wishful, sinful

MDNI | She/her | Asks are open! | wishfulsinful on ao3

[wishful-sinful-9]

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NSFW CONTENT

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Collections:

Lumberjack!Logan

Drabbles:

no.1

no.2

the shower

Oneshots:

you want it darker

wolfmoon

Series:

Wanna be your dog

WHAT I WON'T WRITE:

Rape/non-con

Piss/shit kinks

Incest

Male!reader (no prejudice! I'm just more comfortable writing female readers, being a woman)

Gore

Pedophilia

[houseofhyde]

manchild. ⤷ bucky barnes x fem!reader ⌇ 16.3k

✶ ― SYNOPSIS. bucky can’t help but wonder why they always come running to you,, or your living fossil of a roommate disapproves of your taste in men and its totally not because he wants a taste of you.

warnings.ᐟ mdni! no use of y/n, roommate!bucky, cocky+flirty!bucky, also guard dog!bucky (if that even makes sense) (it doesn’t), frenemies to lovers, smut (pwp, service dom!bucky, unprotected piv, oral sex - f receiving, clothed sex for like a sec, fingering, creampie, tummy bulge, dirty talk, dry humping, possessiveness, dumbification, praise, temperature play, food play, nipple play, pussy pronouns, hair pulling - m receiving, multiple orgasms, consent kink, implied competency kink and cum eating, bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™, both bucky and reader spend the whole fic towing the fine line between horny and pervy), angst, fluff, jealousy, pining, so much bickering, attachment issues, miscommunication bc these two combined have the emotional intelligence of a chihuahua, bucky’s hobby is baking bc i said so. bucky can pick the reader up (but he’s literally a super soldier so 🧍‍♂️), one mention of bucky trying to grab the reader’s hair, reader has a nut allergy and does not speak russian (neither do i, so please forgive the very small amount of google translated russian) ᯓ★hyde's input. god bless sabrina for saving the summer again. also don’t let this flop, it’s my birthday tomorrow and i’m not above crying over poorly-received erotica (i’m joking) (no i’m not) (edit: wtf guys)

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Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?”

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde !

· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

click here to join my taglist.

[wishful-sinful-9]

I swear I’ve hallucinated this fic bc I’m not sure if it was on here or ao3

I read this series where ghost & reader work in a kitchen, he’s her strict boss, and they fuck in secret

If anyone knows please let me know what it was called/who wrote it!!!

[robo-writing]

God…the size difference…I just know his dick is as thick as a statue I JUST KNOW ITTTTT

[rosenclaws]

Set It Free || Old Mountain Man!Logan x Reader

summary: You're rescued by a strange man in the woods and you can't get him out of your head. You need to find him again.

warnings: NSFW, SMUT, MINORS DNI, rough sex, groping, mean Logan, doggy style, mating press, creampie he low key talks too well for being mountain man but idc, idk man this is just my brain being horny

a/n: Yeah that picture sparked insane thoughts in my head and thus, this fic is born. I can't wait for more pics of this movie to drop Hugh Jackman the man u are fuck why are you hot as an old dirty man like wtf. Also it's set during winter so I can say it's a holiday fic so happy holidays lol

You didn't find him that day in the woods. He found you.

A hike in the forest just at the cusp of winter was a good idea, until it wasn't. The trails started to twist and turn and the snow covered your own footprints. The cold made things soggy and slippery. One wrong step and you went falling into a place you don't recognize.

Alone nursing a twisted ankle at dusk you believed you were going to be lost out here forever. The feeling of being watched and the chilling sounds of the forest caused pure panic to course through your veins. Only half of your water and a few snacks left in your bag, you were helpless.

It was then that a man stepped through the trees. This was it, you're dead. Murdered in the woods by a strange man and no one will ever find you. The man was old. Hair long and gray, matted and dirty His eyes were cold, calculating as he appeared to decide if you were going to be his dinner that night. His face had a large cut across his cheek just under his sunken eyes. But even with all that he looked...handsome. A kind of ruggedness that was rare to find nowadays. Still he was a man in the woods and you were unable to flee.

"Please don't hurt me." You whispered as you clutched your backpack.

"I have Band-Aids, for your face if you need them." Your voice quivered with fear as you slowly reached into your bag. Perhaps he would accept your offer and leave you be. A peace offering.

But his face never changed as he stalked closer to you. In complete silence he knelt down, crawled over to you and...sniffed your hair. A low growl rumbled in his chest. You could barely breath as he moved down. He reached out and touched your ankle with his cold calloused hands. You jumped on instinct but pain shot through your body.

You let out a shocked yelp as he suddenly scooped you up in his arms. Your heart raced as you clung onto him. Where was he taking you? Is he going to hurt you? Kidnap you? The dirt on his hands rubbed off on your clothes as he silently walked deeper into the woods. He smelled like the Earth, like the pine needles of the trees and the damp ground that was still covered in snow.

"H-How long have you been out here?" You asked quietly. He just looked at you. He almost looked...familiar. Like you've seen his face before a long time ago.

As night fell he stepped through the trees to reveal a ranger station. He set you down across the road and before you could even thank him he was gone. You hobbled to the cabin and they took you in and got you help.

It had been a month since then and the mysterious man still plagued your mind. You just couldn't let it go. Who was he and why did he decide to help you? It was eating you alive. The rangers thought you were crazy when you asked about the man living in the forest. Of course no one lived out here. No man could survive this place for long without being noticed. You researched every inch of the internet for answers but came up with nothing.

Only whispers and rumors of a mutant who went on the run. A man who was more beast than human. Claws that had left a trail of blood centuries long. It should scare you. He should scare you. Who knows what he could have done, who he could have been. And yet, the desire to find him grows. You had so many questions and he had the answers.

The forest was thicker than you remembered. The snow crunching under your shoes as you weaved through the tall trees. This could be a completely hopeless endeavor. It's clear if he didn't want to be found he wouldn't be, still you kept looking. The sound of rushing water lured you closer. A small river came into view and so did the sound of splashing. Not just the normal sounds of the water, but something else.

You gasp quietly as you see him. Waist deep in the icy cold water. His back ripples with muscle as he pours water over his head. Washing his face and body with just what nature could offer. That water must be freezing, how could any man handle it?

More importantly how can any man look like that? His chest is bulging against his body. Hair that covers his body and travels down all the way this waist, dipping teasingly below the water. His arms are huge and flex with each movement. He looks strong, like he could break you in a heartbeat. You should run, run far away and forget about him and about this. But you can't, you don't want to. You want to know what it's like to feel him, to be under him in the most intimate of ways.

You barely make a sound. Just breathing softy as you're utterly mesmerized by the man in front of you. Without warning he snaps towards you. His eyes widened and in an almost crazed state.

The adrenaline pumps through your body as you scramble and run. You run as fast as you can but you can hear him close behind. Doesn't matter how fast you are, he'll catch you. You run right into a dead end, a small part of the forest protected by the harsh weather by its trees. You let out a grunt as he shoves you against the trunk of one of those big trees.

The bark bites your face harshly as his body pushes you into it. He growls violently, snarling dangerously close to your neck. His teeth scraps against the skin of your neck. He could do it. He could kill you right here and you could only blame yourself. His nose buries itself against you, sniffing loudly as he slowly releases his grip on you. He steps back, letting you go as you turn yourself around. Your face stings from the small cuts and he seems to take notice. Frowning just slightly as you wince in pain.

"I know you." His throat scratches as he speaks those three words. The first words he's said in a long time.

"You saved me. You could have killed me but you saved me." You tell him.

"Why...did you come back?" His voice is hoarse as he speaks. He's staring at you, dripping wet and naked. A small glint of metal catches your eyes as you spot silver dog tags hanging around his neck. But something bigger steals away your attention. Your eyes drift down for just a moment but you can clearly see his cock standing stiff. He's huge. The cold nipped at his skin but he looks completely unbothered.

"I...I don't know." You whisper. You're afraid to move in case he bolts like a wild animal. Why did you come back? Why were you drawn to him so much?

"You should go. Leave." He growls. He's giving you the chance to go but as you stare at the man in front of you, you don't want to go anywhere.

"No." You say as you drop your bag, stripping your coat off and letting it fall to the floor.

"You're an idiot." He says with a scoff.

"I will break you." He says. It's not a warning, it's a promise. A promise you hope he delivers on.

A quiet whimper falls from your lips and he pounces. He tackles you to the ground and smashes his lips against yours. He's messy and sloppy with his movements as his teeth clash with yours, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth as he grinds his cock against your body. Your lips are bruised from his roughness and he likes it that way. He buries his face back in your neck.

"So sweet, sweet, sweet smell." He mumbles as his rough hands rip your clothes to shreds.

"Smell you, I could smell you." He paws at your breasts without an ounce of care.

Squeezing them roughly with his cold hands sending shivers up your spine. He could smell you from the river. That sweet scent that he smelled the day he found you in the woods. It was like a drug, it called to him. He thought he'd never get to smell it again but here you are. You found him and he's not going to let you go this time. He nips your nipple with his teeth. Sucking on it and growling as you arch your back into him. He moves between both breasts, slobbering like a dog as he humps your damn leg.

Snikt

You gasp, instinctively crawling away as you see the metal claws protruding from his hands. Mutant. He's a Mutant. He grabs onto your legs, the tips of his claws just barely digging into your pants.

"I told you...to run." He pants.

You stay deathly still as you watch him drag his claws down your pants. Slicing them to pieces as the fabric limply falls off. His claws retract but the wounds are still there. Blood dripping down the back of his hand as the skin weakly starts to stich itself back together. For the first time you see a hint of pain on his face.

"Are you scared?" He asks, slowly crawling over your body. His hands pinning your wrists to the ground as he leans in close to your face.

"No." You say breathlessly. He makes a noise you could almost call a laugh.

"Yes you are. Scared but needy." He nudges the tip of his cock against your cunt.

"Sweet, sweet smell." Teasing your soaking entrance.

He can smell it all. A hint of fear yes, but the fear is drowned out by the overwhelming scent of your cunt. It's practically leaking onto the ground waiting for him to stake his claim. You smell so sweet, so desperate, your scent calling out to him and he's going to answer. The necklace hangs in front of your face, you can barely make out the words from the rust and grime that has grown on it.

Logan

"Logan? Is that your name?" You and he puts more of his weight on you, nodding slowly.

"It's what they called me, what you're going to call me." He lets go of your wrists and flips you with ease.

His mutant strength on full display as one hand pins you down to the dirt. The wet ground is shoved in your face as you try and squirm to tilt your head to breathe. His grimy hand grips your hips tightly. Keeping you nice and still as he fucks his cock deep inside of you. The scream of his name you let out echoes through the forest but no one can really hear you.

Fuck fuck fuck your brain can't think straight as your cunt flutters and cries around his cock. He howls loud and rough as he rolls his hips against yours. His muddy hand prints littered over your body as he can't decide where he wants to put them. On your hips, on your breasts, on your throat. Fuck he can't remember the last time he felt so good. So so fucking good.

Whatever humanity Logan had left is gone as he mounts you like a beast. Pounding his cock into you relentlessly. Fucking you over and over again in his own sloppy heavy rhythm. There is no thoughts in his head other than pleasure. He needs you, he needs his cock deep in your pussy for the rest of his life. He needs you here with him to keep warm. He can protect you, he can provide for you. He can fuck you until you're crying and begging for more.

Your face must be a mess, just a hint of blood mixing with the damp dirt and wet leaves. Your hands claw at the ground as you search for anything to ground you to this world. Your attempts are useless as Logan continues to ravage you. No thoughts, no words, no nothing. Your mind completely blank as your body hums with a delicious almost painful pleasure.

You want to see him. You want to watch his face as he fucks you, see the way his tongue sticks out and his eyes roll back. You want to watch him bully his cock into you over and over again. But you don't get to ask for anything right now, you can just take what he gives you. Take it all and more.

"Good fucking cunt. Need more. Need need more." He grunts as his fingernails dig into your skin. He's dragging you onto his cock. Pushing and pulling you like a toy for him to use as he chases his high.

"Fuck I'm-" Is all you can choke out as you come harder than you ever have.

It's explosive as you squirm wildly, tears falling down your face as the pleasure overwhelms ever nerve in your body. Logan lets go of of you and slams his weight on top of you. Pinning you to the ground as he fucks his cock even deeper. His hips rising and falling with the force of gravity and his heavy body to tear you apart.

He's completely incoherent as he slams his hips into you and finally comes. He digs his teeth into your shoulder. Muffling his feral groans as his warm cum fills up your cunt. You can't move. Even with him on top of you your legs won't let you either. He has completely ruined you.

"Logan..." You mumble as you feel him press a kiss to your shoulder. Trying to soothe the angry welt where his teeth made their mark.

"Quiet." He grunts as he pushes himself off of you with his hands.

You're completely at his mercy as he turns you on your back. You must look a mess but it only makes him harder. In fact you don't think he ever stopped being hard. He takes your shoulders and drags them onto his shoulders, bending over until your knees are almost touching your shoulders. The tip of his cock slotted right at your messy cunt. Hard and ready to be inside of you again.

"I will break you." He repeats. His eyes clouded with lust as he slams his hips into you again. He promised he would.

The forest will protect you from the outside world and Logan will protect you from anything else. He found you that day and did the right thing and saved you. He wanted to take you then and there. So pretty, so perfect. But he didn't. He let you walk away.

Your scent lingered in his dreams every night since then. Taunting him for his good deed. Reminding him that no matter how long he hides his humanity still remains. But then you came back. You came back and looked for him. That's not his fault, he did everything right.

It just means that he was meant to keep you.

[bitterrfruit]

splinter [4]

ghost x f! reader. 5.3k words cw: questionable somno. voyeurism (?). kind of smut. 18+ mdni [masterlist]

The next days passed by slowly, if unremarkably. 

She settled in like a foot into a shoe that didn’t quite fit. It’d leave blisters on her, but maybe it’d be worn in with time. Soften to the intrusion. 

She was perfectly content with a simple rotation of activities; taking the dog for a piss and a walk, cooking breakfast, watching a few episodes of the X Files Blu-ray boxset she found in the garage, plucking books off his shelf and skimming through a few chapters before putting them back. She laid claim to his armchair on the third day, and spent most of her time with her knees tucked up to her chest and a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles on her nose. Granted him the miserable excuse of a couch as though a punishment for leaving it as the only thing for her to sleep on.

He was left with the less reposeful chores, but he had no complaints. He liked keeping his hands busy. 

Besides, he wasn’t about to ask her to trudge out into the snow and fell a tree, or clear debris from the chimney, or pour antigel into his generator. He wasn’t a hidebound old prick, he didn’t have any compunctions about a woman doing hard labour, and had the weather been more forgiving he might have even recruited her for an extra pair of hands. 

Such was the way the cards fell, though. Truly, he had no interest in cooping her up in the kitchen or laundry; but she offered to wash and hang out the clothes and towels, wipe down the benches, sweep the floors. It’s only fair, I guess, she said. She made breakfast, they alternated lunch, he cooked dinner. 

Whiney thing always had something to complain about when it came to what he fed her, though. 

Haven’t you got anything else other than fucking baked beans? God, seriously, bangers and mash again? Can’t we just have pasta? 

She’d eat it, though, grumbling about it or otherwise. Probably because he told her he’d funnel it down her throat like a foie gras goose if she refused to. 

It felt at times like he was feeding a cat, because she would get purry around lunch and dinner — always coy about it, of course, an I’m a bit hungry, aren’t you? dropped here and there to make sure he got the message. He was training it out of her, though. Insisted she ask with a please and thank you. He wasn’t her damn butler. 

While he trained up one, though, she was teaching the other to forgo his commands. She loved winding up the fucking dog. At a certain point he was convinced she’d do it just to get under his skin. 

She’d mimic his barks until he started howling at the ceiling, and she’d laugh irrepressibly, a choir of high-pitched noises that went on and on and on until one or the other tired themselves out. She’d get him all riled up right before bed, tossing his mangled duck toy down the hallway and then teasing him when she grabbed it and held it behind her back — d’ya want it? D’ya want it? Oooh, but you can’t have it! It’s mine!

All the new noise that invaded every corner of his house should have been enough to give him a thumping headache, should have irritated him to the point of boiling over — but it didn’t. It might have tested him for the first night or two, until, confounding him, it softened into a tolerable distraction. 

Noise outside of his head rather than within it. Laughter instead of the droning apathy that inundated his mind like radio static. 

Not to say she didn’t have the capacity to annoy the shit out of him, though. 

Her gutted suitcase was an omen he didn’t know to heed. Not a day had passed until her shit was everywhere — loose hairs on the walls of his shower, clothes tossed haphazardly in a hamper, knickers hung on the towel rail. Six different bottles on the shower floor, shampoo and conditioner the obvious ones, but fucked if he could tell what the rest of them were.  

Her corner of the living room was a veritable bombsite, since it had also functioned as a bedroom for the last four nights. Clothes horse was always full of her laundry, and — how sweet, a t-shirt or two of his. 

Worst of all, though — the house was ripe with her. Every corner of every room smelled like her cinnamon-sweet perfume, permeating the porous wood of the cabin walls and soaking into the carpet like cigarette smoke. Blankets that smelled like her skin. Floral shampoo that wafted out of the bathroom every time she showered. 

The showering was, unsurprisingly, a pain point. 

