be fun on her day off.”
Johnny knows when your next day off is. He painted another happy face next to your mark on the calendar just to make you smile. He also knows that you like to spend those free days curled up at home, certainly not at a freaking stadium.
He knows because it mattered to you when you told him. He remembers because you matter to him.
“Did you…ask her if she likes baseball?” Johnny pries carefully.
“Not really. I mean, I figured she’d be fine,” he says, a little defensively.
There’s a few seconds of silence where Johnny debates to keep quiet, but that has never been one of his strengths, so he ends up blurting, “She doesn’t like going to the stadium.”
“Really?” Joseph frowns, eyeing him.
“She told me once that all the noise makes her sick. And I get it…it’s not the most comfortable place to be,” Johnny chuckles, trying his best to sound casual about it.
“Oh,” Joseph says. For a moment it looks like he’s contemplating, but after thinking about it for exactly three seconds, he shrugs. “Well… she can bring earplugs or something. It’s just one game.”
Johnny’s not sure if his eye twitching was only a product of his imagination, but given the lack of acknowledgement on Joseph’s face, he figures he managed to keep his emotions at bay. This is not what you deserve. This is not what he wants for you.
Don’t flame on right now. Do not flame on right now. Do not–
“You know what? I can get you access to the VIP suite, so you two can be more comfortable,” he offers instead, plastering on his best plastic Ken smile.
He’ll get you the best suite, with shade, AC and all the unlimited appetizers you could ever need. If that makes the experience a little more bearable for you.
“Yeah I guess that would work, thanks, mate!” Joseph says, patting Johnny’s shoulder, but regretting it immediately. He retracts his hand with a hiss, switching the glass to that one to help cool it as he laughs nervously. “Jeez. You’re burning up, man.”
He’s boiling up, actually. But he manages to tone down his temperature, patting Joseph’s cold shoulder firmly before walking toward the kitchen where you’re laughing at something Sue just said.
Just the sight of you manages his temperature to calm down.
“Everything alright?” You ask curiously when he steps beside you with a suspicious smile, noticing the way Joseph kept opening and closing his hand as he headed toward the bathroom.
“Peachy,” Johnny smiles innocently.
“Mhm,” you hum, narrowing your eyes at him. Even his sister eyes him suspiciously, but Johnny ignores her.
“Is there anything I can help you here with?” He asks casually, gesturing to the pots simmering on the stove.
“Nope! But maybe you can pour some more wine for our guests," you say quickly, stirring him away from the stove for everyone’s safety. Sue bites her lip.
“Roger that,” he says, diligently opening a new bottle on the breakfast counter.
Johnny notices Sue leans in to whisper something in your ear that makes you throw your head back and laugh, before whispering something back to her.
He can’t fight the smile on his face when he realizes you’re talking about him, but it dies down when his eyes land on the flowers Joseph brought you on the counter. The conversation with him is still making fire run through his veins, and this just added more to it.
Safe to say, Johnny now hates Joseph too.
To be continued…
Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always appreciated 💗
pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader
word count | 11.3k words
summary | when your boyfriend offers to play the stranger who picks you up at a bar, you expect a little dirty talk—not a full performance, a running camera, and the dirtiest night of your life.
tags | 18+ (MDNI), EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT, unprotected sex, rough sex, established relationship, roleplay smut, manhandling, roleplay sex, filmed sex, degradation/praise, overstimulation, fingering, dacryphilia, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f!receiving), facial, fake cheating, teasing!reader, mean!bucky, flustered!bucky, bf!bucky, bucky is down so bad, smut with feelings, bucky has a cam kink now, horny and in love, porn with the tiniest bit of plot, or no... actually I'm lying, there's really no plot.
a/n | this has been sitting in my drafts since oct, enjoy. inspired by that episode of modern family where claire and phil roleplay strangers in a hotel bar.
likes, comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨
you do NOT need to read the previous parts to read this one
sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ
divider by @omi-resources
You stood near the end of the counter, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass of something you couldn’t even remember ordering.
The condensation dripped between your fingers, cool and slick, grounding you in the low-lit noise of the bar. Your heel was propped on the brass rail, dress riding up just a little, enough to feel the air against your thigh.
The place was alive tonight. Warm with pressed bodies and old wood, the kind of Friday-night hum that vibrated through your ribs. Neon signs flickered half-heartedly against exposed brick, casting everything in shades of pink and amber.
It wasn’t your scene, not really, but you’d promised yourself you’d try. A little lipstick. A short sequence dress. A half-commitment to pretending you weren’t already imagining the silence of your apartment, the relief of kicking off your heels, the familiar weight of his arms around you when you got home.
But then you felt it.
A gaze sliding over your skin like a warm hand before it even touched you. Your neck prickled. The hair on your arms stood. The strange gravity of someone looking shifted the air around you before you even turned.
Then the voice came from behind your left shoulder, cutting through the bar’s chatter like a blade.
“Didn’t think a girl like you would be here alone.”
You turned.
The man beside you was tall, broad-shouldered under a dark coat that looked expensive in a simple way. His hair was neatly cut, dark, with a hint of grey catching the neon light. Stubble lined his jaw, sharp and clean, his eyes were blue, electric even in the dim haze—and they carried this confidence that bordered on predatory.
You gave him a slow once-over. From his boots to his jaw, letting him feel the weight of your attention. Then, casually, you turned back to your drink. “I’m not alone.”
He didn’t leave. You could feel him smile before he spoke again, the warmth of it bleeding into his voice.
“Boyfriend?”
You nodded.
“Is he here?”
You shook your head, taking a sip of your drink, something citrusy and sweet that burned pleasantly on the way down.
“Then you’re alone.” His voice was soft, like he was stating a fact you’d been trying to ignore.
You huffed a laugh before you could stop it, surprised sound that slipped out like a traitor. You sipped again, buying a second, then glanced sideways at him. “That’s not really how it works.”
He leaned in, close enough that his cologne reached you first; clean, soapy, undercut with something warm and woody. It was good. The kind of scent that made you want to lean closer just to breathe it in.
“Maybe not,” he said, “but I’ve got a feeling your boyfriend doesn’t appreciate you the way he should.”
You looked at him then, skeptical, one eyebrow lifting. “You know my boyfriend?”
“No.” A grin spread across his mouth. “But if he was doing his job, you wouldn’t be talking to me.”
Your lips curved… again, against your will. A small, reluctant acknowledgment that the game was already in play. You shifted, angling your body slightly away, a polite distance that said I’m not interested even as your eyes lingered a beat too long.
He didn’t take the hint. He took a step closer, filling the space you’d left, and the heat of his body wrapped around you like a second skin.
His gaze traveled over your face, not crude, not hungry in the cheap way. Appreciative. Attentive. Too attentive, like he was memorising the curve of your jaw, the way the neon light caught the gloss on your lips.
“I’m flattered,” you said, keeping your tone light, easy. “But like I said—I’ve got someone.”
“Yeah?” His voice dropped, almost a murmur. “Is he here?”
You let out a slow exhale, a half-smile tugging at your mouth. “We’ve been over this.”
He smiled back, smaller this time. A quiet acknowledgment that yes, you had, and he didn’t care.
“You’re drinking alone,” he said, each word placed with care. “Dressed like that. Smiling at me.” He paused, tilting his head, letting the silence stretch. “You don’t strike me as the loyal girlfriend type.”
Your jaw tightened, just a fraction. You turned toward him fully now, elbows finding the bar.
“I’m very loyal,” you said, voice steady. “He’s just not the jealous type.”
He let the word sit, “oh,” slow and dry, laced with amusement. Then, “So he’s a fucking idiot.”
You blinked.
The laugh that escaped you was real this time, warm and surprised, your shoulders loosening despite yourself. You shook your head, a little smile you couldn’t suppress curving your lips.
“That’s one way to put it,” you said.
He tilted his head, eyes catching the soft curve of your smile, and holding it like a prize. A low, appreciative hum escaped him as his gaze dragged down your body, the kind of look that felt like a touch you hadn’t consented to but couldn’t bring yourself to stop.
“You let your girl come out here looking like that,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something rougher, “on her own, with guys like me walking around?” His tongue swept across his bottom lip as his eyes traveled back up to yours. “He doesn’t care. That’s what I’m hearing.”
You didn’t respond. Instead, you brought your glass to your lips, letting the cool liquid slide over your tongue, buying yourself a beat of silence. You could feel the weight of his attention pressing against your skin.
Then he lifted two fingers at the bartender, a lazy, confident gesture.
“Get her another,” he said, without breaking eye contact with you. “Whatever she’s drinking.”
You held up a hand, palm out. “I’m good, thanks.”
“I insist.” His words were soft but firm, and his eyes stayed locked on yours, daring you to look away first. “Your boyfriend can be mad later.”
You tilted your head, letting yourself study him in return. Really look this time. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his chin, and the barely-there dimple that flickered at the corner of his mouth when his smirk deepened.
He leaned in again, closer now, under the pretense of the music swelling around you. His lips hovered near your ear, close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath before you heard his voice.
“I’ll be honest,” he said, each word a carefully placed stone in the path he wanted you to follow. “I’m not here for the small talk. You don’t want me—fine. I can take no.” A pause. “But if you do… just say the word.”
The new drink landed in front of you, the glass slick with condensation, a thin river of water pooling on the dark wood. You glanced at it, then back at him. He hadn’t looked away once, not even to blink.
You gave him a flat look, but your fingers still curled around the rim of the fresh glass, betraying you. “You’re really pushy.”
He shrugged, unhurried. “I’m direct.”
“Same thing.”
“I’d argue it’s different.” His voice dropped, conversational now. “Pushy guys don’t take no for an answer. I’m just giving you a chance to be honest with yourself.”
You lifted the drink to your lips, more to buy time than anything else. The liquid was cold and sharp, citrus cutting through the warmth blooming in your chest.
“I mean, he can’t be that good,” he casually added, as if commenting on the weather. “You’ve checked your phone three times since I walked in. Not once did it light up with his name.”
Your gaze dropped to your hand, fingers tightening on the glass until your knuckles paled.
“That’s not really any of your business.”
He leaned his elbow on the bar, turning more fully to face you. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was holding back a chuckle. “It’s a little bit my business, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “especially if I’m about to spend the rest of my night thinking about those pretty legs wrapped around me.”
Your eyes snapped to his, a jolt of heat lancing through you at the crudeness. You forced yourself to stay still, to keep your expression schooled, even as your pulse hammered against your ribs.
“You always talk to women like this?” you asked, your voice steady, a thin shield.
“No.” He said it simply, without hesitation. “Just the girls who pretend they don’t want it.”
You scoffed, but you could feel the heat crawling up your neck. “You’re an asshole.”
He tilted his head, considering the word like a wine he was tasting. “Confident,” he corrected, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “And maybe a little desperate.” His eyes held yours, a challenge and an invitation all at once. “Can you blame me?”
His eyes dipped lower for just a second, dragging over the obvious curve of your cleavage, the bare expanse of thigh you’d half-heartedly crossed. When they came back up, his pupils had swallowed nearly all the blue, leaving only a thin ring of color.
“If I were your man,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something gravelly, “I’d never let you out of my sight. Let alone out of the house dressed like this.” A pause, his gaze flicking down again. “That’d only be for me to appreciate.”
You shook your head, a breathy laugh escaping you. “You really think negging my boyfriend’s gonna make me want to fuck you?”
“No.” The word camwe out confident. “But I think you’re already thinking about it. And that’s got nothing to do with him.”
The air between you tightened like a drawn wire. You hated how right he felt. How every time he leaned in, your body seemed to sway toward him, a magnetic pull you couldn’t quite override.
You didn’t meet his eyes right away. Instead, you let your gaze drift to the condensation on your glass, tracing a path through the droplets with your fingertip. Let him sit in his confidence. Let him think he was winning. Even if he kind of was.
“So,” you said after a beat, your voice dropping to a murmur that was almost lost in the pulse of the music, “how exactly would you be better than my boyfriend?”
He didn’t hesitate. Not a flicker.
“I’d actually pay attention,” he said, and his voice had gone quieter, it felt like a secret meant only for you. “I wouldn’t let you walk around looking like this unless it was for me. I’d keep you so satisfied you’d never even remember his name.”
You laughed softly, low and skeptical, a sound that caught in your throat. “That so?”
“Yeah.” The word was a breath, a promise. He leaned closer, and you caught the faint rasp of stubble against his jaw as his mouth hovered near your ear. “I’d learn your body like a map. I’d make you beg without even touching you. I’d ruin every other man for you just by how good I fuck you.”
The words landed like sparks on dry tinder, igniting something low in your belly. You should’ve rolled your eyes. Should’ve told him to get lost, laughed in his face, walked away.
Instead, you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze, your chin lifting in quiet defiance.
“You rehearse this shit, or is it just off the cuff?”
A grin spread across his face. “I can show you if you want.”