She drained the boiler of hot water every single time she used it, blissfully ignorant — or, purposefully uncaring — that he might want to have a warm shower too, or God forbid take a piss while she was in there. She’d occupy the bathroom for an hour sometimes, singing away the time while she oiled her hair or slapped on some skin cream or other. 

He let the ire simmer, though. Too early to enforce a curfew on the one room to which she could escape from him, a little shelter away from his eyes, even in spite of the door that couldn’t lock. She seemed to trust that he wouldn’t let himself in. 

His generosity was spoiling her rotten, no doubt. She was only getting bossier, needier, chattier. Filling every corner of his house and mind with her. 

He was sure the two days straight of crisp winter sunshine put a pep in her step. Filled her with confidence that she would soon be free of his viciously cruel imprisonment. Counting down the minutes until the snow melted away. 

That was until the weather turned. 

It was just after six that he barrelled through the front door, snow-blasted and out of breath, having trudged through a renewed knee-height blanket of snow to restart the generator in the shed. 

It wasn’t often that the thing stopped dead, only when the weather hit the deep double negatives — and, that evening, it hit negative forty. Winter record.

So cold that the tip of his nose burned by the time he stomped in, slamming shut the door against the blistering gale and bolting it. Almost forgot she was there as he went straight for the woodburner, tossing another log into the glowing embers and crouching down in front of the open hatch to soak in the heat. 

“Looks pretty bad out there,” came her voice from behind him, timid as the first night he pulled her in. 

He pulled his fleece neck gaiter from where it had covered the lower half of his face, frozen condensation of his breath peppering the floor beneath him. “Yep.” 

“It’s, um—” She hesitated, and he chewed on nothing. “It’s not looking like I’ll be going anywhere for a while yet.” 

“Sure isn’t,” he replied frankly. No use pussy-footing around it. “Not gonna throw a fit, are ya?” 

She let out a wistful sigh. “No.” 

“Good,” he huffed, pushing himself to stand with a grunt and turning to face her; and, when he noticed she was within reach, grabbed her by the shoulders and maneuvered her in front of the fire. “Fuckin’ cold tonight. Don’t let those little hands freeze off.” 

He’d have expected some moaning, a bratty dispute at being bossed around, but she was pleasantly docile. Unnervingly so, when she spread out her fingers in front of the flames, no scoffing to be heard. 

“Are you sure we’ve got enough food and stuff?” She asked quietly, as he took himself into the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

“Plenty.” 

“I’m just — it might be — what if—” She worried on, tripping over every second word. 

“Not gonna let you starve, girl,” he grumbled.  

Even that didn’t seem to satisfy her. There was something else, he could read it on her, smell it in the air; the sulphur of a geyser on the brink of eruption, of first-drop petrichor before a flash flood. All edgy because she was girding herself for something, and he could only guess what that could be. 

Perhaps she’d bolt off into the snow again. Use his sat phone to call for a chopper to evacuate her. Shoot him with the handgun she had hidden from him.

“How long do you think it will last?” She lamented, her back still to him.

He let out a harsh breath, rubbing his temple to relieve an iota of the tension that thrummed against the inside of his skull. Sugarcoating it would surely make it worse, he thought, but he certainly wasn’t about to vocalise the extent of his pessimism. 

“I don’t know,” he said eventually. Almost remorseful.

She was quiet for a bit, the sound of her shaky breathing drowned out by the rumble of the kettle, and only once it began to whistle and he took it off the heat did she speak again. 

“I suppose I should get used to it,” she murmured. 

“Uh-huh,” he agreed. Vaguely appreciative she had taken the burden off him to remind her. “Hungry?” 

She was quiet all evening. 

Even a warm cup of mint tea and a bowl of reheated beef curry wasn’t enough to thaw it; she spoke to him in hiccups and avoided a response at all where she could, kept her nose in a book and her body close to the fire. Two blankets draped over shoulders and the dog tucked up under the flap. 

He had the telly on for a while, played a few dated episodes of Hinterland just to fill the noise vacuum that her sudden regression had left. She poked her head up to watch a few seconds here and there and he thought she might deign to speak to him, but by the time it brushed nine, he had given up. 

Too fucking tired for it. 

He was confident he hadn’t done or said anything to warrant a sulk, but it seemed just about anything sent her into one. Maybe she was fussing about having curry for the third meal in a row. Maybe her blanket was too scratchy. Maybe she was still bitter that he told her off for spending too long in the shower. 

Whatever it was, he was sure she’d be over it by morning. He brushed his teeth and took himself to bed without any further words exchanged. 

The blizzard was deafening that night; hammering the cabin from the northeast, shaking the stacked log walls and howling as it whipped over the tin roof. Shards of snow thrashed at the panes of the window by his bed, the trunks of the bullied pine trees moaning and branches snapping in the gusts. 

He balanced precariously on the edge of sleep for what felt like hours. Not quite lingering in true consciousness nor tipping into deep sleep, simultaneously half-dreaming and half-awake until his thoughts were all soupy and impossible to discern.

Certain some whiskey would knock him out. Maybe jerking off would release some of the agitation that never quite dissipated. 

He considered it, for a moment, in a window of lucidity; the girl’d be long asleep by now, curled up with the dog in front of the dying fire. Besides, he reminded himself — it was his fucking house, and he could rub one out whenever he damn well felt like it. 

He let himself consider it too heavily. The thought that she might overhear him fucking his fist in the shower, and he was never too good at stifling his grunting.

Bet he’d get a good scolding if she did. Maybe she’d smack him around the side of the head. Call him an animal. Tell him how disgusting he is. 

Then he heard his door creak, and in a blink he was fully awake. 

“Simon?”  

The faintest whisper, and had he not been actively listening for her voice he mightn’t have heard it over the roaring of the gale. 

He rolled onto his back, propping himself up by an elbow to spot where her whisper had emerged from; there, awkwardly in the half-ajar door, she stood with her arms wrapped around herself. Expression indeterminable in the frigid dark. 

Didn’t like that concern was so quick to supplant his irritation, enough that he thought to get out of bed and check that nothing was amiss; but he quelled the impulse. 

“What’s the matter,” he asked instead. 

“I—” she interrupted herself with a sharp breath, “—I don’t want to sleep on the floor anymore.”

For her own sake, he hoped she wasn’t about to ask what he suspected she was. 

“Couch is still there,” he said mutedly. Better to dissuade her. 

“I know, but — it’s just, it’s so cold in there.”

His jaw tightened. “Stick some more wood in the burner, then.”

“It goes out so quickly,” she lamented. “Then it gets really cold. And the couch is worse than the floor.”

He let out a stifled breath before he said anything further. Only in the quiet he left after her complaints did he hear the shivering; not quite chattering teeth, but the trembly breathing and disquieted shuffling as she tucked her arms into herself like that might warm her up. 

His room was balmy. Radiator had been bubbling for a while, and his duvet was puffy with eiderdown and layered with wool blankets. Damn cold out in the hall, evidently, it trickled in through the open door and he could feel it on his cheeks.

“I’m not giving up the bed,” he reiterated.

“I know, I’m — I’m not asking for that.”

“No?” He murmured, daring. “What’re you asking for, then?” 

Must have pained her to utter the words, she chewed on them measuredly before she let them out, patently aware that the line once crossed was likely irretrievable. 

“Can I… um—” poor thing, couldn’t even bring herself to say it, “can I sleep in here?”

He wondered if she could see the smirk that tugged at his mouth. “On the floor?”

“Um, well, I was wondering — would it be okay if… can I sleep in the bed?”

The sigh he let out was frayed. “Mh. I reckon there’s room.” 

“So—”

Already impatient with her dithering. “Shut the door.” 

“Okay,” she breathed, closing it gently, before she tiptoed towards the bed. 

He didn’t move from his spot, though it would certainly have been polite to; he tended to sleep closer to the centre, the old mattress was sunken in the middle. Simply more comfortable, and he wasn’t about to forsake that just to give her unnecessary room. There was plenty of space beside him.

She peeled up the duvet and slipped underneath, gingerly like she might awaken a bear sleeping under it — though he supposed, in fairness, her caution wasn’t entirely unwarranted. 

She brought the cold in with her. Even her bulky sweater was icy to the touch, her sleeve brushing against his skin as she tucked herself in. Doing her level best not to touch him, apparently, she kept herself perched on the very edge of the mattress, pulling the blanket up to her cheeks. 

He sucked deep a tense breath. Stupid idea, letting her in with him. He could smell her. The rosy scent of her hair, the sweat on her skin. Glutted his sinuses until his mouth started to water. Her quiet breathing eking out from right beside him and it made his knuckles white.

Rolled into his side. Away from her. Safer that way. 

“Thank you,” she whispered; and when he grunted in place of an answer, she added, “g’night.” 

He slept like shit. Tossed and turned, sweating like a dog, because his dreams were feverish and full of sticky, finger-dimpled skin. 

His awareness came and went more than once, sluggish and heavy and sweltering beneath the blankets. Pillowy sleep still weighed on him, but his consciousness was reeled to the surface like a slow-swimming fish. 

Especially when he adjusted himself and felt something squishy and warm against him, a distribution of soft weight from his chest to his thighs but concentrated against his groin. 

A shift of his arm and he realised, eventually, it was the stray he had taken in, tucked up against him as the source of warmth. 

Fast asleep, by the sound of it. Not-quite-snoring and the gentle twitches of a fitful dream; slotted under his arm, wedged along the length of him. 

Doubted it was purposeful, that she was simply pulled in by gravity, slid in his direction towards the divot in the mattress over the course of the night. He didn’t remember draping an arm over her, though. Let alone where it hung in the valley of her waist, atop a sweater that had been inadvertently scrunched up by a busy sleep. 

His nose was an inch from the back of her head, stray hairs quivering with his breathing and tickling his skin; her head was on his pillow, sinking into the edge with her arm folded underneath it. She smelt ripe, and warm. Sticky and sugary as burnt toffee and sweat. 

One movement of his hand, a near-accidental one, and his fingers brushed skin. 

Scorching to the touch. Mallow-soft under the hard callouses of his fingertips, squishy where he pressed in if only to determine whether it was in fact the bare skin of her belly that he was feeling. 

And fuck, it was. Could just about feel her pulse through it, how it rose and fell with her sleepy breathing, how the curve of it sank lower and lower before it was concealed by the elastic hem of her flannelette pants. 

He wasn’t truly awake. Not really. His eyes were glued shut and his breathing was slow, and perhaps there was some deniability in the movement of his hands, driven by half-conscious intrigue more than lucid hunger. 

He could, if he wanted to, poke his fingers under that waistband. Follow her flesh down to where her thighs squished together, burrow between them to find the pussy that was no doubt scalding to the touch. He could wake her up like that, no need to speak a word; let her breach wakefulness with a finger in her cunt, with a clit already swollen and wanting and brought to the brink before she could even ascertain what was happening. 

Let himself dream of it until his cock was hard as wrought iron and wedged against her spine. Let his fingertips shift undriven, grazing over warm skin with every drawn breath. 

Only when they brushed the waistband of her pants did he finally come awake, on a grunt and a skip of the heart, as the realisation collided with him with the force of a slap — that he may not have been entirely dreaming. 

His heavy arm retreated, then, albeit reluctantly, as he rolled onto his back. Kicked the duvet off his body in the hope of lowering his core temperature from where it was peaking at fever-height. 

She wouldn’t have felt it. And if she did, she surely wouldn’t remember it. He wouldn’t have an answer for her if she did. 

Morning came ruefully. 

His head was leaden, brontide thumping in his skull akin to a bitter hangover, and his mouth was dry as sand.

When he finally peeled his eyes open, and saw cottony grey light emerging from behind his shut curtains, he noticed the bird was gone. Only a crumpled, half-tossed duvet where her body used to be. 

He couldn’t remember much of the night, but what he could made his stomach tighten up. His dreams had been unrelenting. Lick-wet flesh and tongues and knuckles. Even now, as he rubbed his eyes with flat palms, he could feel the angry erection resting on his stomach, restrained only by the boxers he had slept in. 

No good.

Seemed his hunger was planting dangerous seeds in his subconscious. Started sprouting thick and unignorable roots.

Unmitigated solitude had helped stave off his lust for the most part, until now, because there had been nothing directly under his nose to tempt him. He hadn’t resorted to complete celibacy in the last two years, he was only human. Still ventured to the odd pub in Smithers every now and again to seek out a quick fuck, and usually he could find one. 

Been a good nine months, though, since he got his dick wet. 

He hadn’t consciously let the girl stay with the intention of fucking her, but it was an unfathomable ego that believed he could remain indifferent to the pudding-soft stray he had tucked up in his burrow. 

Only the fifth day of her stay and he was already dreaming of his cock in her throat. What her tongue would taste like. How those tits would fill his hands. How soft the folds of her cunt would feel around his fingers. How those thighs might tighten around his head if he ate her as gluttonously as he was inclined to. 

He shuffled out of bed when his cock softened and his sweat turned icy, which took a good while. He was sticky with it, still, cold and clammy on the back of his neck and in the creases of his palms. He would’ve liked a shower, but the first thing he craved was a drink. 

“Morning,” came a croak as he lumbered into the kitchen in his boxers, spotting her where she sat at the dining table, near the fire she had lit. Dog was curled up in his bed in front of it, seemed she’d taken him out for a piss already. Clever girl. “Kettle’s boiled, if you want a tea.” 

He smacked his lips as he tried to wet his tongue, eyes swollen and heavy and not quite ready for daylight. “Mh,” in place of a thanks. 

“Did you, um — did you sleep okay?” 

That sheepishness was still warbling in her voice, high-pitched and wary, but there was something notably different underpinning it. Embarrassment rather than fear. 

“Slept fine,” he murmured. That’s all he could say on the matter, before his jaw clamped shut, because fleeting memories of his degenerate dreams came and went with every blink. 

“That’s good,” she sighed, a quiet slurp as she sipped her tea. “I was worried I’d keep you awake or, y’know. Thank you, though. For sharing the bed.” 

“Better than the floor?” He asked facetiously, electing for a coffee, scooping a spoonful of instant granules into his empty mug and topping it off with the kettle. Tipped a splash of bourbon in when she wasn’t looking. 

“Much,” she said. “I slept like a log.” 

He snickered. Felt a weight lift from him, though the shame lingered. He shuffled towards the table with his coffee and slumped into the chair opposite her. Did his best to ignore how her eyes flitted about him on the way over — bold of him to wander out with so few clothes on, but at this point he relished in the inadvertent attention. 

“Sounds like you’ll be back tonight, then, eh?” He asked, tapping on his mug as he waited for the coffee to cool. 

“I mean,” she paused, “no, I think — my back just needed a break.” 

“One night in’t gonna do much good,” he said. 

“Well, it was probably… I dunno. I shouldn’t have asked. It was nice to get a proper sleep, though.” 

He took a sip of his coffee. Tasted like tar. “Mh. You needed it,” he agreed. “You’re a lot sweeter this morning.” 

She snorted, looking down quaintly at her near-empty tea. “Whatever,” she muttered. “I’m just, trying to say I appreciate it.”  

“S’fine,” he dismissed bluntly. “Glad you got a proper sleep.” 

“Me too,” she nodded. “I feel more, like, normal. But I had such weird dreams.” 

He gritted his teeth. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm. Can’t remember ‘em, though,” she said, and he just about let out a breath of relief, until she asked; “Did you have any dreams?”

“Don’t dream much,” he bit. 

“You sleep talk, y’know,” she remarked simply. 

He scratched the back of his head, a failure of his efforts to conceal any reaction, because he was abruptly on edge. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You were mostly just, like, murmuring. Seemed like you were having a nightmare, I thought.” 

He didn’t like to think she had been awake at all during the night. That their periods of wakefulness might have overlapped, and she might have felt his cock jutting unintentionally against her back, or his hand—

Fuck, was that real? 

It was a dream, he was sure, but the images were muddy and glued together into a gummy mass of not-quite-memories that he couldn’t pull apart. 

“D’you remember what it was about?” She asked, almost innocently, but her avenue of questioning felt pointed and knowing. 

“Mh, dunno,” he grunted, spinning a lie on his feet. “Something about an avalanche.” 

That made her twitch. “Avalanche? You don’t think — there’s not a risk of one, is there?” 

His eyes sunk shut in quiet relief at the successful diversion, pacifying himself with another sip. 

“Doubt it,” he said. 

“We’d be safe in here, anyway, right?” She carried on, unbothered, swirling her tea. “Surely it’s built, like, out of the way, or whatever. Or at least strong enough to stay standing. Right?” 

“Yeah, sweethear’,” he murmured. “We’d be fine.” 

After she whipped up what she called breakfast — two bowls of cornflakes and some frozen berries — she disappeared for a shower, leaving the bowls in the sink. 

You don’t mind if I have one first, do you? She had asked, confident, because she already knew his answer would be yes. Or, close enough to a yes that she went for it anyway, leaving him to venture out into the frigid morning to chop some more wood. 

Not as treacherous outside as the night before, but the wind was still biting, and he doubted it was much closer to zero than it had been before sunrise. It took him close to an hour to split two baskets-full of logs and cart them back inside, trailing powdery snow in with him and letting any residual warmth out with the open door. The air was so gelid that he felt himself shivering by the time he hung up his jacket, ice crystalising in his lungs and at the back of his throat, and all he could think of was a warm rum and a hot shower.

Not so lucky, because she was still fucking in there. 