You took another sip, letting the cool liquid coat your throat. And then you felt it, his knee, sliding slowly between your thighs, pressing against the inside of your leg with unhurried pressure.
“I think,” you said, lips brushing the rim of your glass, your voice steady even as your skin hummed, “you’re full of shit.”
“I think,” he countered, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath at your cheek, “you’re hoping I’m not.”
And you didn’t say anything for a second too long. The silence stretched, filled with the thrum of bass and the thud of your own heartbeat.
His smile widened, slow and triumphant.
“Just one night,” he said, soft as a murmur. “That’s all I’m askin’.”
You exhaled, the breath shaking just a little. “God, you’re really committed to this.”
His head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “Could say the same about you, sweetheart.”
Your eyes lingered on him longer than they should have. Longer than was safe. The neon glow from the sign behind him painted his jaw in shades of pink and blue. The way he stood; loose, confident, like he owned every inch of space around him, made your mouth go dry.
You were past the point of denial now. You didn’t even try to cover the way your thighs pressed tighter around his knee every time he leaned in, the way your breath caught when his voice dropped. Every word he whispered, every glance, it was crawling under your skin, planting something hot and unruly inside you.
You let out a slow breath, your chest rising and falling as you held his gaze. Your eyes dropped to his mouth, the slight curve, the faint wetness from where he’d licked his lips, then back up to meet his.
“Fine,” you said softly, the word barely audible beneath the thrum of the bar’s music. “Just one night.”
He didn’t even blink. Didn’t question it, didn’t gloat, at least, not out loud. But the shift in him was unmistakable. His shoulders straightened, his jaw tightened, and that smirk curved at the corners of his mouth. It was a look that said I knew it. I knew you’d break.
Then his fingers wrapped around your hand; big, warm, a little rough, calloused in a way that made you wonder what he did for a living. He pulled you up from your stool in one clean, fluid motion, and you felt the sudden loss of the barstool’s support replaced by the solid heat of his body close to yours.
Your drink was still half-full. Your dignity back at that bar. Didn’t matter.
His hand didn’t just hold yours, it led. Gripped with purpose, not carelessness. His thumb pressed into the soft webbing between your index and middle finger, and you felt the pulse in his palm, steady and strong.
Out of the bar, past the crowd jostling at the door, through the heavy oak door and into the night air that hit you like a slap, cold and sharp after the suffocating heat you’d been sitting in.
The temperature difference made your skin prickle, your nipples tightening beneath your dress. But it didn’t cool you down. If anything, it made everything more electric, more alive.
He glanced back once, just long enough to meet your eyes. In the dim light, you caught the flicker of heat behind his gaze, the tension in his jaw.
The parking lot was mostly empty. You hadn’t even registered which one was his, too busy trying to slow your heart down, too busy wondering what the hell you’d just agreed to.
He didn’t give you time to second-guess it.
Before you could reach for the door handle, he turned you.
One quick, smooth movement, your back hitting the cool metal side of the car with a quiet thud that echoed in your chest. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, your eyes going wide, your hands flying up instinctively.
Then his hand came up, gripping your jaw, his fingers curving around the bone just beneath your ear. He tilted your face up toward his, forcing your gaze to meet his, and you saw the raw hunger there, barely leashed.
“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he murmured.
It was all mouth and hunger and heat, his lips crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back for hours and the dam had finally broken.
The first contact was almost bruising, a desperate, claiming press that stole your breath and left you reeling. His mouth was warm, tasted faintly of whiskey and salt, and the scrape of his stubble against your chin sent a shiver down your neck.
He kissed like a man who knew what your mouth would taste like. Who’d imagined it in vivid detail, over and over, until now, finally, it was real. His tongue slid in, exploring, tasting, taking, just claiming what he wanted. His fingers held your jaw in place, like he didn’t want you pulling away. Like he didn’t want you thinking.
Your knees buckled.
Your hands flew up, gripping the front of his shirt, the fabric soft but warm, the muscles beneath taut and steely. You fisted the material, trying to anchor yourself to something solid as his mouth moved against yours. His chest was hard against your palms, his heartbeat a rapid drum beneath your fingers.
You weren’t kissing him back at first. You were just trying to keep up. Trying to breathe.
But he didn’t let you. He didn’t give you space to gather yourself.
He licked into your mouth like he was starving, like every second without your taste was agony. A groan rumbled low in his throat, a sound that was equal parts relief and torture, and it vibrated through you, settling somewhere deep in your belly.
His hand slipped from your jaw to the side of your neck, fingers curling behind your ear, tilting your head just slightly to deepen the angle.
The world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, the way his thumb stroked the sensitive skin behind your ear. The cold night air bit at your bare legs, but you barely felt it, all you felt was him, all you tasted was him, all you heard was the wet sound of the kiss and your own ragged breathing.
When he finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, throbbing, wet with the evidence of his claim. Your breath came in short, uneven gasps, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
A thin string of saliva connected your lips, glistening in the streetlight, unbroken until you finally parted them with a shaky exhale.
You didn’t even realize your nails were still digging into his shirt until you felt him exhale against your mouth, a warm, shaky breath that fanned across your sensitive skin.
He didn’t say anything.
Just pressed his forehead to yours. Let you breathe. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his cheekbones, his breath still uneven. You could feel the tremour in his frame, the barely restrained hunger still simmering beneath the surface.
Then he stepped back, opened the car door like nothing had just happened and waited for you to climb in.
The elevator ride was barely two floors.
Maybe three. You didn’t know. You didn’t remember stepping inside, didn’t remember pressing the button, didn’t remember the doors sliding shut behind you.
All you remembered was his hand on the small of your back, the firm, pressure of his palm against the curve of your spine, fingers splayed wide, pressing just hard enough to steer you forward.
And when you reached his door, his grip tightened. Those fingers dug into the flesh just above your hip, and you felt the tremour in his arm, the barely restrained tension coiling through his muscles. Like he was already fighting himself not to ravage you in the hallway.
The key turned. The lock clicked.
And the second the door swung shut behind you, it was over.
He was on you.
There was nothing smooth about it. No romantic glide across hardwood floors to a couch you’d never reach. No whispered sweet nothings.
This was fast.
His coat hit the floor before the door fully closed, followed by the jingle of keys dropping somewhere near his shoes. Your purse slipped from your fingers, landing near the entry table with a dull thump you barely registered.
His hands found your hips first. Then your ass, grabbing handfuls of flesh through the thin fabric of your dress. Then your back, sliding up the curve of your spine, fingertips pressing into the muscles on either side. Then your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts, and you gasped against his mouth.
He couldn’t decide where to touch first, so he touched everything.
God, his mouth was everywhere too.
At your jaw, teeth scraping along the sharp edge of it. At your throat, tongue dragging hot and wet over your pulse point. At your collarbone, lips sucking a bruise into the hollow just above where your dress dipped. Anywhere your skin peeked out, he was ther.
He was like a fucking bear. Big, warm, all-consuming, surrounding you with heat and muscle and the faint scent of whiskey and leather and male. And you weren’t complaining. Not even a little.
Your back hit the nearest wall with a thud that rattled the picture frame beside you. The impact forced the air from your lungs, and you gasped, head falling back against the plaster. The dress rode up under his grip, the hem bunching around your hips, cool air kissing the bare skin of your thighs.
Your leg lifted instinctively, wrapping around his hip, heel digging into the firm curve of his ass to anchor him to you. He groaned into your neck and the sound vibrated through your skin.
“Mmm,” he muttered against your throat. His lips brushed your pulse as he spoke, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “Does your boyfriend touch you like this?”
A breathy laugh escaped you, surprised and amused despite the heat flooding your veins. You tilted your head back further, giving him more access, and your fingers tangled in the short hairs at the nape of his neck.
“You really hate that guy, huh?”
He pulled back just far enough to look you in the eye. Dim light from the kitchen filtered through the apartment, catching the sharp blue of his gaze, the dilated pupils, the flush creeping up his neck.
“I think he’s a goddamn idiot,” he said, voice low and rough. “Letting a girl like you walk around wanting this kind of attention. Dressed like this, looking like you do.” His grip tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. “If you were mine—”
You cut him off with a kiss. It was teeth and tongue and a sharp bite against his lower lip that made him hiss, and then you pulled back, breath short, lips slick.
“But I’m not yours,” you said against his mouth, the words barely a whisper.
And god, the look he gave you.
His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the blue. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking near his temple. His right hand came up, fingers curling around your throat as his thumb pressed gently against the hollow beneath your jaw, feeling your pulse flutter like a trapped bird beneath his touch.
“Not yet,” he rasped, the words a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through his chest into yours
He didn’t guide you so much as haul you toward the nearest surface.
One hand clamped under your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, while the other gripped your ass hard enough to make you gasp. The world blurred; a flash of dark cabinetry, the hum of a refrigerator, the faint citrus scent of cleaner, and then your back hit the edge of his kitchen island.
The impact knocked a quiet, breathless gasp from your lungs. The granite was cold against your skin through your dress, a sharp shock against the heat blazing through your body. The edge dug into your lower back, a hard line of pressure that should have been uncomfortable, but it barely registered.
Not with the furnace of his body pressed so close. Not with the way he was already shoving the hem of your dress up your thighs, bunching the fabric with impatient hands, like the dress itself had personally offended him.
“Fuck,” he breathed out. His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking near his temple as his eyes raked down your body. His fingers curled into the hem and yanked it higher, past your hips, past the damp lace of your panties, baring you to the cool kitchen air. “Look at you.”
His voice dropped, as his hands slid under the bunched fabric to grip your bare hips. His fingers dug into the curve of bone, hard enough to leave crescents, and a shiver of anticipation rolled through you at the thought of feeling those marks tomorrow.
“Can’t believe your man lets you walk around like this,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, his gaze fixed on the exposed skin of your thighs. “Dress so short I can see the curve of your ass with every step you take. Tits practically spilling out, begging for attention. You’re a walking invitation, sweetheart.”
“He trusts me,” you shot back, grinning despite the wildfire racing through your veins.
“He’s a fucking idiot,” Bucky grunted, and then he lifted you like you weighed nothing, hands under your thighs, a single smooth motion that had you gasping as he set you on the cold granite counter.
Your ass met the stone, a jolt of cold against the heat between your legs, and you braced your palms flat on the surface to steady yourself. “Should’ve locked you up before someone else got to you.”
Your thighs spread instinctively to keep your balance, opening yourself to him like a flower turning toward the sun. His eyes dropped between them like he was starving, dress rucked up around your waist, panties damp and clinging.
His hands followed his gaze. Fingertips found the soft inner flesh of your thighs, tracing lazy patterns, goosebumps rising in their wake. His thumbs brushed the edges of your panties, teasing,. His mouth hovered just above yours, close enough that you could taste his breath, warm and slightly sweet with the whiskey from the bar.
“Bet he doesn’t even touch you right,” he murmured, his lips barely skimming yours with each word. “Bet he doesn’t make you beg. Doesn’t know how wet you get from just being told what to do. Does he, sweetheart? Does he know how your body responds to a firm hand?”
You didn’t respond. Your tongue felt thick, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.
His fingers hooked into the crotch of your panties, and he shoved the damp fabric aside with two confident strokes. Then one finger traced the length of your slit, gathering the wetness that had been pooling there since the bar. The sensation made you jerk, a sharp inhale hissing through your teeth.
“Fuck,” he hissed, almost to himself. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he stared at where his hand disappeared between your thighs. “Yeah. This is mine now.”
You clenched around nothing, your body responding before your brain could catch up, a desperate, empty ache blooming in your core.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot and uneven. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say this pussy’s mine for the night.”
A grin tugged at your lips, defiant even now. You dragged your nails up the length of his back, feeling the muscles jump beneath the fabric of his shirt. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”
He let out a low chuckle. His hand slid from your throat to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he dragged you into another kiss, a reclaiming of territory already conquered.
His other hand slipped lower, fingers teasing at your entrance, slick with your own arousal. The tip of his finger pressed in just barely, and then withdrew.
“Yeah,” he murmured against your mouth, the word a breathless, cocky whisper. “And you’re about to let me prove it.”
His fingers were still between your thighs, barely moving now. Just resting there. A lazy pressure that kept you teetering on the edge of desperate, your hips twitching involuntarily against his palm.
Every time you tried to grind down, he pulled back just enough to deny you, a cruel little game he played with the patience of a predator.
His other hand trailed up your side, slipping beneath the rumpled dress to brush the curve of your waist. His fingertips traced the ridge of your ribs, then swept higher, grazing the underside of your breast with a featherlight touch that had your spine arching.
And then he murmured, voice low and wrapped in velvet, “You ever been filmed before, sweetheart?”
Your breath caught. Lodged somewhere in your throat like a stone.
Your body said yes before your brain even processed the question, your thighs tensed, your nipples tightened, a fresh pulse of heat bloomed between your legs. But your mouth hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty crossed your face.
“Filmed?” The word came out breathless, barely audible over the thudding of your heart.