He checked his watch. Forty-eight minutes since she had pottered off to wash herself — if that was indeed what she did in there, so she said — and she was still in the shower. Water still running and all, he could hear it splashing on the tiled shower floor as he lumbered towards the bathroom door. 

Frustration distended between his temples to the tune of her muffled singing, which only incensed him further — she had already left him with all the house chores, kept him up all fucking night, chewed away at his psyche until all that was left was a starving husk — now she so blatantly laid claim to his space that he could only react with unmitigated anger. 

Not a doubt in his mind that she’d drain the boiler again, selfish little shit, too away with the fairies to spare one thought to the fact it was his bathroom, his shower, his house—

He elbowed open the bathroom door.

She didn’t notice him immediately, too busy rinsing something soapy off her face, until he tore open the shower curtain and reached around her to shut off the lever with a clunk. 

“How many fuckin’ times do I have to tell you not to use all the hot water?” 

The shriek she let out could have shattered glass, and she backed up until her wet body slapped into the acrylic shower wall. Her forearm shot to scoop up her tits, not quite concealing her puffy nipples from him, and a small hand shot between her legs to keep her pussy out of sight. 

“Fuck off!” She roared, a scowl so deep it contorted her entire face, and he could read in her eyes the allconsuming desire to swing an open hand into the side of his head — bitterly prevented by the deep-set need to cover herself up from his prying eyes. 

“What d’you do in here that takes an hour? Forgot it’s my bathroom, huh?” 

“Get out, you fucking asshole,” she cursed, wedged into the corner of the shower as if she might curl up into herself.

He snorted. “Y’got five minutes.”

“Or what?” 

She was getting bold. A little big for her boots. He leaned in, a hand on the curtain bar and no give in his expression. “Or I’m comin’ in for my shower whether or not you’re still in here.” 

“Whatever,” she grumbled, “fine. Just get out.” 

It took him a moment to peel his glare from her; almost a moment too long, because her pellucid fury was beginning to thaw into worry. 

“Five minutes,” he repeated with a grunt, heading back towards the door. 

And right as he shut it, she belted; “Dickhead!” 

Stupidest fucking thing he could’ve done. 

Whatever pent-up temper had been throbbing in his jugulars was, obviously, not alleviated by seeing her naked and slippery in the corner of the shower. At the sight of her tits pillowing over her arm as she tried to keep them out of sight, like hiding her nipples made a lick of difference. At the way the tips of her fingers burrowed between her wet thighs in her effort to hide her cunt from him. 

He went and snatched a glass from the cupboard in the kitchen, filling it up with the icy water that had been sitting in the pipes overnight. Gulped it down in four, then filled up another. 

Now he just needed to jerk off, but the fucking girl was still in the bathroom, more than five minutes later — but he was feeling merciful, and decided not to barge in on her again. If only out of concern he’d act out of his own control. Not confident he could restrain himself. 

She shuffled out eventually, though, with nothing else but a towel wrapped around her chest. Bare legs still beaded with water. Gave him such a poisonous glare that he could taste its bitterness on his tongue. 

Still, he found himself grinning. Her ire was unendingly amusing to him, for an unfathomable reason — perhaps he found it endearing, or maybe it alleviated some of the guilt that was beginning to swell in the pits of him. Maybe if she had cried, or pissed herself, or ran away screaming, he’d feel more like a reprehensible degenerate. Good thing she was a spiteful little shit. 

She pursed her lips at him with a scowl, vitriol embedded in her features. “You could’ve knocked.” 

He chuffed. “Like you’d hear it over your bloody belting.” 

“You could’ve knocked loudly.” 

He tilted his head, responding only with a sip of his water. 

“God you’re a prick,” she snapped, storming towards her suitcase to grab her change of clothes. 

“Hogging my bathroom and I’m the prick?” 

“Blow it out your ass,” she hissed. “You’re not subtle.” 

“No?” 

“You just wanted to catch me naked.” 

“I wanted a hot shower.” 

She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. “That’s a convenient excuse.” 

“I’d say it’s pretty fuckin’ inconvenient.” 

She scoffed, lost for a witty retort, crossing her arms over the change of clothes she held in a pile. “I think you’re a pervert,” she settled on. 

“You reckon?” He chuckled, plonking his empty glass back down on the counter. Couldn’t exactly tell her she was wrong. 

“Yeah, I do.” 

He folded his arms over his chest. Let her accusation fester in the air for a beat too long. 

“Better put some clothes on, then,” he said. 

That shut her up. 

Eyes just about popped out of her head. He didn’t mean it as a threat — not a real one, anyway — though as it lingered in the subsequent quiet it edged toward becoming one. Gall of her to climb into bed with him, slather him in shameless glances, wander around his house near-naked, and accuse him of perversion. If she kept blinking all flummoxed at him, still dripping, he might just have proven her right. 

Her lips tightened into a knot as she scurried back down the hall. Not much he could do but snicker at the girl. Unending penchant for getting herself in trouble and acting all affronted when her behaviour was met with the only predictable reaction. 

He was never an erratic man, that much he could grant himself. His existence was Newton’s law manifest; get out what you put in. Fuck around and find out. She was a fuck-arounder, as he had come to realise, though she seemed oblivious to that fact. 

She’d find out soon enough.

[makoodles]

ミi hear you like magic? i've got a wand and a rabbit!

part one | part two

🍓 pairing: simon "ghost" riley x fem reader

🍓 tags: nsfw, size kink, virgin!reader, oral sex, vaginal sex, rough(?) sex, some mild second-hand embarrassment perhaps, sex toys, edging, failed masturbation attempts, ghost takes your virginity and also maybe ruins you for literally anybody else ever again

masterlist

reblogs are always enormously appreciated!

The ceiling over your head is drab grey and water-stained, the old paint peeling away in strips. It’s an ugly sight, but you barely see it; you’re too busy trying to catch your breath.

The sheets beneath you are uncomfortably damp with your sweat, but you don’t have the energy to roll over just yet. You feel hot and itchy with frustration, and you scowl up at the ceiling above you as your fingers curl into fists. But even though you feel like laying in your now grubby-bedding for the rest of the evening, you can’t let yourself wallow. There’s going to be a knock on your door any minute, and this is not a position you want to be found in.

With an irritable groan, you haul yourself off the bed and to your feet. Your muscles ache and you feel too warm, but you reach for your clothes anyway. The worn cotton of your shirt feels scratchy against your skin, but maybe that’s just because you’re still over-sensitive and irritable.

You can never quite bear to look at the aftermath of what you’d been doing, so you avert your eyes as you gather up the bright silicone and plastic devices littering your mattress. It’s embarrassing now that the adrenaline has worn off and disappointment is beginning to set in, so you end up gathering them all up more roughly than necessary.

The term ‘toy’ seems incongruous to you. It sounds too childish, too immature. It makes you sound like a stupid kid, as though you aren’t a young adult past twenty fumbling your way through sexual self-exploration. It’s embarrassing, and much more frustrating than you ever would have predicted – despite all of your clumsy, desperate attempts at pleasuring yourself, you’ve never quite managed to reach that peak of pleasure you’ve heard other people talking about.

You grumble quietly to yourself as you try to wipe away the sticky lube that’s still coating your thighs. Your muscles are a little achy from all the tensing you’d been doing trying to come with that stupid vibrator, not even accompanied by the satisfaction you had been hoping for.

It’s not as though you’ve never gotten the opportunity to experiment with others; you’re not unforgivably ugly, you don’t think you have a bad personality, and for the past few years you’ve been surrounded by military men that certainly aren’t known for being picky. And it certainly isn’t like you haven’t received your fair share of offers. 

It just never seemed right. You’re not overly concerned about ‘saving’ your virginity or anything like that; it’s just that putting yourself into such a vulnerable position is scary. You’re aware of the irony, of course, that you’d trust many of these people with saving your ass from catching a bullet in the field, but allowing someone to see you so intimately feels like a step too far.

You’re still sweaty and flustered and naked when a knock sounds from your door, and you freeze. The doorknob turns, but doesn’t open; in that moment, you’re deliriously grateful that you had turned the lock – it’s something that you’ve forgotten to do on far too many occasions.

“Lass, you in there?” Oh god, it’s Soap. 

Cursing quietly to yourself, you jolt into action. Your pants are crumpled at the bottom of your bed where you had shed them, and you hurriedly gather them up and struggle your way back into them.

“Gimme a minute!” You yell, praying he doesn’t notice the somewhat frantic edge to your voice.

You stagger slightly as you worm your way into your pants, and then lunge to grab the stupid dildo you’d just been trying to use. You feel your skin prickle with humiliation as you try to force the stupidly large silicone cock into your already full underwear drawer, jamming it shut roughly to hide it from sight. You don’t want to even imagine what Soap might have to say if he were to see what you had been doing; you think you might have to go full deserter mode and abscond into the wilderness.

“Did ye forget about drinks?” Soap’s drawl carries through the thickness of the door. He doesn’t sound even slightly put out – if anything, he sounds a little amused.

You pause, close your eyes, sigh. Fuck. You had not, in fact, forgotten about drinks, you just thought you had more time.

“No, I– just a minute!” You yell back, shoving your shoes on and trying to fix your hair.

You had completely lost track of time, and now you don’t even have time to rinse your sweat-damp skin off – you’re going to have to sit through drinks with the squad all grimy, like a physical reminder of what you had been up to for the last two hours.

When you finally unlock the door and wrench it open, Soap is standing on the other side tapping a staccato rhythm on his thighs with his open palms. He’s dressed casually in just blue jeans and a black muscle shirt, and he gives you a look of semi-disbelief.

“What the hell were you—”

“Gym.” You interrupt, landing on the only explanation you can think of for your sweaty skin and messy hair.

Soap blinks, but apparently decides it’s not worth the effort to continue that line of conversation. He just shrugs, then turns and starts making his way down the hall, slowing his pace for you to catch up.

You exhale; Soap can be like a bloodhound when he suspects there’s gossip to be had, and you’re relieved to have dodged a round of his relentless questioning. You suppose he can be surprisingly tactful sometimes, and he knows you well enough not to press you. Or, perhaps it’s because you come across as such a non-sexual being that  it doesn’t even occur to him that there may be another explanation.

There’s an unofficial tradition that when the squad is on base, everyone gathers in the sparsely decorated recreation room for drinks and card games on Thursday evenings. It usually makes for an enjoyable night; Gaz and Soap can always be trusted to supply whatever bottles of alcohol they’ve managed to get their grubby little hands on, and it’s always amusing to watch Captain Price get increasingly more irate as Soap pretends not to understand the rules of whatever card game they’re playing. The whole illicitness of having contraband on base only makes the whole thing more exciting; the CO’s on base often turn a blind eye to the activity, so long as it’s kept under control.

But tonight, you’re distracted.

The others had offered a bit of good-natured ribbing when you and Soap had turned up late, but before long you’re all settled in a loose circle on the poorly-stuffed couches in the corner of the room. Gaz has already unstoppered a bottle of bourbon, and is attempting to convince a visibly unimpressed Price to play a game of Kings with them. You curl up on one of the worn-out couches opposite them, watching with a small if slightly stiff smile.

The atmosphere is relaxed and pleasant, almost enough to make you forget about the irritating buzz of unfulfilled arousal under your skin. You shift, trying to keep your movements small, subtle, to avoid the notice of your team. Your denim jeans are nowhere near as comfortable as usual, and you wonder briefly if you should have simply worn your cargo pants just to avoid the harsh friction of the denim.

You sit there feeling… unmoored. You fidget, drink your smooth bourbon in sips in an attempt to avoid wincing, and try not to look as obviously out of place as you feel. It’s been like this, recently. Joining the task force has been an accomplishment for you, a source of immense pride – you’re the youngest member (just narrowly beating Gaz for the title) and a woman to boot, and though the squad has never treated you any differently it’s hard to kick the belief that you have something to prove. 

You engage in conversations the best you can, but you’re distracted and you know it must be obvious. Your preoccupation gets you a couple of furrowed brows and glances, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement to give you some space.

You don’t even realise the extent of your distraction until a big body settles down on the loveseat next to you, and you jolt. True to his name, Ghost had appeared near silently, escaping your notice until he lowers himself down to sit next to you.

And damn, you forget how big he is sometimes. It’s an average sized loveseat, but the lieutenant takes up over half of it. He’s obviously being mindful not to consciously crush you, but he’s not being overly cautious when it comes to avoiding touching you. He’s dressed unusually casually, and his thick, muscled thigh is wrapped in blue denim as it presses carelessly against yours. 

“You alright?” He asks, his voice low and smooth as he nudges your knee with one of his big knuckles.

You haven’t been a member of the task force for long, but you would know Simon Riley by his hands alone, by the earthy salt-spice in your nose as he leans a little closer to peer at your face. You tilt your head up, unable to stop the small reflexive smile that breaks over your face at the sight of him.

“Yeah.” You breathe, hurriedly straightening up where you’re sitting. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.”

His sudden proximity isn’t doing your current state any favours, and you take a quick sip of your drink in an effort to collect yourself. It’s taking a herculean effort not to stare at the way his biceps are bulging against the straining material of his black cotton t-shirt.

“What’re you thinking about?” Ghost asks as he stretches out his legs with a tired groan. The sound is gruff and gravelly, and you feel blood rush uncomfortably to your cheeks. 

“Nothing.” You say quickly.

He doesn’t believe you, that much is obvious, but Ghost never pushes and he rarely speaks more than he has to. He just gives you a glance, brief and knowing and far more penetrating than it should be, before turning his head back so he can watch the boys playing their card game. He’s holding a crystal tumbler filled with dark amber liquid, but he hasn’t yet pulled his mask up to drink from it.

Your eyes drop to the thick, pale scars that mar the backs of his hands. You trace the path of the scar tissue, eyes lingering around the thick knuckles and broad palms, the way that he holds the glass so casually confidently. He’s got nice hands, probably made all the more attractive by the fact that you hardly ever get to see them. Seeing Ghost without his usual long sleeves and gloves makes you feel like a Victorian pervert snatching stolen glances at a passing lady’s ankles.

A quiet snicker causes your eyes to dart back to his face, and you’re mortified to find that he’s caught you staring.

“What’s got you in such a mood?” He asks. Even through the mask you can tell that he’s smirking, though it doesn’t feel as though he’s making fun of you.

“Just one of those days, I guess.” You say without meeting his eyes.

It’s an evasion at best, but Ghost nods ponderously as though he’s giving this great thought. His stare is penetrating, those big brown eyes watching you as though he can see right through you. Maybe he can. You try not to get too caught up staring at his pale eyelashes, darkened by smears of eyeblack.

“Did something happen?” He asks. The question is casual enough, asked as he lazily swirls his whiskey around in his glass, but his gaze is sharp and assessing.

“No.” You sigh, finally looking properly at him.

It’s a little frustrating, but the squad has been like this with you from the start – protective. Your whole military career has consisted of you veritably clawing your way up through the ranks, and you’ve been surrounded by coarse, gruff men that have underestimated you all your life. 141 is different – they don’t baby you, but the way they treat you is unmistakably softer than how they typically treat each other. The concern can be touching, if a little tiring sometimes.

And maybe it’s because he’s your lieutenant, but Ghost’s attention has always been just this side of overwhelming. It feels like you’re pinned beneath his dark eyes, his gaze somehow sharpened as he watches you from beneath his more casual balaclava, the skull pattern printed on his jaw adding another layer of intimidation. But his shoulders are relaxed as he sits next to you on the small couch, settling the weight of his attention over you like a blanket.

You’ve always respected him, admired him. How could you not? He’s practically a living legend, his reputation larger than life, and he’s scary as fuck. But he’s also softer than you had expected, gentle when he needs to be. He still rides you hard in training, pushing you to your limits and taking no quarter, but you can’t begrudge that. Not when you know he’s working to keep you alive. Perhaps that’s how the attraction had first bloomed; once it started, it was hard to stifle.

Ghost hooks one finger into his balaclava and pulls it up just high enough to expose his mouth, and he presses his glass to his lips to take a sip of his drink. You struggle not to stare like a moron, but he makes it so difficult. His lips are full and pink, and there’s a rugged scar bisecting his top lip. His stubble is dark blond and short, and it doesn’t hide the various scars and marks that decorate his strong jawline. 

You almost jolt when he pulls the mask back down, hurriedly averting your eyes and forcing yourself to look out across the room. It’s not just the 141 that’s decided to take up in the rec room this evening; there are soldiers from other units littered all around the room, laughing and joking, playing lazy games of pool on the table in the corner and smoking. The smoke alarm has been jimmied off the ceiling and the window is open, and even Price is turning a temporary blind eye to the blatant disregard for regulations in favour of puffing on one of his cigars. 

Ghost shifts on the worn-out fabric of the couch, and lays an arm over the back of the headrest behind you. It’s a casual, thoughtless movement, but it ends up pushing his body slightly closer to you in a way that makes you feel as though you’re about to catch fire.

You cross your legs, but the seam of your jeans presses into your pussy in a way that sends a frisson of heat up your spine. You hurriedly uncross your legs, and attempt to school your expression into casual neutrality as you force yourself to tune back into the conversation.

“–ach, c’mon, Captain,” Soap is saying in a wheedling tone that he probably thinks is endearing. “One round of strip poker won’t kill ya–”

“No.” Price says in a voice like thunder, brooking no argument as thick cigar smoke pours from his nose. It gives the impression of an enraged bull.

Soap either is ignorant to the warning, or is choosing to wilfully ignore it. Judging by the sly gleam in his eyes, you can guess which. He turns to you then, and waggles his eyebrows.

“C’mon, lassie, you’ll play, won’t ya?” He asks with a grin that promises trouble. “I guarantee you’ll be a sight better than any o’ these louts.”

“Speak for yourself,” Gaz pipes up, already grinning. “I was looking forward to seeing the Captain in his jocks–”

Price promptly knocks his drink back, before pushing himself up to his feet with a grim groan. “Right. That’s enough of you lot for one night.”

Gaz and Soap break into peals of laughter, settling back into their seats as they watch their captain march away.

“Offer’s still open, love,” Soap says, still snickering when he looks over to you. “Wanna play?”

Ghost shifts, his wide thigh knocking into yours as his arm stretches behind your shoulders. He lets out a short exhale through his nose, but when you glance up at him you find him as stoic and hard to read as always.

You just roll your eyes. It’s not the first time that they’ve tried to rope you into strip poker, and you’re sure it won’t be the last. You can always trust Soap to start stripping his clothes off when he’s three drinks in, whether he’s playing a game or not, so it’s not surprising that he tries to involve other people in his bad decision making.

And it’s not a big deal, really. There’s been countless missions and operations that have ended up with all of you staying in uncomfortably close quarters with each other. You’ve seen them naked countless times, and the same with them for you. It’s never meant anything, and you know that Soap’s teasing is exactly that – you don’t think they’ve ever once looked at you through any sexual lens at all.

But even still, the joke flusters you more than it should.

“Think I’ll be joining Cap in going to bed, actually.” You say, clearing your throat and setting your glass down on the low table in front of the couch.

The playful booing from Soap doesn’t do much to change your mind, and you stick out your tongue at him and Gaz as you push yourself up from the couch. You try to ignore the loss of heat at your side when you move away from Ghost, though you can’t help but glance back at the lieutenant. He’s not looking at you, his gaze directed into his glass. You try not to feel disappointed about that.

You say your goodnights, and retreat from the rec room.

By the time you make it back to your dorm however, you’re already playing the conversation back over in your head and wondering if you had made the wrong decision.

Perhaps you should have just played the damn game. Despite your inexperience with all things sexual, you’re not actually all that shy about your body. On missions, you and the squad are often forced into tight quarters, and they've all seen you in various stages of undress before. It's hard to be self-conscious around a group of people that have seen you at your worst, whether that’s soaked in blood, unshowered, sleep-deprived, or injured.

But you were so keyed up from your earlier failed attempts at masturbation that the thought of being so physically exposed in front of your squad is mortifying. It feels as though your unresolved arousal is still simmering through your veins, turning your thoughts slow and soupy and stupid. 

It’s not so surprising. Your preferred method of dealing with stress is coming back to your private bunk and messing around with your vibrator until you’ve forgotten all of your problems. The problem is, you’ve never quite been able to reach that climax you’ve heard so many talk about.

It’s not for lack of trying, and it’s not as though you haven’t come close to that toe-curling finish you crave so much. But it’s like there’s some sort of block, something that always holds you back before you can go plummeting over that edge. Something that makes the buzzing pleasure dissipate before your eyes like smoke, leaving you worked up and so frustrated. It’s probably inevitable that all those ruined finishes have built up like sludge in your veins, leaving you slow and distracted and irritable.

You eye your underwear drawer thoughtfully as you perch on your bed, before reaching inside and drawing out the same dildo you had been using earlier. You wonder if it would be too much to try again tonight – the muscles in your calves still feel a little bit over-worked from training all day, and you have a feeling that straining in an attempt to reach an orgasm you’ll likely never attain will only make it worse.

But the thought of Ghost in that stupid tight cotton shirt stays firmly stuck in your mind, and that really makes the decision for you. Before you can think too much about it, you’re sliding your jeans off and climbing atop your mattress. The sheets are dirty anyway, after all. May as well have some fun before you change them.

You slide your panties off next, then kick them to the side. It’s difficult not to feel a little pathetic, but you push those feelings aside. So what if you have an embarrassing little crush on a superior officer? It’s not like that’s unusual within the military, and you’re quite certain that dealing with all that unresolved attraction like this is the most sensible thing you can do.

You fish out the bottle of lube you had been using earlier, and drizzle it liberally along the dildo’s length before setting it aside on the blanket. While you’ve used your dildo plenty of times, you still struggle to grow accustomed to the stretch of it. It’s a good dildo – a vibrating one in the rabbit style, designed to stimulate your g-spot and clit at the same time. It was damn expensive too, but it’s one luxury you’re willing to indulge in.

You close your eyes, slide it between your legs, and hit the power button. A low bzzz emanates from between your thighs; you jerk at the immediate barrage of pleasure, your abs tightening and your legs twitching apart, creating more room between them.

Your body is quick to react, sweat prickling under your armpits and your heart thudding quickly in your chest. You can feel electric pleasure coursing through you as you press it against your clit, your toes curling into your sheets.

You bring the vibrator lower, your clit throbbing a little at its sudden absence before you press it inside, sighing. It slips inside much too easily – you’re almost embarrassed by the easy slide. You’re so wet, both from your failed attempt at masturbation earlier and from sitting beside Simon fucking Riley all evening. It’s a deeper, subtler pleasure now, and you clench around it with a quiet moan. 

You cycle through the vibrator’s different settings, making it buzz at odd intervals or lower intensities in your usual attempt to build up an orgasm. You wish, with sudden and mortifying clarity, that it could be replaced with a person. More specifically, a person with big hands and firm muscles that still have some soft give to them, and a toe-curlingly gravelly voice.

You squirm, shifting your hips to change the angle of the vibrator inside you. Without meaning to, you imagine Ghost. It’s hard not to, considering your close proximity to him all evening. Your cheeks heat as you imagine Ghost actually being here, watching you all still and silent with that penetrating dark-eyed stare of his. 

You huff out a breath, arching off your bed. This is always the best part. You have to ensure that you relish the build up, before it all fizzles out from between your fingers. You whimper, soft and quiet, clenching around the stiff silicone as it buzzes away inside of you.

Right as you press the soft little vibrating bunny ears to your clit, there’s a knock on the door. Then, horrifically, like a scene from your fucking nightmares, your door opens.

“Kid, you–”

Ghost is already half-way through the door when he lays eyes on you, and then he goes completely still in your doorway.

“Fuck.” You hiss, scrambling to knock the stupid thing off. 

You fumble for it, panicking. The end is slippery and you can barely manage to grip it. When you finally do, it’s difficult to pull out, your body still attempting to hold it inside. It’s another agonising few seconds to turn it off, the vibrator unfortunately featuring one of those awfully thought-out designs that makes you have to cycle through every single one of the settings rather than hit an off-switch.

And then, finally, silence.

Ghost is living up to his name right now; he’s as stock still and silent as a dead man, stiff as a board as he stares unblinkingly at you. You’re not even sure that he’s breathing, but you can see the whites of his eyes as he gapes at you, frozen.

You stare back at him blankly, hoping that your bed comes to life and swallows you whole just to put an end to your mortification.

At last, Ghost blinks, then finishes his sentence. “You left your phone.”

He lifts his arm. In his large, thick fist, is your stupid goddamn phone. You must have left it on the couch when you had gotten up to leave. You might have wondered at the lieutenant voluntarily bringing it to your dorm for you, but you’re hit with a wave of humiliation so strong that it wipes your brain completely blank.

“Ah.” You say, and your voice cracks. “Thanks.”

There’s a moment of mortifying silence, and then Ghost steps into your room. Your heart jolts right up into the base of your throat as he closes your door behind him. The click of the door is as loud as a gunshot in the silence that’s settled over the room.

Ghost still hasn’t blinked. He’s watching you with eyes that look almost black in the dim light of your room, intense as a predator. 

“I–” You attempt to speak, and your throat clicks dryly. “I didn’t–”

Far too late, you realise that your legs are still splayed open. You snap them shut, inhaling a choked breath through your nose.

“I thought I locked the door.” You finish lamely. 

Ghost apparently decides to simply disregard that, which you’re honestly a little grateful for. Instead he steps towards you – the enormous bulk of him feels as though he’s completely filling every bit of space in the room, sucking out all the damn oxygen.

“...‘S this why you were so distracted this evening, hm?” He says as he approaches the bed. “You were in a mood ‘cause you wanted to get back to playing with yourself?”

It’s not a question, exactly. At least, it’s not phrased like one. Ghost’s tone is knowing, with an undertone of gruff amusement. You’re certain that you’re not imagining the rough, breathless quality to his voice either, though the thought sends nerves fizzing through your bloodstream.

“No.” You deny uselessy; it’s plainly obvious what you were doing, after all. “No, I just–”

He doesn’t wait for you to finish. His eyes are still glued to you, even though your thighs are now pressed together. Before you can stop him, he reaches down and takes a hold of your hot pink vibrator where you had been trying to hide it beneath your thigh.

“Cute little thing.” He comments, tilting his head to look at the dildo hanging between his thick fingers.

Mortification burns through you. A panicked sort of screech escapes you and you yank it back out of Ghost’s stupid big hand, shoving it under the blankets. 

Perhaps if it had been anyone else, your humiliation wouldn’t be burning quite so intensely. But this is Ghost – your lieutenant, the gruff man that you’ve looked up to ever since you joined the task force. He’s not a man famed for his patience, nor for his eloquence, which is making this situation all the more unbearable.

“Lt,” You wheeze, scrambling to sit up and cover your pussy with your hands as you squeeze your legs closed. “I swear I didn’t– I’m sorry–”

But Ghost doesn’t seem interested in your apologies. He’s still watching you as though he can see right through the damn blanket, as though he’s measuring you up and trying to come to a decision about something. In that moment, you hate your reaction to him – no matter how humiliating this situation is, you want him to approve of you, even now.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He grunts, and then he sits down on your bed.

You gape at him. It feels as though your brain has stalled; you’re pretty sure you’re not reacting correctly right now. You probably should have screamed when the lieutenant walked right into your room without knocking. That surely would have sent him straight back out again. And even now, you should probably be ordering him out, telling him to leave. 

But you don’t.

“I was.. um.. finished anyway.” You manage to croak out. You sound so pathetic that you nearly make yourself cringe.

Ghost doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches you, his eyes as dark as ever beneath the mask. For a moment, you think he’s not going to answer at all.

But then he says, “Didn’t look like you finished to me.”

Blood rushes to your face so quickly that it makes you light-headed as you catch his meaning. Oh, what the fuck. This is just adding salt to the wound now.

“I wasn’t trying to–” You start, then cut yourself off. “That’s not why I was– I was just trying to relax.”

In the ensuing silence, you realise how silly you sound. At the very least, Ghost doesn’t laugh; he just tilts his head to the side, consideringly.

“Let me see.”

You gape at him. “I– sir–”

“Let me see, sergeant.”

It’s not an order. Not quite. Ghost’s voice is effortlessly assertive, but it falls just short of being a command. You have room to refuse. You could tell him to get out of your dorm right now, and he’d do it. Knowing the lieutenant, he’d never bring it up again, either.

You drop your knees apart, spreading your thighs in an unpracticed, self-conscious sort of motion. 

Under the lieutenant’s sharp gaze, your skin prickles and your nerves strain. Even sitting down on your bed, he’s a veritable behemoth of broad shoulders and thick corded muscle. His hulking form towers over you even now, and you feel so damn small as you lay there propped up against your pillows in nothing but a t-shirt.

Ghost has seen you naked before, obviously. You can’t afford to be prudish in the military, where you never know when you’ll next have true privacy, and you’ve changed out and showered with the squad countless times. It’s never meant anything, and the men in 141 have never made you feel anything less than comfortable with them.

This, however, is different. This isn’t just a case of catching a quick glimpse of your nude form as you shower in the group shower rooms when you’re out on missions – your whole damn pussy is out on display for him, still glistening wet and sticky from your ministrations and the lube you’d used.

Ghost’s inhale is as loud as a thunderclap. You’ve never felt so exposed, so vulnerable in another person’s presence. You feel a little ridiculous laying like this as he watches you, but another part of you feels so humiliatingly desperate for some kind of approval from your lieutenant. 

At first, that approval is nowhere to be found. Ghost is notoriously difficult to read, and you’re beginning to sweat as you lay there waiting for a response – any response.

At last, he makes a noise. It’s part grunt, part hum, and part groan.

“You’re still wet, sergeant.”

Are you imagining it, or is his voice an octave deeper than usual? 

Your eyes trace his face, trying to imagine what he looks like beneath the mask. You can see the suggestion of his nose, the square curve of his jaw. His darkened eyes are watching you so carefully that you feel as though you’re physically being pinned in place.

You swallow. “It’s just– I–”

“You didn’t get to finish.” Ghost interrupts, with the air of completing your sentence for you. 

You try to speak, but nothing more than a strangled sort of murmur escapes. You swallow hastily, then try again.

“I wasn’t going to. Sir.” You tack on the title at the end as an afterthought, but this whole situation is so far beyond professional that you probably needn’t have bothered. “Finish, I mean. I… I never do.”

You’ve admitted it before you can really think about it, and then you regret it wildly. You can’t help but wonder if you’ve overstepped a boundary, but then again the boundaries are currently so blurred that they’re virtually impossible to discern.

“You never finish.” Ghost repeats it. Slowly, staring right at your face, as though he’s confirming what you’ve just said. 

It sounds so much worse in his deep, gravelly voice.

Embarrassment blooms, thick and sickly in your stomach. Your legs start to twitch closed, too embarrassed to be having this conversation with your cunt bared like this, but then Ghost’s big paw of a hand reaches out to settle over your knee, keeping you open and exposed. It’s so rare to see his hands ungloved, and the bare skin of his callous-roughened hand feels almost scorching hot against your inner knee.

“I don’t– I’ve tried,” You say, and you can’t help but feel as though you’re just digging yourself further into a hole, here. “But I don’t– I’m not able to. I mean, I’ve come close, I’m just not able to… you know.”

You trail off lamely, feeling like the biggest fucking loser ever. Why are you telling him this? Why the fuck haven’t you reacted properly, and kicked him the hell out of your room?

Deep down, a shameful little part of you already knows the answer to that. You’re feeling awfully, sickeningly hopeful. Having Lieutenant Riley in your dorm, sitting on your bed and staring so hungrily at the wet, swollen parts between your legs feels like something out of your wildest wet dreams.

His eyes flick towards your pink silicone rabbit dildo, half-hidden under your blanket, and he grunts consideringly before reaching out and taking it into his hands again. It’s standard-size, but it looks small in his big hands.

“You ain’t doin’ it right, then.” He says, so bluntly that you just blink at him. “Show me how you use it.”

For a brief, wild moment, you wonder if you’re experiencing visual and auditory hallucinations right now. Surely you can’t really be experiencing this right now – and yet the lieutenant is still watching you, and you’ve never disobeyed a direct order before. 

He hands you the vibrator, then waits expectantly.

And… well. All you ever try to do is impress him. 

You shuffle your legs open a little wider, ignoring the flustered heat that scalds your cheeks. You’ve never been all exposed like this in front of another person, and the weight of Ghost’s eyes on you is reminiscent of being under a spotlight.

You swear his eyes darken even further when you press the stiff silicone rabbit dildo to your cunt, if it’s even possible for that gaze to get darker beneath the thick balaclava and eyeblack smeared over the narrow strip of skin that’s visible.

The dildo sinks in so easily that it’s almost embarrassing, and your breath catches both from the stretch and the way Ghost leans in a little closer to see. Far from turning you off, you feel your body throb in response to his proximity, and your cunt flutters pathetically around the plastic toy. You shift, attempting to get a little more comfortable, but you can’t dispel the nerves fizzing in your blood as you attempt to push the dildo a little deeper under Ghost’s sharp gaze.

His big, hulking body is so perfectly still as he watches you that it’s making you a little nervous. The only reaction that you get from him is a small, considering hum, but even then you can’t figure out what it means. Your movements are a little clumsy, so hyper-conscious that he’s watching every single thing you do that you end up fumbling a little. He’s looking at you in the same way he assesses threats, his intense dark eyes examining every movement and reaction you make. It makes you feel small and jittery, especially when you realise that he’s judging you by what you’re doing.

“You gonna turn it on?” He asks, and oh god his voice has definitely dropped lower and huskier. You know you’re not imagining it. 

You can’t even bring yourself to respond with words. You just make a strangled sort of sound of agreement, then clumsily hit the on button. The toy buzzes to life once more, and your toes curl absent-mindedly into the sheets as the soft silicone bunny ears pulse against your clit.

It feels nice, but you can’t manage to concentrate on the feeling. Hyper-aware of Ghost’s attention, you let out a quiet moan as you shift the vibrator inside you. It’s a little exaggerated, but you can’t help it – you feel like you should be putting on some kind of a show. 

You glance back at Ghost’s face, trying to guess what he’s thinking; even through the mask, you can tell that he’s frowning. You feel your stomach clench anxiously. Have you done something wrong?

“This how you usually do it?” He asks.

You swallow thickly, feeling a bit stupid. “Um.. yeah.”

Ghost grunts. He doesn’t sound impressed.

“No wonder you can’t come.” He says wryly.

You go still, eyes widening. In the silence, the bzzzzt! of your stupid vibrator is louder than ever. A sudden wave of shame washes over you, and you start to close your legs again in an effort to block the sight of the toy stuffed into your pussy.