“Mmhmm.” His voice was soft now, coaxing. His lips ghosted over your jaw as he spoke, hot and teasing. “Wanna see how goddamn pretty you look like this. Want to watch you later—legs spread, begging for it, that messy little sound you make when you cum. You ever seen yourself like that, honey?”
You couldn’t answer. Your mouth was dry, your pulse hammering so loud you could hear it rushing in your ears.
He kissed your neck, his lips parting against your skin. Then his teeth grazed the sensitive tendon just below your ear, a sharp little pressure that made you gasp.
His hand stayed between your legs, just touching, his palm pressed flat against your cunt, fingers slick and still, the heel of his hand grinding lazily against your clit. Keeping your blood hot. Keeping you pliant.
“C’mon,” he whispered, the word a hot puff of air against your throat. “Let me keep it. Just for me. I won’t show anyone.” A pause. His lips brushed the hollow of your collarbone. “Just wanna remember how you sounded when I made you cum. Just wanna have something to jerk off to when you go back to that sorry excuse for a boyfriend.”
Your lips parted. Your heart was in your throat, beating against the base of your tongue.
He pulled back just enough to look at you—and fuck. Those eyes. Half-lidded, dark as sin, glittering with something between hunger and tenderness.
This was for him. Just because he wanted to own this moment. To freeze it, preserve it, revisit it whenever he pleased.
“Please,” he added, the word a low murmur that crawled down your spine. “Let me watch you fall apart. Let me have something to remember you by when you’re gone.”
And just like that, you broke. You nodded once, a small, jerky motion that felt too fast and too slow all at once.
The look on his face turned downright pleased. A slow, wicked grin spread across his lips, pleased and satisfied.
He stepped back, pulling his hand from between your legs deliberately slow that bordered on cruel. The absence was sharp, almost painful—you whimpered, a soft, instinctive sound that slipped out before you could stop it.
He heard it. His lips parted like he might say something, but instead he just let out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
He reached into his jeans pocket and tugged out his phone. The screen blazed to life, casting cold light across his angular features. He swiped it awake with one thumb, eyes never leaving yours.
You stayed on the counter. Legs spread. Dress bunched up around your hips, the fabric twisted and forgotten. Panties still pushed to the side, damp and useless.
But before you could process what came next, he handed you the phone.
“Hold this,” he said. “Keep it steady. And don’t stop filming until I say so.”
The weight of the device settled in your palm, the screen angled toward him. Your fingers trembled, but you gripped it tight.
His hands slid under your thighs, palms warm and calloused against your skin, and he pulled you to the edge of the counter with a single, effortless motion.
“You’re really gonna let me eat you out on camera?” he muttered. His thumb brushed the inside of your thigh, pressing hard enough to leave a mark. “Look at you. Spread open, holding the phone, panting for it like a bitch in heat. What would your boyfriend say if he saw this, huh?”
A shiver rolled through you. You let out a shaky breath as you leaned back on your elbows, your legs falling open even wider.
“He doesn’t need to know,” you murmured.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest, through the air between you, through your bones.
“No, he doesn’t.” Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the tender flesh where your legs met your hips. “But I will.”
He lowered his head, his breath hot against your slick skin.
“Now keep that camera steady, sweetheart. I want to see your face when I make you forget your name.”
And then he was on you.
His tongue hit you like a brand. It dragged from the slick entrance of your cunt all the way up to your clit in one long, agonizingly slow stroke, tasting you like he was savouring every inch. The flat of his tongue pressed firm, parting your folds, and when he reached the top he circled once, lazy, before dipping back down.
You gasped. Your back bowed off the counter, your spine curling like a struck wire. One hand scrambled for the edge of the granite, fingers scrabbling for purchase, while the other fought to keep the camera steady, pointed directly down at him, at the way his mouth was devouring you.
He moaned into you.
A deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your clit, through your thighs, through the aching core of you. Like he was the one being pleasured. Like your taste was the only thing that could satisfy him.
“Goddamn,” he muttered against your flesh, his breath hot and damp. His tongue flicked out, lapping at your clit with a lazy stroke. “So fuckin’ sweet. Sweetest thing I’ve had in my mouth in months.”
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, eyes dark, lips glistening and chin slick. The camera caught every detail.
“Bet he doesn’t even taste you, does he?” His voice was a low, rasping cruel whisper. “Bet he just shoves it in and pumps away like a jackrabbit, leaves you lying there wet and wanting.”
You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form a single word. Not when his mouth wrapped around your clit again, sealing tight, and he sucked, once, hard, a sharp vacuum of pleasure that punched a cry from your throat. Then he eased, softening into slower licks, his tongue tracing figure-eights around the swollen bud.
Your thighs trembled, clamping around his head. He didn’t seem to mind. He moaned again, the vibration traveling straight through your cunt and up your spine.
“Bet he doesn’t even know how to touch you here—” His metal thumb pressed into the soft, sensitive spot just beside your entrance, the cool metal a shocking contrast against your heat. “—or how wet you get just from a little attention. Look at you. Dripping. Making a mess all over my face.”
You whimpered. A high, broken sound that felt torn from somewhere deep in your chest.
His metal hand slid up your thigh, the cool vibranium tracking a path of goosebumps across your flushed skin. Then, without warning, two fingers pushed into you. A slick, effortless slide that made you gasp again.
He didn’t pause. Didn’t give you time to adjust. He just pumped them in and out, a steady rhythm that matched the circling of his tongue. His fingers crooked, searching, and when they found that spongy spot inside you, he pressed hard and held.
You didn’t mean to make the sounds you were making.
They poured out of you like confession, gasping, keening, helpless little moans that you couldn’t hold back. Your head fell back, your hips lifting off the counter, chasing his mouth and fingers like you’d lost all sense of self-preservation.
“Look at you,” he murmured against your wet skin, his lips brushing your clit with every word. “So desperate for someone who isn’t even your man. Fuck, he must be so boring.”
You whimpered, your hips grinding against his face.
His fingers curled again… just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. His tongue never stopped. It circled and flicked and pressed, relentless.
“You think about this?” he went on, “When you’re lying next to him at night, do you think about someone else doing this to you? Someone who actually knows how to use his mouth?”
You shook your head, trying to deny, but your body betrayed you, your hips rocking faster against his hand.
“Yeah, you do,” he said, and he laughed, a low, breathless sound against your cunt. “You think about it all the time. I think you’d let me do anything just to feel good for once. I think you’d let me fuck you right in his bed while he’s at work, and you’d still smile like a good girl and kiss him goodnight.”
His fingers fucked into you, slow and steady, his tongue circling your clit in tight, focused strokes that left no room for thought. The pressure built in your belly, impossible to ignore.
“You close?” he asked, his voice hoarse and knowing.
You nodded, a frantic, jerky motion. Too far gone to pretend. Too far gone to care.
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. His lips were glistening, his jaw slick, his pupils blown wide and black. And then… smirking, that wicked curve of his mouth, he glanced toward the camera.
“Let’s show him, yeah doll?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let’s show him how you cum for someone who actually knows what he’s doing. Let’s give him something to think about tonight.”
And then he sucked your clit again—hard—while his fingers pumped faster, deeper, curling with ruthless precision.
“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—”
You came.
It was raw. Violent. Your hips jerked off the counter, your thighs clamping around his head like a vise. The sounds that tore out of you were ragged and broken, a string of curses and pleas that blurred into incoherence.
Your vision went white, your whole body seizing, and he didn’t stop. His tongue kept stroking, his fingers kept pumping, fucking you through every last wave of pleasure until you were twitching and shaking, oversensitive and gasping.
He groaned against your clit, like he loved it. Like he was drinking it down.
You barely had time to catch your breath. Barely had time to register the aftershocks still rippling through your thighs before he was climbing up your body, his lips slick with your release, his chin wet, his eyes dark with something animalistic.
His hand snatched the phone from your trembling grip, like a predator claiming his prize. The other hand clamped around your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he dragged you toward the edge of the kitchen island.
He angled the phone down, the camera aimed directly at your cunt, glistening, swollen, still slick from his mouth. Your dress was bunched around your waist in a crumpled mess, and your panties were long gone, ripped off somewhere between the counter and the floor.
“Gonna let me fuck you now?” His voice was a mocking drawl that made your toes curl. “Even though you’ve got a boyfriend waiting at home? Probably wondering where his sweet little girl is.”
You blinked up at him, still dazed, still floating on the aftershocks of your orgasm. But you played along. You nodded slowly, your lips parting, your eyes half-lidded. Like a good girl. Like a stupid little slut who’d already crossed every line and couldn’t find her way back.
You watched like a hungry bitch in heat as he unbuckled his belt, the metal clinking loud in the quiet kitchen, and shoved his pants down his thighs with one hand. His cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach with a wet sound that made your mouth water. The head flushed dark, already slick with pre-cum.
Your voice didn’t work anymore. All the clever retorts, the smart mouth answers—gone. Your legs parted on pure instinct, your hips tilting up in silent invitation.
He clicked his tongue.
“Such a dirty girl,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “Cheating on your boyfriend like this. Letting a stranger stretch your pretty pussy open in his kitchen. On his counter. While he films it.”
He positioned himself at your entrance, just the head pressing, teasing, not pushing in yet. Your breath hitched. Your whole body trembled.
“Tell me what you are,” he said, the camera still fixed on where he was about to enter you.
“I’m—I’m a dirty girl—”
“Louder.”
“I’m a dirty girl.”
“And?”
“And I—I want you to fuck me.”
He smiled, satisfied.
And then he pushed in.
Thick and slow. Letting you feel every filthy inch as he sank into you, stretching you open inch by inch. The burn was exquisite, a sharp, delicious ache that made your jaw drop and your eyes roll back. You clenched around him, too sensitive, already fucked-out from his mouth, and he groaned, an animal sound that vibrated through his chest.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hips seating flush against yours. “Tight little thing. Feels like you were made for this. Made for my cock.”
He pulled back just enough to look down at where you were joined, angling the phone to capture every detail, the way your cunt gripped him, the slick shine of his cock as he dragged out, the desperate flutter of your muscles.
And then he started to move.
His hips dragged back and slammed in again with bruising force. The first thrust punched the air from your lungs. The second made you cry out, loud and raw, your voice cracking in the empty kitchen.
He groaned harder at the sound.
“Look at that,” he rasped, his voice wrecked with pleasure. He angled the camera down again, zooming in on where he split you open. “Fuckin’ made for it, huh? Look at how pretty she takes it.”
He shifted his weight, lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder, the angle changed, deeper nowand your back hit the counter hard as he picked up the pace. The slapping sounds filled the room.
“You gonna cum for me again?” he asked, breath ragged, the phone still steady in his grip. “Gonna cum on this cock like the fucking slut you are? Let your boyfriend watch it later? Think he’d wanna see what a whore you are when no one’s watching?”
Your eyes rolled back. Your mouth hung open, drool threatening to slip down your chin. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
He slapped your clit, a bright flare of pain-pleasure that made you jolt.
“Answer me.”
“Yes—yes, fuck, I—please—”
“Please what?”
“Please let me cum—I need—”
He thrust harder, faster, the angle punishing. His free hand pressed down on your lower belly, making you feel every inch of him inside you.
“Look at the camera,” he commanded, his voice a growl. “Look at it and tell him who’s making you feel this good.”
You forced your eyes open, found the lens, stared into it with glassy, tear-streaked eyes.
“You,” you gasped. “You’re making me—”
“That’s right. Me. Not him. Me.”
He lowered his mouth to your ear, still fucking you, his breath hot and ragged.
“Now cum for me. Cum for the camera. Let everyone see what a good little slut you are.”
The orgasm hit you like a freight train, sudden and impossible to stop. Your back arched off the counter, your walls clamping down around him in pulsing waves, a broken cry tearing from your throat. He didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, groaning as you tightened around him, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release.
“That’s what I thought”
He pulled out suddenly, an abrupt emptiness that made you gasp, your body clenching around nothing, desperate to keep him. The whine that escaped your lips was pathetic, high and needy, and you didn’t even have the shame to swallow it.
But Bucky didn’t give you a second to recover. His metal hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you upright before your head stopped spinning.
“Up,” he ordered, his voice tight and ragged. “C’mon. Up, baby. I’m not done with you.”
Your legs were jelly. Your bones had turned to water. But he hooked his hand under your thigh and lifted you off the island like you weighed nothing, sliding you down until your bare feet hit the cold tile floor.
Your knees buckled immediately. You were shaking, ruined, still dripping down your thighs in sticky trails, your dress bunched around your waist, while he steadied you with a hand on your hip.
“You’re a mess,” he muttered, not even pretending to hide the pride in his voice. His metal fingers traced the curve of your hip, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Bet he’s never fucked you dumb like this, huh?”
Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted. But he didn’t let you stay there. He spun you around, grabbed your hips, and bent you over the counter like a doll, your tits pressing flat against the cold marble, your cheek smushed against the cool stone, your legs spread wide before you even realized what he was doing.