“Oh,” You snap sourly, your embarrassment making you irritable. “So you’re the pussy expert now?”

That startles a loud bark of a laugh out of the lieutenant, a sound so rare that you find yourself desperately trying to commit it to memory.

“Think I might know a bit more than you, sweetheart.” He says. He’s relaxed now, his wide shoulders rolling back. He’s always so effortlessly confident, always so assured in himself and his abilities in a way that makes you feel like a silly little girl. 

Judging by the way the corners of his eyes are just slightly wrinkled beneath the mask, Ghost is smirking at you. He finds this funny.

“What about when you’re with other people, hm?” He asks, and his eyes drop back down to try and get a look at you again. When he realises that your legs are clamped tight together, he reaches out to guide your thighs apart again. “No one’s ever impressed you?”

His hands are big and rough and hot, and your willpower crumbles like wet paper as you allow him to open your legs all over again. The vibrator is still buzzing sadly inside you, mostly forgotten about; the stimulation is nice, but it’s never been enough for you.

You huff a weak laugh. You should have known that this would come up, and now you find yourself floundering a little.

“No one’s ever tried.” The confession comes out like a whisper, like a secret.

You can see the moment Ghost understands; realisation settles heavy over him like a physical weight, and the whites of his eyes flash as they widen just slightly. For a moment, he says nothing at all. He doesn’t move – it doesn’t even look like he breathes. 

“No?” He says, except it doesn’t really sound like a question. It sounds rough, and you can feel the almost convulsive motion of his fingers tightening around your knee. 

You shake your head wordlessly, beyond embarrassed now.

Ghost’s wispy blond eyelashes flutter softly as his eyes dart down to your pussy, still humiliatingly stuffed with your stupid little vibrator. He takes a moment to stare, then looks back up to your face. He’s so frustratingly confident about everything he does, not an ounce of shame in his posture even as you wilt beneath him.

“Never messed around with anybody?”

“No.” You say, and it comes out on a wheeze. He holds your gaze without faltering, and you realise that he’s expecting you to elaborate. “No, I– it just never happened. I was never… um, I was just always too busy, I guess.”

“Too fussy, more like.” He mutters, quiet enough that it seems like it’s a comment meant just for himself. You don’t know how to take that, so you chew your lip and stay quiet.

His eyes drop down to the vibrating dildo again, and you recognise something that looks like a flash of hunger. It feels like there’s pressure building up beneath your skin, tight and hot, and your thighs fall open a little further. You feel raw and so, so exposed, but you don’t even care when Ghost is looking at you like that.

“Let me try.” He says, the words falling out sharp and harsh as though he they’ve burst out of his mouth before he can stop them. It’s not like Ghost to speak without thinking it through, perfectly calculated, and your breath catches a little at the offer.

How could you ever say no to that? You don’t really think that he’s going to succeed in making you come – at this point you’re pretty sure your body is a little bit broken and you’re just not capable of orgasming at all, and that’s whatever – but the chance to get fucked by Ghost? To lose the lingering vestiges of your viriginity to your ridiculously hot, mysterious, massive lieutenant? It’s like something out of a dream.

“Okay.” You choke out, nodding stupidly. “Yeah.”

You want to be touched. You don’t think you’ve ever actually felt the yearning for physical contact this strongly in your life; you’re practically holding your breath as you wait for Ghost to make a move.

Finally, he reaches out. His first move is to pull the stupid little dildo out of you, still vibrating, and you feel yourself clench convulsively around nothing as he leaves you empty and wanting. He spares it a brief, evaluating glance, and you feel yourself burn as you realise he’s examining how you’ve soaked the toy.

He tosses it to the side, barely even taking the time to switch it off first, then turns his attention back to you. He’s got that same kind of laser-focus he usually only gets out on the field, and you take a moment to feel incredibly grateful that you’re never going to be on the receiving end of that terrifying scrutiny on the battlefield.

It feels like your skin is too tight for your body, every nerve and synapse strained and primed as you wait for him to touch you. But he’s slow about it, as though he just wants to torture you a little bit. 

When he finally reaches out to lay his hands on you, he doesn’t touch where you want him to.

His callous-roughened hands land on your hips, and pull you down the bed towards him. In the same move, he half-climbs up on the mattress, his huge form practically dwarfing you. Your head and shoulders are still cushioned by your pillows, but your legs are splayed open around Ghost where he kneels on your bed.

You glance down, unable to help yourself, unable to resist trying to catch a look at the outline of his erection pressing against his trousers, and oh. Fuck. He’s big. You knew he’d be big, of course, he’s big all over, but Jesus Christ, maybe you’re a little out of your own depth here–

His thick fingers tangle in the hem of your t-shirt, stretching the fabric out. “Take this off.”

You scramble to do as he says, grabbing at your top and pulling it up clumsily. You realise a moment too late that you’re not wearing a bra, but you suppose at this point it hardly matters. You drop your shirt to the side, and try not to feel too horrifically self-conscious beneath the burning hot gaze of the lieutenant.

Though you can’t see Ghost’s face, you can hear the soft exhale he blows out through his nose, just faintly muffled by the fabric of his mask. His eyes are trained on your chest, darting between each of your tits as though he can’t decide which one to settle on. After a long moment, he reaches forward and cups your left tit with one of his enormous hands, thumbing absently at one of your nipples.

It’s silly; Ghost has touched you before. Lots of times. A nudge of the elbow accompanied by a conspiratorial eye roll, a clap to the shoulder, rough hands pulling you to your feet after training or applying white-hot painful pressure to injuries. But this – you’ve never been touched like this before, not by Ghost, not by anyone.

The shaky breath you let out as his big, rough thumb rolls over your firm nipple comes out as a strangled sort of moan that honestly startles you a little. The noise catches his attention, and he snorts.

“Can’t be that sensitive.” He mutters, but then he reaches to thumb at your other nipple as though trying to be sure.

It’s because you’ve never been touched like this by another person before, you tell yourself. Truthfully, you’ve never even touched yourself like this before. You’ve never bothered to play with your own tits; you’ve always just gone straight to breaking out your vibrators. Now, with every brush of Ghost’s scarred fingers over the tight bud of your nipples, you think you must have been crazy to skip over this part of yourself. But then again, there’s no way that your own hands on yourself would elicit the same sharp jolt that shoots from your breasts down your spine.

“Sir–” You breathe, struggling not to squirm where you’re laying. You wonder, somewhat deliriously, if it might be rude to demand your lieutenant stuff his thick fingers into your pussy. You can already tell that they’re going to feel so much better than your own.

Ghost glances up at you, his eyes unreadable as he watches you bite at your lip. God, his little wispy eyelashes are so blond—

“What?” He says, his voice deep enough that you swear you can feel it rumbling through your bones. “Say it.”

“Want to try your fingers.” You breathe before you can second-guess yourself. 

The laugh that rumbles out of Ghost’s chest is low and smoky. It’s probably impossible to miss the way your eyes have been drawn to his hands all evening, so big and corded with veins and muscle and scar tissue. You’ve witnessed those hands crack bones and snap necks and break down doors, and yet you can’t help but wonder desperately what they’re going to feel like when he starts touching you properly.

He adjusts himself on the bed; he’s a big man, hulking and huge as he kneels on your mattress, his weight causing it to dip. His palms wrap around your ankles with ease, and he hauls you into place with a grim efficiency that goes straight to your pussy.

“Big brute.” You say, a little breathlessly.

He ignores you, using his arms to hold your legs open and wide for him. And all you can do is just lie there as he stares, because goddamn it’s like he’s been carved from steel and you can’t break out of his grip. Not that you want to break out of his grip anyway, but you’d really appreciate it if he actually got moving instead of just staring.

“Fuck,” He grunts after a moment, with the air of talking to himself. “Been hiding this all this time, huh?”

“Jesus.” You breathe in response, subconsciously letting your legs drop open even more.

He makes a low noise of appreciation, and finally reaches out to touch you properly. One thick thumb swipes through the seam of your cunt, and you feel the way he’s smearing the clear sticky wetness that’s been leaking steadily out of you. With his now slick thumb, he drags up towards your clit and circles it with agonisingly light pressure.

You let out an embarrassing choked whine, your toes curling at the sensation. Somewhat ironically, Ghost is handling you far more gently than you usually touch yourself, and you find yourself flexing your hips in an attempt to get him to touch you with more pressure. He ignores your attempts, keeping his pace implacably steady and slow.

“D’you always get this wet?”

You can’t even tell if he’s asking you mockingly or if he’s being genuinely curious; it feels like every inch of your focus has narrowed down to the feel of his big thumb rolling those tight little circles around your clit, his touch scorching against you.

It’s not exactly surprising that Ghost is good with his hands. You’ve seen the way he handles weaponry, locking and loading and aiming to fire with the kind of swiftness that comes from muscle memory, working with unwavering speed and precision. He’s the same in hand-to-hand combat, moving with aggressive fluidity that overwhelms his opponents. You’ve caught hits from him before in training, and you know from experience that a punch from those big hands feels like getting hit by a cinder block.

But even knowing how deft and skilled his hands are, it knocks the breath out of you when he slides his middle and ring fingers inside of you, still rubbing steadily at the swollen bump of your clit. 

When you exhale, it accidentally comes out as a moan. Your cheeks burn, but there’s really no space in your brain right now for embarrassment to sink in. Two of Ghost’s fingers are the equivalent of at least three and a half of yours, and you feel yourself break out into an overwhelmed sweat when they twist and rub against the sensitive squishy spot in the front wall of your cunt.

You’re so damn worked up, your arousal coiled like a knot in your lower belly from your failed attempts to get yourself off all day. Your back curves, humping yourself near mindlessly back up into his hand as he plays you like a goddamn instrument.

You barely even have time to consider how unfair it is that Ghost is so good at playing with you like this when he doesn’t even have a pussy himself, because then he pulls his fingers out of you.

“Oh, no, don’t stop–” You start to protest breathlessly, your chest still heaving, but the quick glance the lieutenant sends you has you falling silent.

Ghost glances down at his fingers. They’re all glossy from fingering you, and he takes a moment to eye up the way they glisten in the dim light of your bunk. You might have felt self-conscious about it, if you couldn’t see the unmistakable gleam of hungry interest in Ghost’s dark brown eyes.

He wipes his hand on the crease of your hip, but you don’t even get the chance to protest before he reaches up to hook his fingers into his mask. You go still, holding your breath in surprise as he pulls the material up until it bunches up around the bridge of his nose.

And that’s– well. You’ve seen his jaw before, and his mouth (Jesus, you had seen it earlier that evening, when he had been sipping on his smooth whiskey of choice), but the sight of his strong jawline and blond stubble and corded scars on his pale skin always manages to knock the breath out of you. And this time, he’s rolled his mask up even further than before, revealing a nose that’s clearly been broken at least once before.

You probably shouldn’t stare so blatantly, especially knowing that Ghost always takes such pains to keep his face covered. You’re not even sure if the other guys on the team have seen his uncovered face, except for Price, and you know that they’ve developed a habit of averting their eyes when he pulls his mask up for whatever reason. It’s a habit that you never quite managed to develop yourself; you’re never able to stop yourself from gaping at him like a moron, drinking in all of the minutest details. He’s never said a thing about your penchant for staring, so you can only hope that he’s chosen to ignore it.

You’re so busy staring that it takes you by surprise when he grips your jaw with one massive hand and pulls you into a rough kiss.

The sound you make is small and startled, but it’s swallowed by Ghost’s demanding mouth. His lips are dry and a little chapped, but they feel scorching hot against yours. You reach up to grab at his arms – mostly just to ground yourself – but you find yourself almost immediately distracted by the firm bulge of his biceps beneath your hands.

Listen, you’ve kissed people before, plenty times. You’re in your early twenties, and just because you’re inexperienced sexually it doesn’t mean that you’re inexperienced full stop. But this, right now, kissing with Ghost, makes you feel as though you’ve been doing nothing but fumbling your way through all of those encounters, like you’ve been kissing wrong all this time.

It’s slow and deep, at first. All-consuming. It lights a fire in your gut, which expands and spreads throughout your body until you find your fingers grasping desperately at the short cotton sleeves of Ghost’s t-shirt where it’s stretched over his thickly muscled arm.

Ghost doesn’t just kiss with his mouth, either. It’s like a full-body experience with him; he puts his hands, his whole damn body into the kiss. He clutches you to him, holding you close even as the force of his kiss bends you backwards into the pillows beneath you. At the same time, it’s all you can do to concentrate and respond to the kiss itself, your attention stretched and strained by the feeling of Ghost’s hands running over you, stroking you sides and squeezing at your breasts and groping at the soft flesh of your hips and ass. 

 “Hah,” You gasp out when Ghost’s lips slide sideways to find the corner of your jaw. His mouth is hot against your skin, bruising, and you feel yourself grow embarrassingly wetter, just from a little kissing.

“You good?” Ghost grunts into your throat as he nips at the base of your jaw.

“Uh huh.” You manage to get out, still clutching at his meaty arms like they’re a lifeline. “So good.”

His breath is hot on your throat when he rumbles out a deep chuckle, and then his tongue flicks out against your earlobe. It makes you forget how to breathe for a second, and you’re distracted when Ghost’s hand changes course, easing beneath your legs so he can press his fingers against your clit again.

Then he pauses, and his fingers slide lower, lazily hooking back and inside you. You tremble, horny and humiliated as you realise that your arousal is glistening all over your damn thighs, impossible to miss.

“Fuck,” Ghost mutters. “All this for me, sweetheart?”

“Hnng,” You whimper like an idiot as his fingers return to your clit, now slick and slippery. “I’m just–”

He doesn’t wait for you to explain. Instead, he pulls his fingers out of you again and kisses you hard. The soft breathy noises you make are muffled into his mouth, and you wrap your legs around his waist automatically. He’s built like a damn mountain, your thighs stretched wide to accommodate the bulk of him as he settles against the core of you.

He likes that – he presses in close, and you can feel the hard line of his cock pressing up against you through the roughness of his jeans. You’re so sensitive that the coarseness of the fabric is almost unbearable, but you’re able to ignore it because you’re so distracted by the sensation of his erection because holy fucking shit that can’t really be how big he is.

You gasp, the sound high and breathy, and you try to grind against Ghost, but it’s impossible because he’s so fucking heavy and he’s pinning you down on the mattress beneath him. Instead, all you can do is squeeze your legs and pull Ghost in even tighter, increasing the pressure between the two of you.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” Ghost whispers, and it sounds like a promise. He drags his lips up your throat, then talks against the corner of your mouth. “You won’t be able to touch yourself again without wishing it was me.”

The wave of desire that rocks through you almost pulls you under, and you swear you might have actually gotten so horny that you blacked out for a second, because from one second to the next Ghost has somehow managed to muscle his way back down between your thighs so that he’s eye-level with your cunt.

“What are you–” You start to say, but then he loops his forearms under your knees to tug your legs wider, and you realise just how close his face is to your pussy. You swear you’re actually pulsing with arousal, and you wonder a little wildly if he can see that.

“Oh, fuck, yes — please,” You blurt out, before Ghost has even gotten his mouth on you. He chuckles, low and amused. His grin looks predatory, but in this moment you really don’t mind being the prey — not if it means you’ll be devoured by that mouth.

Then Ghost’s mouth is against you, wet and burning hot. You cry out, barely noticing as Ghost throws one of your legs over his shoulders, spreading you open.

It’s just the right side of overwhelming. Ghost’s mouth feels like it’s going to swallow you whole – his tongue is huge and flat and firm as he licks over your clit, making your thighs quake on either side of his head. It’s entirely unlike any of the fumbling masturbatory attempts you’ve ever made – you always enjoy messing around with your various little sex toys, but you’re swiftly beginning to realise that it could never compare to real human contact. Or at least, contact with Ghost.

His hands move from your waist to your asscheeks, his big palms squeezing the plump flesh there before using his grip to pull your body closer so that he can bury his whole face between your legs. The rougher material of his mask presses harshly into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, but you hardly even notice it.

Your pussy has never been this wet before; it feels like you’ve sprung a goddamn leak. You might have felt embarrassed about it if it weren’t for the way Ghost groans against you, his wide tongue laving flat and rough against the seam of your cunt as he practically gulps down all the sticky arousal you have to give him.

“Oh god– fuck! Sir…” You sigh, spreading your knees farther apart so that Ghost can wedge his head further between your thighs.

Your ears burn as your room is filled with sounds of him tonguing at your cunt, the lewd wet squish of him working you over until you’re keening, your hips twitching clumsily until his hands tighten where he’s gripping the plump flesh of your ass to keep you still. Then all you can do is twitch as he licks over your clit in repetitive lapping motions, working in circles and then dipping down to shove his searingly hot tongue inside you. You can feel his teeth press against your labia even as he sucks at your clit, and the sensation sends hot bolts of pleasure rocketing down your spine.

Though you don’t mean to, you’re pretty sure that you make his job harder. You can’t stop wriggling, tossing your head back against your pillows and squirming on Ghost’s tongue in a wild overstimulated dance, like a fish caught in a net.

Finally, Ghost seems to have enough of your unco-ordinated flailing attempts to grind against his face. He reaches around your thigh with one arm to reach your clit so he can keep it stimulated as he gulps at the sticky sweetness of your cunt like a man possessed – the action also works to keep your hips pinned down and still. You stop your frantic moving, but your spasms and sounds increase tenfold.

You can hardly believe it, but you feel something coming. A sweet, torturous build up starts in your belly, and you sweat and gasp as he licks and suckles at you relentlessly. You’ve never found yourself in this state so quickly before, with your legs trembling and your breathing heavy and shaky. 

“Oh.. oh…” You breathe, beginning to arch your back.

You know this feeling – this is where that sweet climax builds and builds, only to dissipate at the last agonisingly close moment. But this time, with Ghost’s big head between your thighs as his mouth moves against you, sucking, tasting, eating up everything you have to offer, the breath-taking pleasure doesn’t show any sign of slipping out of reach. It feels like for once you might actually reach that peak.

But then, right as you’re certain that you’re about to tip over that long-awaited coveted release, the bastard pulls away.

“No!” You practically shriek, attempting to sit up. “No, I was so close–!”

“Lie back.” Ghost orders, his voice like the crack of a whip. 

You drop back obediently before you can even register that you’re moving, so conditioned to react instantly to that tone of voice coming from Ghost’s deep rumbling baritone. Your eyes are wide and betrayed as you stare at him, admittedly a little baleful.

God, but it’s hard to stay annoyed when he’s staring up at you from between your legs like that. His eyes are dark and hungry beneath the mask, and since it’s all pushed up and rumpled around his nose you get a toe-curlingly good look at his lower face. His chin is wet and smeared with your slick, and his lips are plump and pink and swollen from all the kissing and suckling he’s done to you. In a moment of near-delirium, you think that you understand now why he covers his face – his mouth is pretty in a way that shocks you, in a way that needs to be hidden for decency’s sake.

“You’re gettin’ greedy,” He grunts, turning his head and sinking his teeth into the crease of your thigh just to make you yelp. “Wait for it, love. It’ll be worth the wait.”

You don’t think you have much of a choice, so all you can do is lay back and hold on for the ride. He presses his mouth to you again, and you whimper softly as he tongues at your clit. 

“No one’s ever eaten you out like this?” He asks, the words muffled into the damp curve of your thigh. It’s stupid, because you know he knows the answer to that is a resounding no, but it seems like he just wants to hear you say it out loud.

“No.” You say, your breaths sawing their way out of your chest.

“Hnn.” He makes some kind of grunting sound against you, his tongue flicking out to taste you again. “That’s why you’ve been so tense, huh? So fuckin’ desperate for someone to touch you?”

“That’s not– ‘m not tense,” You manage to get out, your breasts heaving as your thighs tense up where they’re thrown over his shoulders. “Maybe.. Maybe you’re too relaxed.”

Ghost huffs a hot little laugh at your hip because you both know that couldn’t be further from the truth. You doubt anyone has ever accused Ghost of being too relaxed before, but you don’t have time to feel stupid for it – not when Ghost is devoting the full force of his attention on you, deep breaths huffing against the wet skin of your pussy and making you shudder.

“That’s it,” He croons, his voice uncharacteristically soft and lilting. The rumble of it ripples through your limbs like lapping waves, his battle-roughened palm stroking and smoothing down your ass and thigh as he hauls you closer. “Relax, sweetheart. Fuck, such a pretty pussy. Fuckin’ criminal of you to keep this hidden away all to yourself.” And then, quieter, “Fuckin’ Christ, you’re wet.”

You’re not even sure that he’s talking to you. It seems more as though he’s talking to himself, and it just happens to be you he’s talking about. Your cheeks burn as the feeling of vulnerability sets in, but you keep your legs spread wide as he kisses your clit with his swollen pink lips. You want so badly to be good, for him to be pleased with you, that you push past your embarrassment as best you can.

There’s a budding anxiety in your belly that Ghost is wasting his time here. As much as you crave his touch and the build up, you worry that he’s going to get frustrated with you and your inability to actually orgasm.

But Ghost doesn’t seem to be in a rush. He seems perfectly fucking happy between your legs, and even with his mask all clumsily rucked up around his nose he presses his face into your pussy with his eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. Even when you shift a little in an effort to get him to go a little harder or faster, he just pins you still and continues at his own leisurely pace.

When he reintroduces his fingers, pressing inside and stretching you out with a light sting, you hiss and try to lift your hips again. His rough calloused knuckles brush against the inside of your soft inner thighs, making them quiver as he goes three fingers deep.

“Shhh, atta girl.” He mumbles into you, his words coming out wetly muffled since he doesn’t even both pulling his face back. “Fuckin’– shit, so good.”

The praise shoots liquid and molten through you, and you have to bite back a pathetic keen as you pulse around his fingers. You’re sure he must feel it, because he lets out an answering rumble and laps against your clit, then closes his lips and sucks.

“Oh god–”

“Shhh.” Ghost scoots forward so your knee can hoist over his shoulder. Then he angles his chin to kiss the skin on the inside curve of your knee as he pumps into you with slow, slippery fingers and ungodly squelching noises that only sparks you hotter. You can’t even tell if it’s sweat or tears dotting your face anymore.

Though Ghost’s eyes are heavy-lidded and a little fogged over, he hasn’t looked away from you once. The focused intensity of his gaze spears you through, because you’ve never been looked at like that. No one has ever seen you like this, no one has ever put effort into you like this, no one has ever been so determined to please you before. You don’t know how you’re ever going to recover from this; you have a terrifyingly distinct impression that he’s going to live up to his promise to ruin you for anyone else.

It feels as though your blood is boiling beneath your skin, and you nearly sob when Ghost pulls back. You’ve never been so close, and you want to scream when he takes his gorgeous fucking mouth away from your clit.

“Fuck.” You wet your lips, realising you were panting like a dog and your mouth is bone dry. “Fuck, Ghost, just—”

“Quiet, lovie.” His reply is hoarse and firm, his throat working hard to swallow as he peered down between you, his clever thumb delving slick circles over the taut bump of your clit, his other three fingers fucking with easy rhythm and purpose. It’s maddening, it’s infuriating, it makes you feel as though you’re about to break apart.

His fingers are pulled out, and then you feel firm pressure pressing into you yet again. Your head lolls as you attempt to sit up, your eyelids fluttering as you realise that he’s pressing your stupid dildo into you again.

“Oh, you bastard–” You start to complain, but Ghost doesn’t give you the opportunity to speak properly.

The dildo slides into you so easily, your sticky slick mixing with his spit making the slide almost effortless. You sigh, a build-up of pressure making your whole body feel as though you’ve been stretched out and pulled tight. 

Now that you’ve been pushed to the edge, you linger by it. Ghost keeps you on that edge for what feels like hours, until your breaths are burning in your chest and the ligaments in your calves are screaming from all the straining you’ve been doing. Every roll of Ghost’s thumb over your clit sends sparks racing through your nerves, and your breathing is harsh and uneven as Ghost starts fucking you with the stupid vibrating dildo. The rhythm he sets is firm and unrelenting, pushing the silicone toy in and out and visibly relishing the wet squish of your cunt as it takes it deep.

Ghost huffs against the wet skin of your inner thigh, making you shudder. It seems like he’s enjoying this as much as you are, judging by the subtle roll of his hips against your mattress as he absorbs himself in fucking you with the dildo. 

He experiments with the angle, adjusting the dildo until you cry out, jerking against the bedding, and whining “There!”. You needn’t bother telling him, though; Ghost has a sharp eye, and he’s so goddamn attentive. He’s already repeating the stroke, pushing the dildo in and bumping it against the same sensitive spot he had hit before.

It feels good, but it’s not enough. Now that you’ve felt the firm hot pressure of his fingers spreading you wide and the wet hunger of his mouth devouring you, you don’t think anything else will do.

He shifts, you catch the rolls of his hips against your mattress again, and you feel as though you’ve caught fire. You think of the glimpse you had caught of his hard cock, pressing against his jeans and making the fabric stretch taut, and you find yourself speaking without thinking.

Ghost pushes the dildo in once more, and you reach down to grab at his wrist as you ask breathlessly, “Can I try yours?”

He pauses; goes so still that it’s honestly uncanny, his eyes practically boring holes into you as he stares at your face. You grow flustered, your own eyes widening in response to your own words. Just because he’s deigning to touch you with his fingers and his mouth, doesn’t mean he’s actually planning to fuck you. Jesus, he’s your fucking superior officer. What were you thinking?

“I’m sorry,” You squeak. “That wasn’t appropriate. Fuck, forget I said that–”

Even beneath the mask, you can see the bob of Ghost’s Adam's apple as he swallows thickly.

“You sure?” He interrupts your rambling before you can get started. “I don’t... ‘m not good with virgins.”

There’s… there’s so much you could say in response to that. Namely, he certainly doesn’t seem like he’s bad with virgins, as evidenced by the throb of arousal still pulsing through your soaked cunt. He’s just had you sobbing at the mercy of his fingers and mouth, and all he has to say when you ask for more is that he’s not good with virgins?

Instead, what you say is a rather lame, “I’m not technically a virgin.”

Which is true. Sort of. Based on a technicality – you had bullied your damn vibrator through your stupid hymen years ago, and you’ve always thought the idea of virginity was a stupid one, anyway. 

“Plastic cocks don’t count, darlin’.”

Blood rushes to your face so fast you feel light-headed as humiliation burns through you. Jesus, okay. That’s just mortifying. 

“Oh, you think your cock is special, then?” You scoff, attempting nonchalance.

Ghost shifts, letting your legs drop from his shoulders, and kneels up on the mattress so that he’s looming over you. Fuck, every time you get a visceral reminder of how big he is, you feel a little faint. It’s like having a veritable wall of muscle caging you into your bed. Your thighs are spread wide to accommodate the size of him, and you find yourself absolutely captivated by the sight of him with his muscles straining against that stupid tight t-shirt, still panting lightly from his greedy gorging on your cunt.

He reaches out and drags a hand slowly from your cunt up over your belly, between your breasts, up over your sternum, to rest over your collarbones. It’s gentle – he doesn’t put an iota of pressure against your throat – but all you can fucking see is the swell of his bicep and the dark ink of his tattoo and the prominent veins running down the chiselled muscle of his forearm.

Good fucking lord.

“You’ll find out.” He says.

And oh. Okay then. Yeah, you sure fucking will.

He reaches down and unbuttons his jeans, and you can’t help but strain to try and watch. He pushes them down carelessly around his thighs, but doesn’t make any move to strip them off any further. You’re suddenly aware of the fact that you’re laying on the bed completely nude and exposed, while Ghost has only pushed his jeans down far enough to pull his cock out, but you don’t have any time to feel self-conscious about it.

His cock curves up against his belly, red and twitching. He’s fucking rock hard, and bigger than you had been expecting, bigger than any of your stupid little toys. Your mouth goes dry, and your eyes widen comically. Fuck. No wonder he’s confident. He’s not lacking in any way.

“D’you’ve a johnny?” He asks, one big paw of a hand taking his cock and stroking lazily at it until a bead of pearly precum oozes from the angry red head.

You’re distracted for a moment, staring at the way he fists his cock, before you blink back to yourself. “What?”

“A condom.” He enunciates slowly, as though speaking to someone he thinks is a bit thick.

“I know what you meant,” You snap, embarrassed. “But– no. Why would I? I’ve never…”

You can see the way his eyes crease and realise that he’s frowning beneath the mask, and you’re hit with a sudden bolt of panic – is he going to change his mind now? You can see the hesitation in the lines of his shoulders, but you think if he changes his mind about fucking you, you might just die.

“It doesn’t matter,” You blurt, “You don’t need one. I’m on the pill. I’m clean.”

Ghost cocks his head, but remains still. It’s almost unnerving, and you feel your toes curl into the bedsheets as you wait for an answer. He looks fucking predatory, hulking over you like a fucking behemoth as he watches you assessingly. You try your best to look confident, but you have a feeling that you just look desperately hungry.

He reaches up and hooks his fingers into the fabric of his mask and pulls it back down to cover his still slick-shiny mouth and jaw, and you’re gripped with sudden overwhelming panic and dismay that he’s changed his mind, that he’s about to leave you here wet and empty and wanting. In that moment, you throw your dignity into the wind.

“Please,” You beg pathetically, wriggling a little bit against your sweat-damp bedding in an effort to grind yourself against him. “Please, please, it’s fine, I swear, you don’t need one–”

“Fuckin’ hell.” Ghost grinds out, his voice rough and a little hoarse. “How can a virgin be such a fuckin’ slut?”

Some part of you wonders if you should be offended by that, but instead a frisson of heat runs down your spine. You know you’re not a slut – you’ve never searched for any sexual attention, and you’ve never even experienced someone else’s touch – but goddamn you want to be a slut for your lieutenant right now.

Despite his harsh words, when Ghost hooks your legs over his hips and aligns himself with you, he’s gentle. He’s acting like you’re something fragile; he’s so big that your legs are spread wide around his waist, his shoulders so broad that he’s blocking out the dim light from your lamp, and yet his touch is light against you as though he’s afraid to break you.

He’s still gripping his cock hard, and he slides the tip of it against your slick heat. You have a brief moment of alarm; even through the haze of arousal, you can recognise that this is going to be a tight fit. You breathe deeply, then begin to wiggle your hips in an effort to take him inside you.

He hisses, then one of his big hands grabs at your hip. “Fuck, stay still.”

“Put it in.” You beg, your voice coming out thick and stupid-sounding. “Fuck, please, c’mon, c’mon–”

“Kid,” Ghost bites out through clenched teeth, his voice low and gritty. “Need you to shut the fuck up for me.”

You manage to bite down on your lip, but you can’t stop yourself from pouting mopily at him with wide, wet eyes. You don’t understand why he’s making you wait – can’t he see how mean he’s being? You’re so fucking wet, so empty as you clench down on nothing, and your clit is so desperate for any kind of stimulation that it’s throbbing needily. The head of his cock catches at your opening, dipping in for a second before resuming its maddening slide up and down.

Ghost is still watching you closely, his brown eyes flickering from where the head of his cock drags through your sodden folds up to your pleading pouting expression. You can only imagine what kind of a sight you make, because his chest growls with a choked sort of groan.

“I know,” He murmurs, almost mockingly soft with you. “I know, you want it. Gotta give it to you slowly.”

You want to tell him that he doesn’t have to give it to you slowly, that he can go as fast and hard as he wants to, but some sense of self-preservation shuts you up. Instead, you nod clumsily as he rubs his cock over the slick folds of your cunt, lubing himself up with your own arousal. The feeling of his cock dragging over you, iron hard and velvety soft, so close to where you want it, is enough to have your head spinning dizzily.

You want to beg again, but you’re still trying to follow his order to be silent. You shift restlessly, biting back a whimper when he taps his cock thoughtfully against your clit.

Finally, he decides to put you out of your misery. 

The thick crown of his cock pushes against the tight ring of muscle at the entrance of your cunt, and the gasp you let out is positively punched out of you. He goes slow, just like he promised, but you can still hardly believe it. He goes in and in and in, and yet he’s somehow not even halfway inside. 

“Fuck,” You wheeze, punctuated by a strange little yowl. “Oh god, wait–”

You feel stuffed just from the first few inches, drunk already on the quiet little grunts he’s making. The stretch and the sting and the pressure inside you is glorious, so tight that you can barely even flex around him and you can’t even decide if it’s good or if it’s too much. Your eyes are hot and wet as overwhelmed tears begin to overflow, and you find yourself arching in a weak attempt to flex away from him and the devastating stretch.

God, he’s massive. You knew he would be, of course, but his size seems so much more significant when you’re being impaled on the end of his cock. Fuck, you can feel your vision go blurry as your eyes fill with overwhelmed tears. You’re mortified when a sob is ripped from your chest, harsh and thick.

“Shh, shh.” Ghost coos, his deep voice syrupy thick as he leans over you, the enormous bulk of him caging you into the mattress until your whole world consists only of him. “Just a little bit more.”

“Fuck,” You choke out, trying to arch away again but failing because he’s so big that there’s nowhere to go. “It’s not gonna fit!”

“Shh, lovie,” He rumbles, ducking his face down so that the rough cotton of his mask is pressed against the sweaty skin of your neck. “Relax’n let me in.”

“I– ‘m trying–” You whine, clutching at his biceps. “Jesus–”

You blink your eyes open, vision blurry from the tears clumping your lashes together, only to be met with the sight of Ghost’s deep brown eyes staring at you from beneath the black mask. He’s looming above you, his gaze made all the more intense by the fact that it’s the only part of his face you can really see.

“All that messin’ around with those plastic cocks, but you’re still this tight for me,” He says, his voice so deep that you feel it reverberate into your bones. “Deep breath.”

The breath you inhale at his instruction is rough and ragged, and he snorts a low breathless laugh in response.

When he finally drives his cock all the way in with one smooth stroke, all the breath is driven from your lungs. It feels as though his cock has been pressed all the way up into your chest, and the noise you make when you squirm on it is utterly pathetic. 

Ghost’s hands are like steel clamps when they close around the plump flesh of your thighs, holding them up and pressing them back until they’re pressed against your belly. He looms over you, still almost entirely clothed as sweat beads over his thickly muscled neck. It’s like getting pinned down by a mountain, and you whimper as you’re speared open and prone by the weight of Ghost pressing down upon you.

He hasn’t even started to move yet, but you still feel overfull and raw.

“Too big,” You mumble, struggling to catch your breath. You choke on a sob and feel your eyes burn with unshed tears as your back arches. “Ghost–!”

“Shh.” He grunts. “Call me Simon when I fuck you.”