The camera was still rolling. And he aimed it directly at your ass, at your dripping cunt, at the mess he’d made of you.
“There we go,” he rasped, his voice a rough purr behind you. “Much better view. Look at that, fuckin’ dripping for me. Like a little faucet.”
You gasped as his hand came down right across your ass cheek. The crack echoed in the kitchen, and your skin bloomed with heat instantly. Your hips bucked forward, pushing your tits harder against the marble.
“Stay still,” he grunted, his metal hand pressing into the small of your back, pinning you down. “Be good and take it. Don’t make me tell you twice.”
And then he was sliding back in.
No teasing. Just one sharp, deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. He filled you completely, the angle brutal, the stretch exquisite. Your mouth fell open on a silent scream.
He didn’t wait. He started moving immediately, punishing strokes that made the counter shake. His hand clamped onto your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you open for him.
“Fuck, baby—so tight like this,” he groaned, his voice strained, wrecked. “Like you’re trying to milk me dry.”
He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear.
“Bet he’s never seen you like this. Fucked out. Bent over. Filmed like a little slut.” He punctuated each word with a thrust, driving them into you along with his cock. “What would he say if he saw this video? Huh? If he watched you beggin’ for my cock with your makeup running, your pretty little pussy creamin’ all over me?”
Your only answer was a broken moan. Your hands scrambled uselessly across the marble, searching for something to hold onto.
He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, arching your spine, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The stretch in your neck sent a shiver down your spine.
“What would he say, huh,” Bucky panted, fucking into you harder now, the slapping sounds wet and filthy, “if he saw how much you love it? If he saw that look in your eyes—that fucked-out, starved look you get when I’m deep inside you?”
Your third orgasm was building, coiling low in your belly, your pussy aching with overstimulation. The marble was digging into your hips, leaving red marks on your skin, and you didn’t care. You wanted more. You wanted him to break you.
“Say it,” he grunted, snapping his hips faster, his hand wrapping around your throat from behind to pull your head even farther back. “Tell the camera what you’re doing.”
You choked on a sob, tears welling in your eyes.
“—Cheating,” you gasped, the word torn from your throat. “I’m cheating on him—fuck, fuck—please don’t stop—”
He groaned like he could’ve fucking died from how good that sounded.
“That’s it, baby. Say it again. Let the whole world know what a filthy little whore you are.”
You were already crying, tears slipping down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation, your body trembling as you struggled to hold yourself up on your elbows. Each thrust sent a fresh wave of pleasure-pain through you, your clit rubbing against the marble with every movement, building that pressure higher and higher.
“Say it again,” he growled, his cock buried deep inside you. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“—Cheating,” you whispered again, breathless, voice cracking. “I’m cheating on him.”
“Can’t hear you.”
“I’m cheating on my boyfriend,” you moaned, choked and messy, the shame in your voice only making it hotter. “Letting some stranger fuck me in his kitchen.”
He groaned, his hips stuttering for just a second, his grip tightening on your throat.
“God, you’re perfect. Fucking perfect. Say my name.”
You didn’t even think. The word fell from your lips like a prayer.
“Bucky—”
The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the kitchen. Your body rocked against the marble with every brutal thrust, your tits sliding across the cold surface, nipples dragging against the stone, your breath fogging the counter in ragged clouds as he fucked you faster.
The hand on your throat dropped down your body to between your legs, metal fingers finding your clit with brutal precision. He rubbed you in rough, tight circles, no gentleness, just enough pressure to make your vision blur.
“Wanna cum again for me, baby?” he panted behind you. “Wanna cum on a stranger’s cock while your boyfriend’s out there probably textin’ you right now, askin’ if you’re okay?”
His fingers pinched your clit and you cried out.
“Answer me.”
“Yes—fuck, yes—”
“Use me,” you begged, the words torn from somewhere deep, broken and desperate. “Please, just use me. I don’t care—I don’t care about anything—just fuck me—”
That did it.
He slammed in harder, faster, his groans turning into guttural snarls, his hips slapping against your ass with a force that left your skin stinging. His metal fingers on your clit were relentless. You were babbling words that made no sense, just sound and breath and need, your voice cracking as that third orgasm tore through you like lightning striking bone.
You clenched down so hard his rhythm stuttered.
“Oh fuck—fuck, doll—”
He pulled out suddenly, just in time, the loss of him leaving you gasping and empty. His hand left your clit and wrapped around his cock, jerking himself with messy, desperate strokes, the camera aimed down at the mess he’d made of you.
“On your knees,” he barked.
You dropped without hesitation.
Your knees hit the cold tile with a dull thud, your body limp and pliant and ruined. Your makeup was smudged into dark raccoon circles around your eyes. Your lipstick was blurred. Your thighs were still slick with your multiple releases, sticky and gleaming under the kitchen lights.
You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, chest heaving, every inch of you screaming used.
He pointed the phone down at your face, capturing every detail.
“Jesus fuck—look at you,” he panted, his voice hoarse, wrecked. His grip on his cock was tight, the veins standing out against his skin. “Fucking look at you. Makeup ruined. Hair a mess. Cum drippin’ down your thighs. And you’re still lookin’ at me like you want more.”
You blinked up at him slowly, your tongue sliding across your lower lip, tasting the salt of your own sweat. The corner of your mouth lifted… just enough to tease. Just enough to let him know that yes, you wanted more. You wanted everything.
His breath hitched.
That was all it took.
He groaned deep from his chest, his hips snapping forward as he jerked himself harder… and then he came.
“Fuck—fuck—”
Thick, hot ropes hit your lips. Your cheek. Your tongue.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just let it land wherever he gave it, your mouth open like a fucking invitation, your eyes locked on his the entire time. One streak landed on your chin, another across your nose. You held still like a good girl.
He moaned like he was in pain, his chest heaving, his arm trembling as he kept the camera steady. His other hand milked the last drops out, stroking his tip right against your tongue, smearing the rest across your bottom lip.
“Gonna remember this forever,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “The way you look right now. On your knees. Covered in my cum.”
You swallowed what landed in your mouth. The taste of him, salt and heat and something musky, spread across your tongue.
You held eye contact… and then licked your lips. Slow. Sweet. Like you savoured every drop. Your tongue swept across the mess on your cheek, your chin, collecting every trace of him.
And then you smiled and winked at the camera.
He groaned again. His arm dropped. The phone nearly slipped from his fingers.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You’re unreal. You’re fucking unreal.”
He took a shaky step back, running his free hand through his hair, his chest still heaving.
“Get up,” he said, softer now. “C’mere. Let me kiss you.”
You were barely dried off when he dragged you into bed, still flushed in the cheeks, towel hanging low on his hips, clinging to the sharp cut of his waist. He flopped onto the mattress with a grunt that vibrated through the sheets and immediately reached for you like a heat-seeking missile.
You allowed him to wrap himself around you, his chest warm and damp against your back, arm tight across your middle, legs slotting in behind yours like puzzle pieces.
He was trying to hide. Burying his face in the curve of your neck, breathing slow and deep like he could disappear into your skin. And despite being genuinely so fucked out after three orgasms, your thighs still aching and your core still humming, you couldn’t help yourself.
“‘Gonna remember this forever,’” you murmured, pitching your voice low and rough, mimicking him. You dragged the words out, dramatic and breathy. “God, baby. The drama. Are you sure you’re not secretly a director?”
He groaned The kind of groan that started in his chest and rolled out like thunder. He dragged the covers over both your heads, cocooning you in darkness and warmth, like it might smother the shame.
And you.
“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice muffled against your shoulder.
You laughed, the sound swallowed by the blanket fort. Your body shook against his, and he tightened his grip in response, pulling you impossibly closer.
“You were so into it,” you continued, turning your head just enough to speak into the darkness. “Like, really committed. Tell me, what are you gonna do with that video? Are you planning an OnlyFans debut? Get some extra cash to spoil me with?”
He squeezed your waist in warning,, deliberate press of his fingers into your soft skin. You ignored him completely.
“I personally think we’d make a lot of money,” you said, your tone almost dreamy. “With your dick and my tits, we’d be famous in no time. Think of the branding. Think of the content.”
He lifted his head just enough to find your ear. “Please,” he said, low and gruff, “shut up and let me spoon you into silence.”
You hummed, basking in victory.
“You were so serious,” you whispered into the quiet. “The dirty talk? You’re gonna start submitting audition tapes to PornHub next, aren’t you? I can see it now—‘James.B.B, 107, 6’2”, specializes in roleplay and cum facials.’”
He groaned again, but it was quieter now.
You could feel his smile against your skin. He was trying not to let it show,but you knew it was there. Just like the soft kiss he pressed behind your ear, his lips lingering.
“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?” he muttered, his voice warm and entirely fond.
You turned in his arms, shifting until you faced him. The blanket still draped over your heads, cocooning you in shared heat and the faint scent of sex and soap. His whole body was relaxed in that way he only ever got after sex, the tension in his shoulders finally dissolved.
You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against your fingertips. You kissed his nose.
“Not a chance, stranger.”
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. And then he kissed you anyway, a kiss that tasted like contented surrender. His hand slid up your spine, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breath evening out.
You laid there for a long, quiet minute, his arm slung heavy across your stomach like an anchor, his breath slowing behind your ear into that deep, rhythmic cadence that meant he was drifting.
The warmth of his body curved around yours, the sheets tangled around your legs, the faint hum of the city through the window, it was almost enough to lull you under too.
Almost.
Which is exactly why you struck.
“Okay,” you said, your voice sweet as honey. “Give me your phone now.”
He tensed immediately. His arm tightened across your stomach, and you felt the shift in his breathing.
“...No.”
You twisted in his grip, frowning, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him.
“James.”
He sighed, like it physically pained him to hear his name on your lips in that tone. The sound dragged out, full of protest, and he pulled the pillow over his face.
You didn’t let up. You tore the blanket off both of you, sitting up fully, then turned to face him with the kind of look that told him exactly where this was going. A look that said I’m not asking.
“I just want to see how I looked,” you cooed, letting your voice go syrupy and coaxing. “For science.”
“You looked perfect,” he muttered from beneath the pillow. “You don’t need to see it.”
“Oh, but I do,” you teased, already reaching past him toward the nightstand where he’d abandoned the phone. “Because someone got real creative with angles tonight. I wanna see what Christopher Nolan-level filth you captured.”
He tried to pull you back down under the covers, his arm snaking around your waist, but you fought dirty. You squirmed, laughed, dug your elbow into his ribs until he grunted and loosened his grip. There was some wrestling until you finally managed to straddle his hips, pinning him down, and snatched the phone from the nightstand.
“Aha,” you declared, waving it like a trophy. “Siri, show me the porn.”
He groaned from beneath the pillow. “You’re a freak.”
“You love it.”
You unlocked the screen with his passcode, your birthday of course, and found the video right there in his most recent gallery. It wasn’t buried in a folder, wasn’t hidden behind a password.
“Jesus Christ, you didn’t even try to hide it,” you murmured.
You tapped play.
The sound alone was enough to make you both flinch.
Your own moan filled the room, echoing off the walls. The video opened on a shaky shot of the kitchen island, granite cool and sleek under the dim light, your legs splayed wide, his hand wrapped around your thigh.
You looked down at him slowly. His eyes were squeezed shut, the pillow still half-draped over his head, his cheeks flushed dark. For a guy who had fucked you within an inch of your life thirty minutes ago, he looked deeply, profoundly embarrassed.
“Oh my god,” you said, pausing the screen on his face. There he was… eyebrows furrowed in concentration, hair a wild mess, that filthy, knowing smirk curling the corner of his lips. “Who is he? Why is he so serious? Is this an Oscar campaign? A sizzle reel for his breakout role in Eat Pray Fuck?”
“Stop it,” Bucky mumbled.
But you kept going.
“Look at you. Sergeant Pornstar. All intense and broody. Grunting like you’re about to break the fourth wall and fuck the audience too.”
He peeked out just enough to glare at you, one blue eye visible above the edge of the pillow, very unamused. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“You’re so hot when you’re pretending not to be a freak.”
He huffed, but his ears were pink. The tips of them, visible above the pillow, turned the colour of a ripe strawberry.
You tapped further into the video, scrolling through the shots. Paused again. Leaned in closer to the screen.
“Wait—” You squinted. “Did you zoom while you were inside me?”
He huffed, and buried his face in the pillow like he could escape through the mattress.
“You did. Oh my god, you adjusted the focus on my ass. You framed the shot like it was a nature documentary.”
“Stop watching it,” he moaned.
“Never. I’m gonna turn this into a gif. A screensaver. My new phone background. Every time I get a text, I’ll see your constipated orgasm face.”
That did it.
He moved faster than you expected. The phone flew out of your hand, skidding across the bed, and he tackled you back down onto the mattress, his weight pressing you into the pillows.