That… that does something to you. Molten heat rockets up your spine and pools in your belly, and you swear your pussy floods. It’s stupid, how being granted permission to call your lieutenant by his first name is somehow so much hotter than anything else he’s done so far.

“Simon,” You try it out. It comes out a little shaky, your voice little more than a weak whisper, but you swear you can see his eyes sharpen. 

Apparently having come to the decision that you’ve adjusted enough, Ghost pulls his hips back only to drive back in. 

“Oh!” You yelp, hips jumping, but there’s nowhere to go. 

All you can do is lie there as he slides out, out, out, slow and careful and long, and then his hips snap forward and he impales you, pressing all the way into him. He does it again, and again, and you try to bite down on your tongue, try to not sound so pathetically wrecked, but you can’t. It’s like Ghost is puncturing your lungs and every time he fucks into you, you let out the most pathetic little mewling ah ah ah sounds.

You’re not quite prepared for how different this feels; it’s nothing like your stupid plastic dildo. Ghost’s cock is bigger, but it’s also hotter and with more give than you expected, and you’ve never been able to fuck yourself like this. Your plastic toys could never compare to the sensation of being pinned by your giant of a lieutenant as he ruts into you.

Ghost reaches up and roughly pushes his mask up so his mouth is exposed again before he leans in deeper, almost folding you cleanly in half, stretching in to claim your mouth in a kiss that’s not quite a kiss, but rather a fierce mash of lips and tongue as his rhythm picks up, riding you down into the mattress until you realised the screaming noise isn’t coming from either one of you, but the cheap standard issue bed frame.

All you can do is gasp with each deep, raw fuck. There are tears tracking lazily down your cheeks, having overflowed from your burning eyes, and you honestly think your lungs might collapse. You’re bent like a fucking pretzel, in a way that’s making the muscles in your thighs scream, as Ghost pounds into you. 

He’s fucking relentless, but also shockingly aware of you beneath him. He doesn’t put too much pressure on you when he holds you, he never goes hard enough to hurt, and he knows just the right amount of weight to pin you down without being too much.

Your pussy is sloppy around him, wet squishing noises getting louder and louder as he finds more rhythm against your tight walls. Your whole world of awareness has been narrowed down to Ghost and Ghost only; his fingers digging into your thighs, your name in his mouth, his sweltering body pressing against yours. 

He’s holding back, you can tell by the way his voice is caught in his throat. He’s keeping all his dangerous muscles at bay as he pulls out and presses in again. Rough, fast, but not enough to break you, just enough to make you scream until you bury your face to the side and try to cover your mouth with your arm.

“Yeah, you needed this,” Ghost grunts, his uncovered mouth nipping at the hinge of your jaw. “This’s why you were so fuckin’ distracted earlier, hm? You thinkin’ about how much you needed to cream around a real cock?”

“Uh huh, yeah,” You slur out, not even sure what you’re agreeing with. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth, every nerve in your body raw and sparking. You must sound so pathetic, but Ghost seems to like it.

“Ain’t gonna be distracted anymore, are ya?” He rumbles, laving his tongue over your jaw in a way that feels filthy. “Just needed your little pussy filled, that’s all.”

You cry out for him because you can’t help it, delight bubbling in your throat every time he plunges into you. He keeps his pace for a bit, all rushed and blazing, transfixed on watching you suck him in, leaving slick trails along his shaft. But gradually he gets bolder, more desperate, big hands squeezing from your thighs to your hips.

You get lost in the feeling of him in your belly, searing and harsh, fat tip rolling against the spongy spot inside of you until you feel like you might snap. You feel him in your ears, your head pounding with every snap of his hips. You swear you even feel him in your toes, lightning zaps of pleasure down your nerves.

Then he leans back, lifting his weight off of you so you can breathe properly. He leaves his hand on your collarbones like a placeholder, his palm spread over the base of your throat like a reminder, a way to keep your attention on him. 

“Fuck,” He grits out, “That’s it, doll.”

You’re vaguely aware of the fact that Ghost’s gaze has shifted, no longer focused on your face but now instead fixed firmly between your legs as he watches the thick shaft of his cock sink into you. He obviously likes how you feel inside; you can hear him cursing and grunting quietly as his free hand grips your hip for leverage. 

With his mask rumpled up around his nose, you’re gifted with an incredible view of the way his teeth are sunk into his lower lip. Each time he sinks his cock into you again, he makes a raspy little groan, eyes fluttering briefly shut. It’s so painfully endearing that your heart quivers in your chest.

Your legs burn from being spread around his thick waist — any attempt for you to lock them around his back is useless, your legs slipping everytime his ass flexes with his thrusts. Every hasty drive of his hips has the ridge of his cock sliding against the spongy spread of your walls, making you feel more stuffed every time he ruts into you. With every sudden movement you feel the entirety of his fat cock; the veins are throbbing, skin heated and silken within you. Part of you marvels how you’re even able to fit him inside you.

“Never seen you look like this,” he grunts. “All fucked-out and perfect.”

Ghost leans in again, grips your legs so he can rearrange them over his shoulders, and you think you might die. The angle is different and somehow, impossibly, Ghost is fucking into you even deeper. You think you might actually be crying. There’s no question as to whether you’re drooling.

Your hands move to his arms, nails sinking into the hard muscles of his triceps as you cling on for dear life. He doesn’t even seem to notice the sting of your nails scratching him; or perhaps it only urges him on, because his movements take on an edge of desperation.

“Gorgeous girl,” He grits out, jaw clenched. “Squeezin’ so tight. Fuck. Gonna make you cream.”

 You had forgotten about his promise to make you come, too lost in the hazy pleasure of his cock. But now it seems as though he’s been seized by the compulsion to fuck you to the edge; he reaches a hand down so that his thumb can join the fray, and it startles you into moaning breathlessly aloud. 

His thumb is merciless against your clit. You’re vulnerable to his touch, clit spread and on display from the stretch of his thick cock inside of you, and he takes full advantage. His fingers are thick and blistering hot as he rubs at you, and you choke as your toes curl.

“Simon–” You manage to eke out before you lose the weak thread of your thoughts, scattering into nothing as he stimulates the stiff bead of your clit. 

He grunts to show that he’s heard you, but he doesn’t seem any more capable of words than you are as he rocks into the cradle of your hips. You’re practically blinded by your wet eyes, blinking frantically to try and clear your vision as you reach out clumsily to throw your arms around Ghost’s blisteringly hot neck.

It feels as though your skin is stretched too tight over your body, hot and prickly and too much. You’re trembling, your breaths coming in shaky gasps as agonising pressure builds in your lower belly. 

“Fuck, love.” Ghost says, his voice little more than a snarl. “You gonna come?”

No, You think hazily. No, you never come. But even as you think it, part of you recognises that it’s never felt like this before. Your stomach tightens, toes curling, your lungs burning, your eyes rolling. You hardly even know what’s happening.

You recognise that something is building, but it almost seems secondary to the way that Ghost is rutting into you like a man possessed, hitting that spongey spot in the back of your pussy that you’ve never managed to reach yourself and making your legs spasm every time even as his thick thumb rubs frantic circles around the bump of your clit.

“Fuck, fuck–” You wheeze, bucking your hips against him.

It doesn’t grow and dissipate in the way you’re used to. Rather, it creeps up on you almost without you noticing, until you’re whimpering and clinging to Ghost like he’s a lifeline. Your bottom lip trembles as you sob weakly, practically on the brink of diving into an oncoming tidal wave of desire. Then that coil in your stomach snaps like a rubber band, sudden and sharp as a slap to the face. 

Your back arches, your vision whites out, and you cum so hard that the world stops, your ears ring, your body goes limp. Your cunts sucks tight around him, pulsing, feeling every inch of him. It feels so sweet, that white-hot buzzing pleasure rushing over you and wiping your brain completely clean. 

You’re a little delirious from being stuffed with such a fat cock; every thrust just prolongs your pleasure, like his penetration keeps you from squeezing your very first orgasm out right away. It’s mindless ecstasy, your nails burrowing into the skin of his biceps as you desperately clutch at him for some kind of leverage. Ghost doesn’t falter, his hips continuing to work into you, wringing your orgasm out until you feel as though your brain is melting.

You sob – an actual, genuine, wet-sounding sob as your chest heaves for air and your eyes burn with overwhelmed, rapturous tears. Your head is spinning even as your climax subsides, leaving you limp-limbed and weak as Ghost continues rocking into you.

“Look so lovely when you come, sweetheart,” Ghost grunts into your ear, his bulky chest weighing you down as you clutch feebly at his shoulders. “God, that’s a sight. All for me, yeah?”

His praise only makes it worse, makes your eyes sting until there’s tears down your cheeks and stars behind your eyelids. He sounds so smug, but you can’t deny that he has reason to be. He’s the first man to ever touch you, first man to ever fuck you, the first person to ever tip you over the edge and wring an orgasm out of you. Fuck, you think your brain might have been reduced to mush permanently; you wonder wildly if you’ll ever be the same after this.

Despite the sting of Ghost’s punishing thrusts into your already oversensitive cunt, your body sings for him. The rhythm of his hips is getting gradually sloppier, as though he doesn’t care as much for precision now that he’s succeeded in making you come. Soft, guttural little grunts fall from his mouth, and his arms wrap around your waist to reposition you so that he can fuck quick and shallow. It’s almost tender, as though he’s aware of your growing sensitivity as you mewl under him.

There’s a profound, instinctual pleasure in seeing Ghost lose himself in your embrace. His dark eyes are heavy-lidded and his mask is still all rucked up, revealing the way his mouth is lolled softly open as he pants. You find yourself wishing feverishly that he had taken off his clothes too, because you think you would give anything to watch the roiling muscles of his chest and shoulders as he ruts into you.

Then just when you think you’re beginning to recover from the shattering, mind-numbing oversensitivity, Ghost comes inside of you.

He stops rutting to ride out his orgasm, his cock throbbing, pulsing, spurting inside you until you feel fuller than you’ve ever felt. And he comes a lot. 

You’re stuffed so tightly with his cock that his cum has nowhere to go, and ends up leaking thickly from where your cunt grips around him, messy and hot and spilling over your thighs and his. The sound he makes is breathless, all open-mouth and head lolled back as he groans, blissed out as he finds release in your cunt. 

The minutes afterwards are a blur. 

You close your eyes for what feels like only a second, but the next time you blink your eyes open you find yourself feeling miserably, uncomfortably empty and sticky as all that oozy cum leaks out of you. You somehow missed Ghost pulling out of you, and your thoughts are muzzy and embarrassingly slow.

For a moment, you think you’re alone. You’re becoming more aware of yourself, and you realise that you’re shivering weakly alone in your sweat-damp sheets. Where did Ghost go? Part of you, still a little hazy, wonders if he had left you alone as soon as he had come, and you feel your lower lip tremble at the thought. 

God, you feel pathetic. You shift feebly on the sheets, and suck in a sharp breath when you feel the ache inside you, proof that you’re going to feel the shadow of Ghost’s cock for days. You feel drunk off the afterglow, yet you’re swiftly becoming more and more aware of yourself and all the aches and pains that are coming to the fore now.

It feels like you’re too big for your body, and you’re clumsy when you try to sit up. Pushing yourself up makes a whole new set of aches light up, and you let out a quiet keening grumble.

You’re so caught up with trying to ground yourself that you jolt in surprise when big, paw-like hands land on you, pushing you back down onto the bed. “Shh, hey, lay down.” Ghost says, the rough edges of his accent softened. To your bewilderment, he has a damp cloth in his hand; he went to the bathroom, you realise hazily.

Maybe it’s just because you feel raw after your experience with him, pulsing like an open nerve, but you sniffle and blink and then suddenly there are tears dripping down your face.

“Thought you left.” You mumble, trying not to sound like a needy little idiot.

Ghost glances up at you, unblinkingly. His mask is fixed firmly back in place, and he looks annoyingly put-together; it’s an embarrassingly stark contrast to the way you’re still nude and shivery and teary-eyed.

“No.” He says simply.

The damp cloth is warm when it makes contact with your skin, and you relax as he drags it along your sweaty back and over your legs. He’s a little rough about it, but you don’t think it’s on purpose. Gentleness doesn’t come naturally to Simon Riley, and yet you can feel that he’s trying and that makes a warm glow settle in your stomach, replacing the cold anxiety that had settled in when you thought that he had left you alone.

When the cloth reaches the tender skin of your pussy, you hiss and try to pull away. It all feels too sensitive, and you feel your face crumple up as he wipes away the mess of slick and cum between your thighs. He gentles his touch as much as he can, but you still mewl at the electric zaps of oversensitivity that jolt up your spine.

When Ghost pauses and pulls the cloth away from you, you blink your eyes awake. Your vision is still all wet and blurry from tears, but you can still see the shape of Ghost as he stares down at you. You can imagine you look nothing short of ruined right now, even after having been cleaned up, and Ghost’s stare is burning.

You wonder if he’s about to leave now – you can recognise this whole thing had gotten out of hand, and you just about manage to stifle the panic at the creeping realisation that you’ve just fucked your superior officer. Ghost must have realised at this point that the two of you had just ripped through all those fraternisation rules, though it’s always been difficult to tell what he’s thinking. But you trust him – you have to, in your line of work. You have to trust that he’ll handle things.

Ghost tosses aside the cloth, and his big overbearing body climbs back into bed beside you. It’s a standard-issue bunk, and yet it feels comically tiny when Ghost has been added to the mix. He’s surprisingly agile, even despite his big size, and you barely have time to realise that he’s joining you in bed before he’s wrapped a thick arm around your middle, hauling you closer.

You’d love to act chill and cool about the fact that he’s now essentially cuddling you, but you miss the mark by a long mile. You take a breath, and allow yourself to relax into his big burly chest. He’s still fully clothed, and the rough texture of his jeans against your tender bare skin makes you shiver lightly from oversensitivity.

Your hips are sore from being stretched so wide, your joints weak and watery, and you’re perfectly content to close your eyes and forcibly ignore all your concerns about fraternisation or how you’re going to face Ghost in training. It’s a problem for another time.

“You still alive?” Ghost grunts, and his palm coasts down over your back to settle at your ass, his fingers squeezing absent-mindedly into the soft flesh there.

He sounds amused, which makes you grumble in irritation. He takes up so much space, his big body filling up all the free space on the bed and making you feel so fucking small as he holds you so that your back is pressed against his stomach.

“I dunno,” You mumble, words a little garbled. “Think… think you might have fucked me stupid, Lt.”

Lying like this, with his front pressed against your back, you can feel his laugh rumble into you. He’s touchy too in a way that surprises you; his hands are constantly moving, swiping over your sides and groping at any part of you that’s squishy-soft.

“Think I might have,” He agrees, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even if you can’t see it. “But I think you needed it, sweetheart. You were practically cryin’ out for it all day.”

You feel your face heat at the insinuation that he had noticed the arousal you thought you had hidden so well. But you still feel so fuzzy inside, and you can’t manage to drum up any genuine reaction.

Ghost’s roaming hand slips down between your legs, and you hold your breath as he reaches your swollen, tender pussy. His fingers are so big, but he’s aware of his strength and keeps his touch light, cupping rather than groping, his calloused palm catching on your puffy clit.

“Told you a real cock would be better,” He rumbles, and you feel the soft material of his mask rubbing against the back of your sweaty neck. “You’ve got a fussy little cunt – ‘s only gonna be satisfied by the real thing.”

You’d love to jab back at him, but the feeling of him rough palm against your oversensitive clit has your thoughts fizzing out into nothingness. All you can do is let out a quiet little whimper, and rock your hips into his touch. To your utter bewilderment, you feel your arousal, which you had previously considered entirely sated, pulse back to life.

As if Ghost can feel your cunt throb beneath his hand, he snickers. “Yeah. Fussy and greedy.”

He leans down, and you feel his lips brush against the back of your neck through the cotton of his balaclava. You quiver, and part your legs without conscious thought to give his thick fingers more room to work. Despite your exhaustion, and your soreness, and your sensitivity, you find yourself wanting. You wonder, with an edge of hysteria, if your body has somehow managed to rewire itself to only accept pleasure from your commanding officer’s hand.

“Ghost– Simon–” You breathe, your hips jumping as you grind into his palm.

“Yeah,” He says again, as though he knows exactly what you need and want. “One little orgasm wasn’t enough, was it?”

“No.” You choke out, throwing your head back so that it’s resting against Ghost’s broad chest. “No, ‘t wasn’t.”

You can hardly believe that your body is winding up for more, but Ghost’s touch is searing hot against your tender skin, and you can already taste the pleasure he’s going to bring you. This time, without the edge of urgency, you think you might even enjoy it more.

“Gimme five minutes,” He drawls, his voice low and muffled in your ear. “And I’ll give you your second.”

[melancholic-thing]

Symbiosis [Kidnapper!König x Reader] Part 3

A/N: whew, work has been kicking my ass recently so this chapter took longer to write than I thought it would, thank you guys for waiting <3 and a massive thank you to the angelic @suimon and loml @uhohdad for beta reading this chapter, you guys are wonderful and I couldn't do this without your support!

Part 1 | Part 2

AO3

Summary: Adjusting to your new situation means getting use to König being a freak.

Tags: Yandere König, Kidnapping, Obsessive König, Awkward Conversations, Social Anxiety, your both so dumb and its kinda sweet, Some Smut, Masturbation, dubcon, noncon, reader is a bit of a dummy, könig has impulse control issues, Fluff and Humor.