It didn’t hurt. Not with him laughing into your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he tried to wrestle the phone out of your reach. His fingers fumbled against yours, and you shrieked as he pinned your wrist above your head, still laughing, still muttering, “You’re the fucking worst,” and “I hate you so much right now.”
He got the phone eventually.
And as he pinned you to the bed with both wrists above your head, his body draped over yours, sweat-slick and smiling, he leaned down and kissed your cheek. A whisper of lips against your skin.
“I’m deleting that video first thing tomorrow,” he mumbled, his voice fond.
You smiled up at him, your chest rising and falling against his.
“Sure you are, Sergeant,” you whispered, your eyes glinting in the dim light. “Right after you jack off to it one more time.”
He collapsed beside you with a huff, his body sinking into the mattress like it weighed twice what it did, limbs heavy and warm as he pulled you into his chest. His arm slung around your waist, fingers splaying across the curve of your hip, his face pressing into the crook of your neck as he exhaled a long, tired breath.
The kind of breath that said finally, peace.
He was wrong.
“So,” you whispered against his collarbone, “since I let you pick this time, I get to choose the next roleplay.”
He sighed again
You ignored it completely.
“We could do the delivery guy thing,” you murmured, a yawn stealing the edge off your words. “Like, you show up with a package and I answer the door in just a towel, dripping wet, all innocent and flustered. And you’re just standing there, all stoic, but you have to fuck me on the spot. Right there against the doorframe. Package forgotten on the mat.”
He didn’t respond. His breathing was slow, like he was trying to will himself into unconsciousness.
So you kept going.
“Or—or we could do the ‘I’m your best friend’s girlfriend’ angle,” you said, your voice dropping into a dreamy cadence. “You’re not supposed to want me. But you catch me in the shower at a party. The bathroom door’s cracked open, and instead of leaving, you just… watch. Then you step inside, still fully dressed, and pin me to the tile.”
“No,” he mumbled, the word muffled against your skin.
Before you could continue, he rolled on top of you, his body a warm, solid weight pressing you into the mattress. His mouth found yours, a kiss that was clearly meant to shut you up. His tongue swept against your bottom lip, and for a moment you let yourself sink into it.
But only a moment.
You broke the kiss with a soft, teasing hum. “What about the corrupt cop thing?” you whispered, your lips still brushing his. “You pull me over on some empty road at midnight. I’m nervous, hands shaking as I hand you my license. And you shine your flashlight in my face, look me up and down, and tell me I was speeding. Then you lean down, voice low, and tell me there’s only one way I can get out of the ticket.”
He kissed you again. Harder this time. A grunt built in his throat, muffled against your mouth, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, his thumb pressing against your cheek like he could physically hold your words in.
You chuckled against his lips.
“Ooooh. Or the one where I’m drunk and stumbling out of a party,” you said, your voice breathless. “You’re the older guy who tells me to get in the car. You drive me home in silence, but I fall asleep in the passenger seat, my head lolling against the window. So you carry me inside, and tuck me into.”
He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your pulse point, his lips pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “Go to sleep, please,” he muttered.
“—but I wake up,” you continued, your fingers threading into his hair, “and you’re standing in the doorway. Watching me. And I’m so grateful. So vulnerable. So willing—spread out on the bed in nothing but his oversized shirt, legs parted just enough, looking up at you with those sleepy, trusting eyes. And then you just… take what you want.”
His whole body shuddered against yours. His hips pressed into your thigh, and you felt the unmistakable stir of interest against your skin. His cock, already half-hard from the images you’d painted, twitched as if responding to your words directly.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, the words rough, as he pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down to the curve of your neck.
You hummed, “I think you like it.”
He didn’t answer. He just pulled you tighter, his arm wrapping around your waist like a vise, his other hand sliding under your head to cup the base of your skull. He kissed your temple, then closed his eyes.
“No more talking,” he whispered.
You grinned against his chest. “Not even the professor one?” you teased. “Where I’m failing your class and you offer extra credit in the form of—“
“I will gag you.”
You snorted, the sound warm and muffled against his skin.
“That’s a yes, then.”
He groaned again, long and suffering. But you felt it, the curve of his lips pressed against your hair, the soft exhale of a smile he tried to hide.
And eventually you let him fall asleep. Wrapped around you, his body a shield of warmth and muscle, his breath evening out into the deep, slow rhythm of rest. His cock still twitched against your thigh every few minutes, a stubborn reminder of all the images you’d planted in his head.
You smiled into the dark, your fingers still tangled in his hair, and finally let yourself drift.
a/n | i fear i would let bucky barnes film me with an iphone 7 in a kitchen with bad lighting and call it art.
Pairing David!Clark Kent x bsf/roommate!reader
Summary After another terrible date, you come home to the one person who always knows how to make it better—your best friend, your roommate, Clark. One comforting touch turns into a line you can’t uncross, and when your phone won’t stop ringing, Clark decides he's had it. (I'm not done with you)
Tags p0rn with minimal plot, 18+, mdni, smuuuut, p in v (unprotected) makin' out, reader on top, stated multiple rounds, creampies, edging, overstimulation, Is this considered phone sex? Smug!Clark (my favorite Clark if I'm being honest), possessive!Clark, yearning!Clark, you and Clark are messy together 4ever
WC 4k
Sucked at writing this fic when I would've much rather sucked Clark's dick, huzzah, i completed galentine's! Not edited bc my eyes are tired
Galentine's #12 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, more than that. That was...wow... I...I don't think once was enough for me...”
"Good, because I'm not done with you."
The thrilling, terrifying promise of 'more' after your orgasm already sank in two hours ago, and Clark had been delivering wholeheartedly.
Just then, your phone vibrated violently on the nightstand, the screen flashing 'MARK', the name of your date from earlier.
Even floating in the hazy aftermath of repeated climaxes, you had enough sense to ignore it. It was the obvious decision — the only decision — given that the slow, deep rhythm of Clark’s cock slowly moving inside you again had your full attention.
The phone cut off, then started buzzing again. And again. And again.
"Geez, he’s—persistent," you managed through a sharp gasp, your fingernails leaving half-moons into the solid, sweat-slicked planes of your best friend’s shoulders.
You were straddling him during this round, your body bowed over his larger frame. Your damp forehead pressed against the junction between his collarbone and neck, dragging slightly with every lift of your hips and subsequent drop back onto him. Each movement sent a shockwave of pure, liquid heat through your already cum-slick core.
One of Clark’s calloused hands gently slid from your waist to the meat of your ass to hold you steady, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading through your hair, guiding you into an open-mouthed kiss.
"Let—him—be," he murmured between each kiss, more mirth than malice. "You’ve got more important stuff to do."
Between laughter and smacking his shoulder playfully, he rolled his hips up on the last word. The motion met your downward slide, and you both let out a long synchronized moan.
Holy Fuck.
Your mind wanted to float clean out of your skull. It was ridiculous: this man was your best friend. Those years you’d lived together, countless nights brushing your teeth side by side. The man you’d slept across the hall from, shared dumb jokes, laughed, made dinner with, and fought over blanket space with. Years of your life spent making a home without crossing this line. Until tonight.
It hadn’t started like this.
It had started with you slamming the apartment door behind you, kicking your heels off, and venting about your date’s endless monologues—his crypto portfolio, his condescending “corrections,” the way he’d checked his reflection in his spoon more than he’d looked at you, and the final, humilating critique of your career over a wilted salad—your anger finally burned down into a smoldering, frustrated ember.
Clark listened to all of it. Opened his arms and carried you to bed. Lit your favorite candle. Made you tea. Sat beside you in bed, his larger frame a solid presence, and he’d reached over and brushed a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen from your cheek.
That single, tender touch had blown everything wide open.
Like two galaxies finally giving in to gravity. Like a collision you’d both been drifting toward for years without admitting you were on the same trajectory.
His thumb traced your jaw. You turned your face into his palm. He leaned in as his other hand cradled your head, fingers threading into your hair. And then you were kissing.
It was nothing like the awkward, calculated peck on the cheek Mark had given you on the sidewalk.
It was a revelation.
A stunned, breathless "why haven’t you done this sooner?"
And when Clark filled you so completely. A thick, relentless, good-burning stretch that teetered on the edge of too much and not nearly enough— A Big Bang.
Your phone finally stopped ringing.
For five glorious, seconds, there was only the sound of skin on skin—a wet, rhythmic slap-squelch impossible to soften—the ragged pull of your shared breathing, and the soft press of open-mouthed kisses that kept breaking apart because you couldn’t keep your lips together long enough.
The air in your apartment bedroom was thick with the scent of your favorite candle, sex, sweat, and the warm, musky scent of your own arousal. The sheets were damp beneath you, the headboard faintly tapping with every rock of your body as Clark kept you perched above him.
Then your phone started all over again.
A different ringtone.
A video call.
A choked laugh, more disbelief than humor, escaped you, sounding near hysterical. You pushed up a few inches, your breasts still pressed against Clark’s solid chest, nipples dragged tight and sensitive by the movement.
"Oh, for fuck’s sake!" you growled, voice cracking. "I’m going to block that loser. Clark, Superman, save me! What do I do?! Block him, right?"
You met your best friend’s eyes, looking for some sort of agreement, reassurance, the typical version of him that would’ve laughed it off with you.
His summer sky blues, usually so kind and soft, were dark with a rare, possessive heat that made your heart flutter, rendering you silent.
Mine, that look said. Now and forever.
"Answer it."
"What!? What h-happened to leave him be?!" You shrieked, your internal muscles clamping down around his cock like a reflex.
He groaned, head tipping slightly into your plush pillow, throat flexing as he failed to swallow the sound—too far gone to hide what you’d just done to him.
"Answer it, hon," he repeated, gaze steadier than his breathing, a gentle command wrapped in velvet.
The hand lingering on the back of your head brushed a damp strand of hair from the apple of your cheek. His thumb traced your kiss-swollen lower lip, and you opened for him without thinking, sucking the digit into your mouth and moaning around it.
"Since he's so persistent. Maybe he’s calling to say sorry. If not…well, he’ll hear what a good night really sounds like, right?"
The idea was insane. Unacceptable. A violation.
It should've made you recoil.
Instead, it sent a jolt of pure, electric arousal straight to your already soaked cunt, hot enough to make your thighs tense, your belly flutter, all things you had to unpack later.
"Are you—you're sure?" you whimpered, needy and a little nervous, brows pinched together, teeth gnawing on the pad of this thumb.
"Yeah," Clark assured with a bashful shrug, reading you with an ease that was utterly terrifying and comforting. "C’mon, I can feel how much you want to. Your whole body’s itching for it."
He was so right, and that was the worst and best part—because the dark, thrilling pulse between your legs synced with the heavy throb of him buried inside you, and you swallowed hard as you nodded, quick and jerky.
Clark reached over, his arm stretching past your head without parting from you, without letting you escape the weight of his gaze or the fullness of him. He brought the phone to your sweaty hand, while his other palm left your mouth and initiated a slow, circular massage at your lower back.
"Put it on speaker," he whispered. "Keep it low. I’ll be right here with you."
Your fingers fumbled, leaving tiny sweat-lined prints on your screen. You swiped to answer, hit the speaker icon, then quickly plopped the device down by your calf with the screen pressed against the mattress, the faint glow illuminating the rumpled sheets.
"H-hello?" you greeted. You were proud of how almost-normal you sound. Almost.
"Hey! Finally, you picked up. Thought you’d gone to bed already," Mark’s voice burst into the room, cheerful and oblivious.
Reclaiming your place over Clark’s body, you nosed at his neck before sucking lightly at the skin beneath his galloping pulse—a little bit of distraction, partial affection, more a warning to yourself to stay quiet.
"S-sorry," you mumbled, focusing on keeping your breathing even as Clark’s hand ventured lower to squeeze your ass. "I was… busy."
"Busy decompressing from my dazzling company, right? I do have that effect," Mark chuckled. God, he was so egotistical. "I was just thinking about our dinner. I had a really great time with you."
Clark exhaled loudly and chose that moment to move.
His hips lifted in a slow, deliberate upward thrust. You unlatched yourself from his well-loved flesh, biting down hard on your inner cheek to stifle your moan. It still slipped anyway: a sharp, raw gasp, and the tremor in your fingers where they dug into his shoulders.
"Uh, you good?" you heard hesitation already creeping in. Damn.
"Y-yeah, juuuust peachy!" you chirped, pitched high and strained.
You pressed your face harder into Clark’s neck, as if you could bury the heat there, and reached up to tug lightly on his thick hair in retaliation—petty, desperate, utterly useless. "Just… stubbed my pinky toe. On—on the side—of my bed. Bed—frame!"
"Damn, hate when that happens," he sympathized with a low whistle, chuckling at your imagined pain. Asshole.
"Listen, I know our conversation got a little heavy at the end, with the whole ‘career goals’ thing. I didn’t mean to imply your job was… you know, trivial. I just think a woman like you could apply herself better, ya know?"
You wondered if Clark rolled his eyes just as hard as you did.
“Anyways, I was thinking of giving us another shot," the man continued, drowning in his own confidence. "Maybe drinks next Friday? Somewhere quieter. That might be more your speed, right?"
While he rambled, Clark began to move you this time.
His hands slid back up to your hips, gently lifting you just high enough that only the fat, leaking crown of his cock caught at your swollen entrance, keeping you stretched, wide, aware of him.
The emptiness and relief lasted half a second before he tugged you down again, an inch at a time. It was a slow, enticing, torturous re-sheathing that made your eyes roll back. The wet dragging of his cock between your folds was drowned out by the sheets against the phone receiver, but to you, it was deafening.
It was so obvious!
"I—I—fuck— don’t know, Mmm–man," you ended, pathetic and breathless.
You couldn’t even manage to say another man’s name while Clark bottomed out, his pelvis grinding maddeningly slow against your clit. A full-body shudder wracked you, and it wasn’t from secondhand embarrassment.
“Hear me out! You’ll have fun," Mark pressed. "I promise I’ll be on my best behavior."
Your failed date's voice was a grating buzz in your ear, a stark contrast to the visceral reality of Clark’s broad, strong body beneath you, inside you, fucking you, making love to you for the past two hours.
His mouth found your ear, lips brushing the sensitive shell. He blew a light, cool puff of air against your searing skin.
"Tell him you’re busy," he murmured, words barely breaking through your haze. His tongue flicked out, a quick, wet stripe, then he nipped lightly. "Tell him you have a… prior engagement. With me."
You were panting and squirming, trying to keep your breathing quiet, trying to pretend you weren’t being fucked to oblivion while desperately carrying a polite phone conversation.
"I… I'll be busy Friday night. Prior… engagement. With my best friend—Clark—I, uh, told you about him."
"Oh. Clark. Yeah, you did." A scoff, a clear sign of irritation, but he recovered like nothing happened. "Well, what about Saturday? I’m free all day."
Wrapping one powerful arm around your waist to support you, Clark planted both his feet on the mattress, changing the angle with such casual strength it made your stomach flip.
The new position had him pounding you deeper, fuller, the thick ridge of his thick cock rubbing directly over that special spot inside that made white sparks flicker behind your eyelids. Your hands gripped his biceps, clinging for dear life, praying for mercy.
"Oh f-fuck, C-clark," you whimpered into his skin, the curse hardly silent.
Instantly alert, you heard a muffled: "What was that?"
"N-nothing!" you squeaked. You forced a laugh as Clark pressed a kiss along your temple soothingly. It was shrill, unhinged, cringe-worthy in any other context.
"You sure? You sound a little… out of breath."
"S-sorry! Yeah, no, it's uh my—cat—she jumped. A little tense."
"A cat?" There was suspicion now. "Didn't know you had one."
"She’s—new! Adjusting, kinda overstimulated. That's why I left," you rasped, voice trembling and shredded, your vocal enthusiasm from the initial rounds finally catching up. "She's—getting used to him —Me! Getting used to me. N-new owner, and all!"
You glared at Clark, pinning the blame on this ridiculous predicament on him. He grinned back, all dimples and without shame.
The irritation was fleeting as a deep rhythm soon settled down to a shallow rocking between you.
A pure, unadulterated, delicious torture. Clark wasn’t only chasing his own pleasure; he was orchestrating yours, drawing it out, winding the overspent coil in your belly tighter and tighter with every tiny friction. You felt your combined wetness coating his length, dripping down onto his balls, making a hot, sticky mess between you.
"O-kay," Mark droned, already sounding bored, distracted. "I like cats. I’m more of a dog person, obviously, but cats are fine. I guess. Independent."
Unprompted, Clark’s large hand slid between your swollen folds, gathering cum from previous climaxes as lubricant. Deft fingers found your clit easily, thick and clever, pressing the pad of his middle finger to your swollen, throbbing nub, and held it there, a constant, maddening pressure.
You jerked up slightly, peered at Clark through wet lashes, your lips pulling into a quivering pout. You planted both hands on his chest and dug your knees into the mattress, and grinded harder against his cock and his hand. The dual sensation tipped so close. A wave of heat crashed through you, your muscles fluttering wildly around his length.
You were so close again. So dangerously close to riding that high.
"So, Saturday?" Mark pressed, bulldozing straight through the moment. "Restaurant. My treat. A real do-over."
"N-no, Saturday’s… complicated…won’t work," you sighed deeply.
The excuse barely made it out as Clark ducked his head, trailing a wet, lazy path down your neck to the space between your collarbones.
"Why?"
The trail of kisses ventured lower to greet the swell of your breasts.
"Just… not interested anymore," you forced out behind clenched teeth, white knuckling through the overwhelming attention you were receiving.
"Anymore? This is ridiculous. What the hell happened since you saw me?"
A flare of anger momentarily cut through your pleasure. It should’ve steadied you. It should’ve put steel in your spine.
But your rage was quickly extinguished when Clark delivered a single, deep, deliberate stroke that stole the air from your already spent lungs. A loud, sharp, involuntary cry tore from your throat.
You couldn't speak. You were shaking, your entire body drenched in pure pleasure. You were focused on that one point of contact—the insistent press of fingers, the full, aching stretch inside you, the coil of pleasure winding so tight you felt you might snap in two. Tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation pricked at your eyes.
The line was dead silent for a long beat.
Then, confused and impatient: "Hello? Still there? Are you even listening to me?"
Clark finally gave you mercy, answering for you. Secrecy and subtlety blew to smithereens. The shift in his tone was immediate—lower, steadier, authoritative. The phone caught every word.
"Hey, buddy. She said she’s no longer intersted."
There was another long pause on the line.
"Who… who the hell was that?"
"Clark." His tone was polite. Even. Earnest.
His eyes stayed locked on yours, blazing with a smug, satisfied fire. He watched your face, studying every twitch, every flutter of your eyelids, time your mouth fell open on a sound you couldn’t swallow. His middle finger started to move against your clit, a quick, zig-zag pattern that sent a fresh wave of slick to gather between your thighs.
“She's preoccupied at the moment,” he added.
Another pause, longer this time. The wet sounds of your bodies moving together grew louder in the silence. The schlick of your soaked folds, the soft thump of his hips meeting yours, the breathless ‘yeah, right there, baby,” and “just like that.”
"Preoccupied," Mark repeated flatly.
"Mmmhmm," Clark hummed as he mouthed along your jaw. "She has this—thing she needs to finish. It’s taking longer than usual. She needs to… focus. Priority One. You can respect that, right?"
You bit your fist to muffle the desperate, keening sounds threatening to escape. Your orgasm was right there, right fucking there, a towering wave about to crash. Unfortunate for you, Clark’s control was absolute.
He eased off, just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make you go hollow with need, the wave receding a fraction and leaving you shaking and whimpering in its aftermath.
"Is this… are you… Right now? The entire call?!" Mark's disbelief cracked into curses. "You’re fucking kidding me."
“No kidding around here,” Clark retorted quickly, “but there had been plenty of that other stuff.”
Before you could cut in with your own sharp retort, Clark leaned up, capturing your lips in a soft kiss that was so tender amidst the ridiculous drama unfolding. When he pulled back, he spoke again, his voice dropping to that low, bedroom rumble, and it did something to you that you weren’t ready for.
"She’s been so good for me. Since she came home. Applying herself, reaching her full potential, or whatever crap you said to her."
That did it. The filthy, possessive praise, the sheer audacity, paired with the feel of him—it was too much. A broken sob escaped your clenched teeth.
"God–please…"
"It’s j-just Clark, sweetheart, you know that," he joked lightly, his middle finger resuming its relentless circles in time with his frantic thrusts, making sure you didn’t spiral alone. "U-use your words. O-on me. Tell me what you need."
“I need—” You couldn’t even keep your voice steady. “I need to come. Please—let me come. I can’t— I can’t hold it, I’m so close, so close, pleasepleasebaby—” You babbled, ragged and desperate, half-formed pleas choked with tears and overwhelming pleasure.
On the phone, Mark made a strangled, irritated growl. "I’m…Forget everything I said! Fuck this, fuck your cat, and fuck you,—" he spat your name, useless as his outburst barely phased you.
"Yeah," Clark grunted, not even glancing toward the phone. "Already on that last one, man. Have a good—"
The call disconnected.
"—night."
The sudden silence was profound, broken only by your ragged panting and the slick, rhythmic sounds of sex.
"He finally hung up," Clark breathed, finally shedding its polite veneer, his gaze dropping to where your bodies were joined. "Now you can come, sweetheart. Come for me. Just me. Lemme feel it one more time."
You thread your sore fingers into his dark hair gently, nuzzling into the crook of his neck again.
"You’re…Fuck, we’re terrible, baby," you whispered through laughter, your walls gripping his shaft like a vice, on the brink of that delicious high again.
"Ah-ah, like I said: I’m done being polite," he corrected. “Hearing you cry over jerks like that for months. Watching you try to force a spark that wasn’t there… it was killing me, sweetheart.”
He punctuated each confession with a deep, rolling thrust.
"I love the way you smell, right here." He buried his face against your temple, inhaling deeply, his cock swelling even thicker inside you.
Thrust.
"I love you when you fell asleep on the couch and pretended you weren’t waiting for me to come home after patrol."
Thrust.
"Gosh, I love the way you always reach for me.” His forehead brushed yours, adoration breaking through the heat. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time. All I ever wanted—was to be the only one who made you lose yourself like this. "
Thrust.
You’d shared sweet nothings. Tender confessions. But this—this was devotion spoken in the air between searing kisses, in the control of his hands, in the way he refused to let you fall without catching you.
The last pretense shattered.
"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna—come!" you sobbed, your eyes screwing shut and head lolling to the side. "I’m so close, so close, I'm gonna come, don't stop, Clark–Clark—!"
Your final climax hit you like a tsunami.
It was a full-body break, pleasure ripping through you in convulsive waves. Your cunt clenched around Clark’s cock in rapid, fluttering pulses, milking him, and you heard yourself crying ‘Clark, I love you,’ over and over, a raw, continuous sound of pure release. You felt a gush of arousal around his thrusting length, the hot spill adding to the already sticky mess from previous rounds between your shaking thighs.
The sensations went on and on, one peak crashing into the next until you were a sobbing, boneless mess in your man’s arms, lazy kisses pressed onto the side of your lips, your cheeks, each eyelid.
Through the haze, you felt Clark's control splinter.
His rhythm faltered apart, then turned erratic. His arms locked tighter around you, crushing you to his chest as he buried his face back into your neck. You felt the hot puff of his breath, then the sharp, sweet sting of his teeth at the tender junction of your shoulder, the sensation blooming and melting into pleasure, another bright thread woven into everything that had happened tonight.
"You’re so beautiful," he grunted, muttering a curse soft and heartfelt against your skin. “So incredible—God—”
"N-not God," you panted, smiling against his hair, still shaking. "Just me, baby."
Clark managed a strangled chuckle, hips pistoning up once, twice more, then he stilled, burying his cock to the hilt. You felt the hot, sudden flood of his release inside you again, pulse after thick pulse filling you up. A guttural, satisfied groan rumbled from his chest into yours.
For a long moment, you both stay like that—fused together, trembling in the aftermath of your lovemaking.
The only sounds were your slowing breaths and the wet, sticky sounds of your joined bodies. He was still inside you, still hard, still gently pulsing.
“Hey, still okay?” Clark murmured, hands smoothed over you—your sides, your hips, your back—checking in, every touch saying I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.
Gingerly, he maneuvered you back to the mattress, careful not to jostle you, careful not to pull out. He shifted onto his side and guided you with him until your back was to his front, the two of you fitting together like this was how you’d always slept, how you’d always belonged. His arm draped heavy over your waist, palm settling low on your stomach.
The faint, residual movement of his cock inside you was a warm reminder of his continued presence, but he went still again the moment you tensed—patient, listening.
“Clark,” you whispered, voice hoarse.
“Hm?” His mouth brushed the back of your neck, a barely there kiss.
“Thank you for waiting for me."
You felt his grin against your skin, the one you knew by heart—the deep dimples, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes you’d seen a thousand times across a kitchen counter, over a shared couch cushion, in the doorway when he came home late.
“Always,” he admitted, and the honesty in it made your heart skip. He propped himself up on his elbow, leaning in to kiss you again—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything more.
“But no more bad dates. No more… anyone else… if that's okay with you.” His forehead rested against yours, blue eyes searching. “Just this. Just us. If you still want that in the morning.”
You swallowed, blinking hard, because it was so Clark to worry about the morning even now—to make room for your choice even when his body had been sure.
“Just us, Clark,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake this time. “In the morning. Tomorrow night. Every day after.”
His grin was helpless—boyish, bashful—and the sound he made was half-laugh, half-exhale, like relief finally found him. He kissed you once more, soft and lingering, then curled behind you again and held you like he’d been practicing for years.
When morning came, it still felt like a revelation.
A Big Bang.
It felt like Clark’s arm still around your waist, his thumb tracing slow, sleepy circles against your bare skin as though he’d woken up and immediately remembered: mine to love, mine to keep safe.
The phone on the nightstand sat dark and forgotten, and you didn’t reach for it.
Clark's first words in the morning were: “Still okay?”
You turned your head just enough to look at him—blue eyes, rumpled hair, that soft worry he couldn’t hide.
“Still,” you murmured. “Especially now, Clark.”
The way he smiled then was almost too much for your heart. You held his face in your hands, fingers catching on stubble, and kissed him first today.
And when you both finally got up to brush your teeth side by side, bumping hips at the sink like you’d done a million times before, your body and heart knew better.
Because everything with this Clark was new.
.
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs especially are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!
A/N: I wrote it on a whim as a release for myself, it was meant to be fiction but it really ended up being mostly non-fiction. It's pretty much something that actually happened between myself and the guy I'm currently going through a really shitty break-up with. So anyway, enjoy my pain lmfao.
warnings: SMUT, unprotected sex, oral sex (male receiving), face fucking, speeding/reckless driving, passive suicidal ideation, let me know if I missed any warnings...it's been a very long time since I've done this
It’s loud. It’s really fucking loud in his head as he tugs on his shoes and pulls a leather sleeve over his vibranium arm. It’s a little quieter when he starts up his bike and the roar of the engine penetrates past the voices and images swirling around in his mind. It’s quieter still when he hits the highway, letting himself relax a little when he hits a hundred miles per hour and knows that if he were to lay his bike down right now, at this speed, he probably wouldn’t wake up. He’d lose so much more than an arm and maybe he’d finally be at peace. Hating the way he’s thinking, he accelerates more, reaching a top speed of a hundred and fifty miles per hour before he starts decelerating and taking the soft right curve in the road that his body has begun to associate with relief. He’ll feel better soon.
You’re pacing back and forth in your kitchen, holding your phone in one hand and scratching the back of your neck with the other. Why was his text so cryptic? Would it be so cryptic if you knew him better? If you could read him? That makes sense actually. You can’t read his text because you can’t read him. Your eyes flit downward once again, reading the text for probably the eighteenth time in the last fifteen minutes.
James: Do you keep your door locked?
Is he planning on showing up and just walking in or are you in some kind of unforeseen danger that only he seems to be aware of and he’s insinuating that you should lock your door? You replay your last interaction with him in your head, just to make yourself even more unsure of everything. He came over two weeks ago on a Thursday night. He was quiet, you didn’t know each other very well, you still don’t. Not much was said but a hell of a lot was done. Images flash in your head of skin on skin, your fingers tangled in his dark hair, nails scratching down his back, teeth sinking into his flesh shoulder. You remember the glint of the streetlights flowing through your window and reflecting off of the gold crevices of his vibranium arm. It was kind of beautiful, you’d thought in the moment. But then he left. He left and you haven’t heard from him once. You haven’t seen him like you usually do on your morning runs. He was just a ghost doing ghost things. He haunted you for one night and you never thought you’d see him again.
The oddly familiar hum of an engine somewhere in the street below makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You let your phone lock before setting on the kitchen counter and ending your pacing episode. It’s him. You know this feeling.
Bucky’s head gets quieter with every step he takes up the many flights of stairs to get to your apartment. He’s only been there once but he remembers it well. It’s the only place he’s ever found silence. Or maybe it was you and not your apartment that provided the silence he so desperately sought. Either way, he can feel it settling in now. When he reaches the door that he drove a hundred and fifty miles an hour to get to at nearly midnight on a fucking Thursday, he hesitates just for a moment. You never texted him back. Should he knock? Or did you get the message, understand his intention, and leave the door unlocked for him? His hand is turning the handle before he has a chance to make a rational decision and maybe not so boldly break into some girl’s apartment. But you’re not some girl, and this is a very rational decision for him to make. He’s seeking peace, and you’re the one he finds it in.
“You can’t just send a text like that.” Your voice soothes every aching muscle in his body the second you speak out. He’s only stepped one foot inside when you start on your bullshit. He closes the door behind himself and punctuates your sentence with the sound of your lock clicking. “We don’t even know each other, we slept together once and I haven’t seen you since. I should’ve locked you out.”
“You didn’t,” Bucky points out flatly. His blue eyes settle on where you’ve sunken into one side of your couch, holding a pillow in your lap with your legs criss-crossed over the beige piece of furniture. He leans against your front door, inhaling deeply and letting his eyes fall shut as every voice but yours fades out of his mind.
“But I should have,” you quip back, squeezing the pillow between your hands. You narrow your eyes at the man.
“What were you doing?” His question catches you off guard. A few seconds pass without you giving him an answer and suddenly his blue eyes are on you again and he’s stepping away from the door, moving further into your apartment. He heads for the kitchen, keeping his hands shoved into the pockets of his very worn-in leather jacket.
“When?”
“When you were reading my text but not texting me back.” He reaches the kitchen and notices your phone sitting on the counter right beside the sink. His eyes cast downward, noticing the way your wood floors are slightly more weathered in a straight line through the kitchen. You walk back and forth here a lot. A lot.
“What was I supposed to say?” You drop the pillow onto the couch and slowly rise to your feet, suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re wearing cotton sleeping shorts that are a little too short for a casual surprise guest and an oversized t-shirt with no bra underneath. Bucky hears your movement and turns around in the kitchen so he’s facing you from about twenty feet away. He closes the space by two feet as he exits your kitchen, but stops there. You close the space by just one foot.
“No,” Bucky advises.
“That would’ve sounded like an invitation,” you point out, crossing your arms over your chest.
“I was coming over regardless.” There it is, that warmth that starts somewhere deep inside you and quickly spreads outward until even your cheeks are warm. He senses the change in your demeanor, in your mood, and he’s already planning to take advantage. Bucky takes a few more slow steps forward until you’re both in the living room, separated only by your coffee table.
“What if the door was locked?”
“You would’ve let me in.”
“I would have?” Your voice takes on an incredulous tone, bringing a smirk out of the man with the vibranium arm who’s still towering over your little coffee table.
“You did last time.”
“That was two weeks ago.”
“I’ve been out of town.”
“Without any phone service? It’s 2026,” your tone is flat and devoid of amusement. He exhales deeply and runs a hand through his already messy brown hair.
“Yeah, believe it or not, I couldn’t text or call you. But I thought about it.”
He really did think about it. Every fucking second of down time he got on that goddamn mission was spent thinking about the night he shared with you. He wanted to text you, or call you and hear your voice. He wanted to leave whatever shithole city he and Sam were hunkered down in and climb that ungodly number of stairs to get to you and experience exactly what he’s experiencing right now. Peace. The voices in his head are gone in this moment. The self-hatred that he constantly feels washing over him, drowning him on land, it’s gone. He knows it’s a temporary relief and that the moment he walks back out the door, it’ll all hit him just as hard as before, but for right now he’s at peace in your presence and he can’t even begin to figure out why.
You could call bullshit. You could say that in this day and age no one is without phone service unless they’re stranded in the ocean or in the middle of a fucking desert. But for some reason, you believe him. You actually believe that he would’ve texted or called you if he could have. Maybe that’s why you step around the coffee table and stop right in front of him. His eyes are even more intense up close. You look up at him through your lashes, feeling anxiety coming off of you in waves as he stares into your soul. That look from anyone else would unnerve you, it would make you look away, make you feel too exposed. But when it’s him? It feels like some kind of release.
Bucky maintains eye contact with you in that perfect, breathable silence as he shrugs his jacket off and tosses it onto your beige couch. His hands find the curve of either side of your jaw and his lips are on yours shortly after. Thursday two weeks ago is repeating.
“It’s so fucking quiet with you,” he whispers against your lips, before pressing his to yours again and snaking his tongue in between them. You know exactly what he means, because as soon as his tongue slips into your mouth every thought in your head melts away. He brought peace when he stepped into your apartment uninvited. You grip the fabric of his t-shirt in both hands, pulling him into you harshly. It’s just inspiration for him. Bucky’s hands quickly move to your hips and he’s effortlessly lifting you off the ground, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist in seconds.
Just like last time, he’s leaning over the foot of your bed and placing you down on the mattress softly. He stays on top of you, only letting half of his weight rest on you. You pull against him, wanting more, but he won’t give more. He’s too careful about hurting you. He breaks the kiss momentarily to tug his shirt over his head and just before he crawls back over you, he catches you staring at his arm. It’s always been the gold crevices that catch your attention. They’re so not him. The dark vibranium matches his vibe, but the gold is such an attention-grabber you wouldn’t think he’d be okay with that.
“What is it?” He asks, placing one hand on the bed on either side of your head and dragging one knee up between your legs. He hovers there, with his head cocked to one side, analyzing you as he waits for an answer. You bite your bottom lip and drag your fingertips from his bare collarbones down his chest until you can loop them into the belt loops of his jeans.
“The gold. Why gold?” You have to know. Bucky squints his eyes at you. His gaze drifts from your eyes, off to the side where his dark vibranium hand starkly contrasts with your white bedding. In an instant, he’s rolling off of you and resting on the mattress beside you. Now you’re both staring up at the ceiling fan as it swirls around and around above. He knows what the gold symbolizes. He never really thinks about it. He takes his arm off every night now, covers it up across the room, and tries to do anything but think about it.
“Why gold…” Bucky repeats under his breath. He chuckles lowly before holding his vibranium arm up in the air. Just like last Thursday, the streetlights shining in your bedroom window glint off of the gold in the slightest way, accenting it. “No one’s ever asked.”
“I’m asking,” you remind him. You roll over on your left side, coming to face him with your head propped up on one hand. You don’t know much about him, hell you haven’t tried to learn much about him, why is this something you need to understand? You lean forward and gently press your lips to the side of his neck. He sighs into your touch, tilting his head to the opposite side to give you access to even more skin. You keep peppering his neck with kisses, clean and smooth at first, until you let your tongue peek through your lips. You start sucking and licking, tasting him as he ponders your question.
“The gold peeking through the vibranium is supposed to symbolize the old me. The me that ran around New York in the forties, throwing punches in allies and walking away with a girl on each arm. The me that’s still there but is just too deep and too buried to dig his way back to the surface. Sometimes bits and pieces of him peek through the darkness, but I’ll never be completely him again. There’s always going to be a darkness surrounding me.”
You don’t stop kissing. You start working your way down his chest, dragging your tongue down his sternum as you process his answer. His breaths come in quicker now, and not just because of what you’re doing with your mouth or where it’s heading, but because of everything he just said to you and the fact that you’re not swaying. You didn’t stiffen, you didn’t tense up, you didn’t get up and turn the lights on and tell him to leave. You get to the waistband of his pants and you start unbuttoning and unzipping them before tugging them down his hips. He lifts his hips and lets you pull them down along with his underwear. Fuck. His breath hitches in his throat when his dick pops up against his stomach and you quickly take it in one hand, stroking from the base to the tip twice before circling your tongue around the tip. He looks down at you and lets out a loud groan. You look so fucking pretty when you use your mouth on him like that. He finds himself letting his flesh hand rest on the back of your head, not pushing you down any further but giving you that reassurance that you’re doing everything he wants you to be doing right now.
“Fuck…just like that,” he says in a breathy voice, hooded eyes staring down at you as you let his cock sink deep into your throat. You gag slightly when it hits the back of your throat but don’t pull back and he curls his fingers into your hair. “Goddamn.”
He’s in awe of you. He’s in awe of the way you can ask him such a deeply personal question and instead of running away at his absolutely insane answer, you get closer to him. You put his cock in your mouth and you suck and you make him feel good and he doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s supposed to do with that. His head’s still quieter than ever. He might be falling in love, he thinks for a second, as you gag on his cock once again and your nose brushes against his lower stomach. He lets his head fall back and his eyes close for a second before he feels your palm press against the back of his flesh hand that’s still tangled in your hair. You’re asking him to push your head down. God fucking damn. Only a few more seconds go by before he's holding your head still and fucking your face like you wanted. It’s bliss really, feeling Bucky’s cock repeatedly hit the back of your throat and hearing his breathy groans and praises as if he isn’t the one doing most of the work.
“Fuck, baby.” Bucky rasps, before tugging you upward by his grip on your hair and shoving you toward the middle of the bed as he gets out of the way. He’s got you face down ass up in seconds and he’s ripping your shorts and panties down your thighs abruptly. You bury your face in the bed as you listen to the sound of his jeans hitting the floor. “I’m not going to be able to hold back.”
“Is that what you think I want?” You question, unable to stifle the light laugh that follows the end of the sentence. A firm slap lands on the right side of your ass and your back stiffens for a second before you relax again.
“I’m just saying.” You can almost hear his eyes rolling. “You’ll be sore tomorrow.”
“I was sore last time too, I like that. It’s a good reminder.” You feel the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance and you do your best to relax, knowing he’s big and he’s going to make damn sure you take the whole thing at once.
“Yeah?” There’s no pause between that single word and him burying his cock so deep inside of you so suddenly that you scream. You really scream. You know your neighbors fucking hate you. They’re probably hating Thursdays entirely now. Your mind empties as he fills your cunt with every inch he has. “There you go, just take it.” He’s setting an unforgivable pace in less than five seconds flat, slamming into you over and over again while your bodies make the most obscene noises. You end up closer to the headboard than you started and you reach up to it for support, which only makes it bang against the wall even harder.
There isn’t a single thought in either of your heads as Bucky continues to fuck you relentlessly. Refusing to so much as slow down until he’s filling you with his cum and then fucking it in even deeper. It doesn’t even drip out of you when he finally pulls out and collapses on your back, this time letting all of his weight rest on you.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, your body shaking as the adrenaline crash begins.
“I know,” he whispers back, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder. “You did so good.”
“I didn’t do anything,” you giggle back, wiggling your shoulders underneath him.
Oh, you have no idea. You have no idea that you did everything he’s needed you to do for the last two weeks. And he isn’t even thinking about you sucking his dick or letting him fuck you from behind. You cleared his head. You made him feel like those little gold crevices in his arm cracked a little wider and a little more of his old self came out.
You made James feel like Bucky again, and you did it all before any clothes came off. You did it simply by letting him exist in your presence.
teasing clark by withholding the sweet, sweet sensation of being able to sink fully into your pussy. using him like he's your sex toy — god fucking damn.
tags: pwp, morning sex, pure filthy smut, fucking 'just the tip', teasing, edging, orgasm denial, creampies (1k+ wc)
—
the bed frames have been creaking, rhythmic and softly in time with clark's shallow thrusts. amber bathes the room, with the morning sun casting warm across the room. clark's body, fever hot to the touch, had barely stirred awake when you're needily murmuring for a quickie in that half-asleep haze.
your pussy was still aching from last night's activities, leaving you sore and creamy with his residual cum. his body quickly absorbs the heat, slick with sweat — muscles tensed with the effort of controlling his pace. he couldn't bring himself to break that gorgeous haze you were in, moaning wanton and soft as you're rubbing languidly over your clit.
clark's greedily watching, groaning low and content to the erotic sight you're providing, a sight you probably didn't even realise was downright lethal to him.
gosh…yeah. touch yourself, sweet girl. lettin' me watch you.
a startled whimper rumbles in your throat at the want in his voice. flashes of your canines catch over your bottom lip, movements turning a little more frantic. that was just so, fucking, hot.
it seems to undo him. the sight of his girl, chasing after her own pleasure — his thrusts become more controlled and intentional, driven by the sheer visual of your hand working between your legs, squelches of your combined arousal and whines.
fuck. you're so — incredibly, beautiful.
clark lowers his head, hastily capturing one of your nipples into his wide mouth. tongue darting out and circling the sensitive bud, all while his hips maintain the deep, heavy thrusts that got you to squeal for him every time. his free hand comes down to cover yours, the pressure evident against your clit. it's then he pulls back, just barely, so he could watch your features.
give me one more, mm? ah—…mm. wanna feel you come on my cock again…
you're quickly shaking your head, squeezing the base of his cock abruptly, forcing him to jerk to a halt in surprise at your intrusion into the sex-heavy atmosphere.
confusion is painted on clark's face, heavily panting, cheeks dimpled in what could've been annoyance — body trembling in the wake of being blue-balled. a sheen of sweat coats his chest, the coarse hairs there mussed up and gleaming in the morning haze.
his deep blue eyes search your face, trying to understand why.
there's no resistance when your palm nudges against his belly — he yields to your movements, rolling onto his side beside you. his cock, sick and glistening, rests heavily against his stomach.
are you alright? did i hurt y—
clark lets out a surprised grunt, a shadow taking over his chest as you clamber over him. his eyes lock on where your fingers are teasingly dragging down his length. picking the heavy shaft, to rub it flush against your slicked pussy. he gets the memo instantly, jaw tightened, muscles flexed as he fights his urge to take control.
geez…goddamn tease. had me — ahh-hahh…all worried.
he rolls his shoulders, and with a quick adjustment, your body bouncing hard at his shift to rest against the pillows.
want to drag it out, mm? last night not enough f'you?
his words are sharp, breath hissing through his teeth as you tease him further, letting him feel the hot, wet velvet cunt of yours, up and along his length.
you lock your gaze with his, finally lowering your hips enough just to notch his thick, weeping tip. it disappears promptly, sucked in greedily.
ngh—y-you're killing me.
clark's hips buck upward instinctively. desperately attempting to sink deeper into you, only to be met with your stubborn insistence on maintaining control. only allowing him to fuck his tip into you. the sheets are fisted on the other side of your legs, white-knuckled grips threatening to tear the sheets to shreds.
please…let me in all the way.
you find your resolve wavering a tad at the desperate, shaky want in his throat, but you shake your head, palm forcing his body to remain still.
clark relents, head falling back into the pillows on a pitched whine. you can watch his chest heaving. sweat glistening everytime his ribcage hollows at his restraint, up to the bobbing of his adam's apple, translucent trickles of sweat coating the veins.
each and every one of the shallow thrusts you award him with is received far too excitedly, cock twitching in you desperately. the hand, leaves the now tattered sheets to rest atop your bare thighs, as though he's somehow found control in himself.
they flex around the fat, squeezing and massaging to coax whatever demon possessed you to torture him like this. instinctively, his hips involuntarily thrust upwards, the cold, neglected inches seeking warmth.
o-one…more minute an' i'm flipping you over. warning you now — need to fuck you, sweetheart.
the ragged plea is met with a sharp glare from you, followed by a prickly, abrupt warning squeeze at the base of his cock.
u-eugh! o-okay, okay.
you slowly inch down deeper for him, offering him the promise of more. his hands come up to rest on your hips — not forcing, but to encourage the barely-there thrusts.
clark thinks his eyes might roll back, other hand appreciatively twining over yours, flattened on his chest.
a-ah, oh gosh. that's…
you feel his hand tug at your wrist, up from his chest, up his collarbone — until he's pressed your digits onto his lips. at first, he merely pants into them, they quickly grow into needy kisses over your knuckles.
j-jus' like that. little more.
the notion of his sneaky tactics registers, but you're far too achy to reject. there's no warning when you bottom out. thighs quivering from your release just at the perfect jut of the tip of his cock, right into your g-spot.
you feel your eyes actually roll back this time as you cum on his cock. you're pulsing in steady, sudden jolts.
clark lets out a breathy, guttural grunt, heavy, and stuttered — with the sheer force of your orgasms causing a domino effect to his own. his body seizes up as he spills deep inside you, shuddering through each fucking wave.
you collapse onto him, through your own pants, and clark catches your hips to steady you. the both of you are trying to gather your bearings from the aftermath of your combined releases.
h-holy shit…
he lets out a soft, airy laugh at your breathy exclamation, his much bigger palm resting on the back of your head.
synopsis: you're all needy and horny, but Clark has to finish writing an article, so you sit on his cock while he tries to work.
cw: porn and no plot, unprotected p in v, cockwarming (duh), slight tummy bulge, reader gets fucked dumb, creampie!
wc: idk, i'm literally in the middle of the amazon rainforest (class field trip lmao) and i usually do the word count on my computer, which i did not bring lol
a/n: i've done, like, three of these but i just love the idea so much. the more the merrier, right? not proofread, so if you see typos, squint.
It's supposed to be a date night, but Clark's article has to be ready first thing tomorrow and he hasn't finished it yet. But you're all needy and eager, you'd really been looking forward to your date, and he can't say no to his girl.
He's sitting at the kitchen counter, just writing his article, all calm and indifferent, while you squirm on his cock.
Pussy stretched wide open, completely full of him, a little bulge forming on your lower belly from how deep he is in you.
You whine lowly, pressing your face into his neck. “Clark,” you say breathlessly, the warm air against his throat making goosebumps rise on his skin.
“I know, baby. Just gimme a minute,” he replies, his cock twitching in you. God, he wishes he could just say to hell with the article.
Your slick is dripping down his cock, smeared all over the tops of his thighs, coating his heavy balls. The air is thick with the scent of you, and it's making Clark's mind is all hazy. God, you smell sweet. It's making it difficult for him to focus.
It's a sort of cruel, endless cycle. The longer you sit on his cock, the wetter you get, the more aroused he gets, the less he can focus, the longer it takes him to write the article, the longer you sit on his cock.
“Clark,” you whine again, about ten minutes later, your tight pussy fluttering around him as little shivers of need travel through you.
“I know, honey, I'm sorry,” he says, his voice rough with desire. His hand caresses your lower belly, feeling how full you are of him. Fuck, all he wants to do is lay you down on the counter and fuck you dumb. But this stupid article... “I'm almost done.” It's a lie, but he hopes it'll make you feel a little better.
The words on the screen make no sense to him. He erases entire sentences, rewrites them, edits them, only to end up with the sentence he'd started with.
It's grating on his nerves, and the fact that you've now taken to rocking back and forth on him isn't helping.
“Baby,” Clark warns, “don't distract me. I'm trying to work.”
“Work later,” you beg, nibbling over his jaw, leaving wet kisses on his skin.
Clark's cock twitches in you again. Precum is slowly leaking from him, mixing with your arousal. He's so hard, it almost hurts.
You can feel him pulsing in you, thick and engorged, filling you to the brim. Your skin is sticky with sweat, the hot coil of desire pulled tight in your womb. You feel like you're burning from the inside out and Clark is the only one that can help you.
“Baby, this has to be ready for tomorrow,” he groans, moving his head to the side as you kiss over his throat.
“You'll have plenty of time to finish it after...” you say lowly, your lips moving up to his ear.
Clark lets out a sound that's between a groan and a moan. “Fuck it.” He pulls you off his lap, his hard cock slipping out of you, and he carries you over to the bedroom.
He lays you on the bed, his huge body following right after. He presses his hips against yours, feeling how wet you are, and his mouth focuses on kissing over your neck.
“I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry I kept you waiting,” he murmurs, voice rough as he nibbles over your jaw. He wastes no more time as he reaches down, grabbing himself in hand and slowly pushing himself into you again.
You mewl sweetly, your back arching as he fills you completely, his girthy cock always a tight fit. You grab onto his arms, whining as he pushes in inch by inch, the thick mushroom head stretching your gummy walls before the rest follows.
Clark groans once he's all the way in you and he pauses, just relishing the feeling of your wet, warm cunt squeezing around him.
“God, baby, you're so good. You feel so good,” he murmurs, voice rough as he kisses over your shoulder. He starts moving his hips slowly, deep, gentle rolls that have your eyes rolling back.
Your nails dig into the large, strong muscles in his arms, leaving red marks on his skin. You're seeing stars, the breath pushed out of your lungs each time Clark thrusts back into you.
He does it so well, fucks you so good every time, and you're already worked up from how long you were sitting on his cock. A warm coil of heat and desire forms low in your belly, growing hotter and tighter as Clark starts fucking you faster.
Clark grunts as your pussy clenches around him tighter, breathless moans leaving your beautiful lips. “I know, baby. Fuck, you feel so fucking good.”
He glances down, watching the way his cock moves in and out of you with ease, the width of him stretching you wide. Your folds are all soaked and puffy, your clit swollen and begging for attention.
He reaches down, splaying a huge hand over your womb, his thumb landing on your clit and rubbing messy shapes on it.
In response, you squeal and grab onto his shoulders, dragging your nails down his back. “Please, please, please, please, please!” you gasp, thighs starting to shake as you wrap your legs around his waist to push him deeper.
Clark moans, thrusting harder, his cock pushing in deeper until the bulbous tip is brushing against your cervix. “I know, I know. I'm gonna make you come, baby. You know I always do,” he says between rough puffs of breath, feeling his own orgasm growing low in his abdomen.
You're squirming underneath him, your eyes shut tight, mouth open as you moan and whine his name. The heat in your womb spreads over your skin, leaving every nerve alight with pleasure until all you can feel is Clark.
Between his fingers and his deep thrusts, it doesn't take him long to get you over the edge.
You come hard, your gummy walls squeezing his cock until he can barely move anymore. Stars dance behind your eyelids as you mewl incoherently and your nails bite into his skin.
Clark follows right after. With a few last, shallow thrusts, he comes, spurting his thick cum into you. Warm and sticky, it gathers right against your cervix, and there's just so much of it. Something about how his body works, who knows.
It drips out of you the second he pulls out to lie down beside you. The bed sheets underneath you are soaked, sticky with sweat and your slick and his cum.
He pulls you to him, wrapping you in his arms and kissing the side of your gorgeous face. “You okay, baby?” he asks.
“‘m good,” you reply, rolling over to face him before cuddling against his warm, sweaty chest.
He holds you close, kissing your temple. He has no intention of getting out of bed now. He figures he can just wake up super super super early tomorrow morning and finish his article — you're more important.
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
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