You stretch on your queen sized mattress, completely zoned out as you watch old movies on the TV König moved to the basement for you. One of the many forms of improvement he’s offered to your ever so luxurious abode. The one you're most grateful for is the lack of any chain around your leg, he seems satisfied with simply locking the door. You had tried prying it open but no amount of shaking and pushing would pry it open. Not like you tried especially hard, it was purely out of curiosity, to see if you could actually explore the house while he was away. 

You stare at the digital clock on top of the TV (another bit of generosity) 3:16PM, you still have some time until he comes back home. So, you decide to tackle one of the other distractions he had provided you, a stack of novels from varying genres, the books chosen gave you a distinct feeling that he simply googled ‘what books do women like?’ and bought whatever was around. You skim the titles, mediaeval romance, wartime romance, alien sci-fi romance, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath which you assume was only there because he thought it was a romance book. You pick up the title that elicits the least amount of cringe in your soul, some sort of Victorian crime thriller that looks interesting enough. 

You read it to the sound of some random 80s action movie as background, getting lost in the world of aristocrats and murder. You lounge on the mattress, completely  unaware of the loud stomping making its way towards the basement. Only looking up when you hear the lock turn. 

The door bangs so hard against the wall you think it might have shattered. You pull your knees against your chest, your little novel gets abandoned as König marches into the basement, huffing like a bull. Each thundering step raises your heart rate until he’s standing in front of the mattress you sat on, making you feel like a frightened little rabbit being picked up from the pet store by a particularly cruel looking boy. 

“Up.” he says, gesturing with two fingers. You comply with a militaristic obedience, standing with your shoulders back and arms pressed solid to your side. He gives an approving nod before wrapping an arm around your middle and hoisting you up over his shoulder. 

Your squeal is met with a gruff command to shut it,  you try not to squirm as he walks out of the basement. The walk up the stairs was particularly painful as each step had you bouncing on his shoulder, digging into your abdomen. König was entirely unaware of your struggle, only focused on getting you out of the basement and into…the living room. 

Huh.

He plops down on the massive grey couch and manoeuvres you into his lap. His arms are wrapped around your waist as you straddle him, pressing your chest to his own hard enough for you to feel his heartbeat. You sit there, immobile and still as a statue as he simply breathes loudly. König squeezes you tighter, his arms shaking as though he was resisting the urge to completely strangle you. 

“König…?” you squeal, his grip on you loosening. He gives you a grunt and you decide to continue prodding. 

“Is everything okay?”

He breathes you in, taking an inhale so deep it was near comical. He lets out a half-hearted groan. 

“Everyone is a fucking moron.” he says through gritted teeth.

“I come to this fucking work and I do the job I am asked to do, one stupid idiot makes a calculation mistake and suddenly I’m getting an earful about something I had nothing to do with!” He tosses you to the side as he gets more heated, you end up on the other side of the couch, your mouth a straight line as you just accepted the barrage of complaints coming from your captor.  

“Ich bin ein verdammter Soldat!” He points to himself with four fingers as his voice grew higher in volume. “Diese Arschlöcher behandeln mich, als wäre ich der Lehrer ihrer Kinder." He seems to catch himself before he starts screaming, squeezing his fist tight, you get the strange notion that he would be punching walls if you weren’t here. 

He sits cross legged, placing his hand on his knees and continuing on with his tirade. “How is it my fault that a fucking recruit wasted everyones time, kick him out and get it done with verdammt!” He finally turns his attention to you, huffing and making his mask flap, you bite back a smile, not wanting to anger a snarling bear even further. 

“Aber nein! Ignore what I say until the little shit does the thing I warned them about and then jump down my throat!” 

He adjusts himself and slams his legs on the table one after another, you worry for the poor table as the loud bang makes you wince. He leans back against the couch, taking in a deep breath and stares up at the ceiling. You sit, partially terrified, partially amused. It was like riding a rollercoaster after watching an hour long video about how unsafe they were.

You think back to days where you could do nothing but agonize over how difficult others make your work, how badly you could have used a close confidant to vent to, sadly those you knew had what you would classify as “real problems” and it only felt burdensome to add onto their pile of woe. You look around the room, the furniture is minimal and functional, comfortable enough for a man like himself but so devoid of any homey feel, no photos hang on the walls, no frames with a laughing family is anywhere in sight, hardly a magnet or piece of memorabilia anywhere in the room. You briefly wonder if he had any friends in his work place, if he had anyone to talk to about his strife. He chose to vent to you, and this small sense of responsibility planted the seed of pride in your chest. 

You could probably get a good grade in this somehow.

You try to comfort him, placing a hand on his arm and rubbing slowly, his biceps twitch, pulling taunt ever so slightly. You can feel a scar over the spot you were rubbing, you can’t help but imagine the sight of him in battle, blood dripping from the wound as he ripped through enemies like a beast. If your first impression of him was anything to go by, he was a formidable soldier with the corded musculature to prove it. A shiver runs down your spine when you think about the person who had given him the scar, he was surely dead by now. You wonder if he was one of those people charged with interrogations and torture. Or if his job was to train new blood, since he mentioned recruits.

“So…what do you actually do?” You ask timidly, curiosity getting the better of you. He snorts, giving you a quick glance. You suppose it’s a bit late to ask, weeks into your capture. He glances towards you, not bothering to turn his head.

“Insertion specialist.” he answers curtly.

You squint at him.

“...is that a dirty joke?”

There was a moment of silence before he barked out a laugh, his shoulders shaking in mirth as his hand came up to cover his already masked face.His laugh is oddly nice, a boyish, loud guffaw that took you by surprise. 

A thick arm envelops you, pulling you into Königs chest. You squeak as your back pops when he gives you a tight squeeze. He rocks you side to side, kissing your cheek through his mask when you start apologizing.

“You improve my mood so easily…” he hums, giving your head a few strokes. He tucks your head under his chin, kissing the top of your head.

You squirm in his grasp, this much proximity to him is too much too fast. “What? It doesn’t sound like a real job!” you try to argue, your head is pressed against his chest, his beating heart audible in your ear. A steady, calming rhythm that you get lost in. You realize how much you’ve pavloved yourself into finding comfort in his presence, he always brought something good into your new life when he came back. New clothes, a hairbrush, some snacks, all items that flood your brain with serotonin that your little monkey brain now associates with him. So you find yourself relaxing in his hold, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing. 

“Did you get in trouble?” you inquire, trying to find a way to fill the silence more than anything. 

“Nein, it was just a pain in the ass,” he sighs, squeezing your midsection. “Need to blow off steam” 

“Is that why you took me? To blow off steam.” you retort, the question had been in the back of your head since you woke up in this strange place. Initially, in the first few days of your imprisonment, you had assumed you were going to be assaulted and then murdered, discarded into some ditch to rot away. But as days passed and he continued to treat you with…non-malice, you grew more comfortable. Not that you were opposed to it, you allowed yourself to essentially lie recumbent and receive his unconventional form of care, but he’s never actually explained why he kidnapped you in the first place. Why go through all the trouble of faking a death certificate of someone you never really did anything to?

He doesn't answer right away, content in simply running his hands up and down your back. Your anxiety builds with every stroke of his bearpaw of a hand, moments like this are when you are truly made aware of how little you know him, you have no frame of reference for his behavior, how he is going to react or what is going on in his mind. 

“No.” He finally says.

“Then why?” 

He pulls back, holding your face in both his hands, he scratches at your scalp gently. The way he looks at you drowns you in affection. It is a lovely feeling, being cared for. You hadn’t thought about anything outside the confines of this house, like your world has shrunk down to its absolute basics; eat, shower, entertain yourself, sleep. A simple, straight forward life that rids you of the indignity of slaving for a paycheck that hardly covers rent.

“I’ve always wanted a pet.” He whispers, running a hand through your hair as your jaw hangs slack. Pet…? 

God you wish you had the time to think of how to respond to what is arguably the most ridiculous conversation you’ve ever been involved in. No one prepares you for moments like these, you’ve never been someone who knows how to react in normal social settings, let alone this. You tremble in his arms as your internal hurricane rages on.

He doesn’t acknowledge your reaction, instead he shifts to lay on his side, keeping you in his arms. He then turned you around so that your back was securely pressed to his abdomen, effectively spooning you. He reaches for the remote, fiddling with the TV and turns on a German movie and gives you the grace of putting on subtitles, not that you were able to focus, mind too occupied in digesting the information just relayed to you.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

The movie credits roll and you stretch your sore limbs, trying to untangle yourself from König's embrace, a reprieve he gives you for a few minutes as he sits up from the couch to stretch his own muscles. The movie was a forgettable detective thriller, you couldn’t give the main characters name if you had a gun pointed to your head.

“I have a surprise for you.” He says, it feels like a threat.

“Really?” 

He nods “it’s in the bedroom, come.” He turns and walks towards the stairs, not checking if you were following him, trusting you to follow him dutifully.

You could run. 

You realize, glancing towards the hallway that would surely lead you to the front door. His house is sizable, but it's no mansion, you could just figure your way out soon enough before you’re caught. You look back at König, whose long legs had already carried him a good distance away from you. You think back to the ease with which he carried you out of the basement, the idea of him charging after you at full force had your heart already beating faster.

He stops halfway up the stairs, turning his head without uttering a word, the slightest tilt of his head speaking for him. Your body answers by pushing you forwards, following him up the stairs. You keep your eyes glued to his back. His shoulders are impressively broad, tapering down to a narrow waist. How he finds clothes that fit him so well is a mystery to you, then again he isn’t doing too bad for himself. Tall, muscular, and with a well paying job, You wonder why he doesn’t have a woman or two clinging to his arm, he really shouldn’t have to go through the trouble of kidnapping you like this. Then again he doesn’t see you as girlfriend material apparently. You aren’t sure if you should be insulted or thankful.

He stands in front of his bedroom door for a second before moving to the side, inviting you to open the door yourself. Your lip quirked up, a sense of giddyness washed over you in spite of the anxiety you knew should have been there instead. You reach for the handle, pushing the door open with bated breath. 

The scent of the room hit you first, his bedroom always has this hint of freshness that you began to associate with a pleasant sensation of fresh linens and clean skin. You feel your body unwind subconsciously, the anxiety that was coiling itself around your limbs slowly loosening its grip on you as he walks into the dark room and flicks the light on. 

Something is deeply wrong. 

The room as you remember it was barely furnished, only a bed, drawer table, and a closet. Not a single photo hangs on the wall, nothing that could ever indicate that there was a man living here, bringing to mind a furniture display in a mediocre furniture store. But there’s an addition to the space that fills your chest with discomfort, you try to verbalize all the words that spill out of your brain. Yet all that can come out of you is;

“Why is there a cage here?!”

The aforementioned cage sits a few feet away from the bed, dark black bars pressed against the wall. The inside of it is laid with silken sheets and soft looking pillows, so soft looking you almost miss the fuzzy hand-cuffs near the entrance. The cage is massive, big enough to fit a particularly large dog comfortably.

A hand rests on your shoulder, ushering you forward towards the physical manifestation of your current situation. For the first time since your arrival here, you push back, refusing to move from your spot. You anchor your feet to the floor and turn your head to look up at him. 

“What the fuck?!” you yell, your heart thundering against your ribcage. He tilts his head, eyes smiling down at you. 

“I told you…” he places a palm on your cheek. “I’ve always wanted a pet.”

You slap his arm away and step back. Your heart constricts with discomfort as you push back, you detest this whole situation, the intensity of your emotions making your face painfully warm.

“I am NOT getting in there!” you say, voice warbling as you try to stand your ground. He doesn’t dignify your rebellion with a response, instead he walks towards the cage, unlocking the door. It lets out a high pitched screech as he opens it that makes you clench your fist. 

“That is not a choice you make, Schatz.” His tone is gentle, in a way that makes you feel stupid for going against him. He gestures for you to come closer, his stature reminds you of a man trying to handle wild animals, like he’s trying to make sure you aren’t spooked by him. 

But you aren’t a wild animal, you have nowhere to run. 

With hesitant, slow steps, you move closer. The cage is so much bigger up close, the metal is a dark, sturdy metal that you subconsciously reach out to feel. The heat seeping out of your body, much like your will to resist.

“I made sure it's a comfortable fit, you could lay down entirely” he says, his hand resting between your shoulder blades, gently stroking up and down. The warmth of his hand contrasts the icy metal in  your palm. “This is only for the weekends, Katzechen. I want to wake up to you in my room, spend all day with you for once.” 

“You have a bed.” you retort, vaguely aware of the consequences. He responds by wrapping his arm around you and pressing you to his side, giving your cheek a pinch.

“I know you’d rather stay in my bed Katzechen, but I don’t quite trust you yet.” He shook you condescendingly, god you want to cry. The way he makes you feel so stupid when you know you’re right. 

You have been in situations like this before. Where your wants were discarded as silly suggestions that don’t warrant a response or a shift of the current status quo. You found a way to survive then, you show no reaction to any taunt, go off on your own and do what you must to feel comfortable. This has left you with a minimal social circle to keep your own peace of mind. You’ve become so used to not being in situations that require you to beg for your needs from your self imposed isolation that the idea of being treated like this all over again twists your stomach in knots. But you have to survive. You have to earn the right to say no here. 

“I…want to shower please…” you mumble, König guides you to the washroom with a nod, the air of victory surrounding him and suffocating you in equal measures. 

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

It's past midnight. The cage is not uncomfortable, you could lie in it comfortably without having to bend your legs. The mattress was more firm than you would have liked but you could live with it. You toss and turn, head occasionally banging on the metal bars with a loud thunk. 

König props himself up with his elbow, mask still over his head. He chose to keep it on for some godforsaken reason even in bed, which in hindsight is not as strange as when he kept it on for the shower, but the dim lights emanating from the window gave him a ghoulish appearance, like he’s the phantasm you anxiously stared at by the foot of the bed as a child. 

“You look good like this Schatz.” he murmured, voice coarse and heavy “Could stare at you all night.” he sighs. 

“Aren’t I lucky.” you mumble, turning to face away from him. You are tired of this cage already, the privacy offered by your basement dwelling now seeming like a blessing in hindsight. 

The bed creaks and your stomach drops, you roll to see the giant sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless with boxers riding up his thigh. He had his legs spread, giving you an ample view of him stroking his growing hard on. 

Maybe it was the distance between you two, maybe it was the cage keeping you well guarded, maybe it was your eroding sense of self preservation, but you can’t bring yourself to be anything more than mildly annoyed. 

“Seriously?” you groan, he hisses to that, hips arching up to meet his strokes. 

“You can’t blame me, you're cute when you talk back” he hums, his head tilting to the side as his thumb toys with the band of his boxers. You let your eyes linger on the bulge straining the clothes. You shouldn’t be surprised that he is so…proportional, but your mouth goes dry the longer you stare. His thigh flexes under your scrutiny, hand gripping the base of his cock tighter as he lets out a shaky breath. 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he gets to his feet in an instant. You crawl backwards until your back hits the metal bars separating you from the wall. In two long strides he reaches the cage, grabbing at the bars on the roof of the cage. His form now inches away from you.

“Haa…You like that ja?” he mumbles, his large paw groping at his erection firmly, he’s close enough that you can clearly see a wet patch forming on his underwear. He tucks a thumb into the waistband, exposing more of the curled, thick patch of hair on his lower stomach. 

“Stop that!” you whine, curling more into yourself as he lowers his boxers, cock springing free from its confines as König lets out a deep groan from the back of his throat. Your eyes bulge as you take him in, a pearlescent droplet of oozes from his bulbus tip, sliding down his shaft and following the thick veins of his cock only for his hand to smear it over. It was a sinful sight, one that had you entranced, unable to peel your eyes away.

“You say that, but you can’t look away, you like my cock Katzechen?” his voice takes on a teasing tone despite his hand stroking his member with a near desperate motion, hips bucking with every pull and tug. Your traitorous body grows warmer with each wet stroke, his heavy breathing twisting your stomach in knots as you stare shamelessly.

“Come,” he says, putting a hand through the metal bars “give me your hand, I’ll let you touch it” he says, gesturing with his long, thick fingers. 

“I will yank it off” you threaten through clenched teeth, but all your furrowed brow and hissing tone does is amuse him. He chuckles as he spreads more of his precum across his length, tip glistening as the wet noises filled the room. 

“Meine tapferes kleines Mädchen.” he teased, grabbing a metal bar with the hand not occupied with his manhood, you see his arm flex as his grip tights around the metal, bending it slightly as your stomach drops.

“Too much bravery makes you dumb, little one.” he whispers, his words dripping with degenerate delight, as though he was hoping you would push him further, give him reason to show you the consequences of being so stupidly brazen.

Your jaw is wired shut, you can only stare wide eyed as he continues to pleasure himself, the sound of it is so filthy and shameless that you find yourself pressing your thighs together to alleviate some of the pressure building in your core. 

“Come closer, Schatz,” he breathes, “I want to see your face.” 

“Yeah?” you prop yourself up, sitting straighter now “so do I.”

His stroking stutters for a second, his blue eyes rove over you, oversized shirt delicately falling over your shoulder, you are as vulnerable as a bleeding doe in a wolf den. Yet there is a level of unspoken power which you hold, it is flimsy and unreliable but it is as palpable as the tension in the air, a small but useful bargaining chip. 

“I’ll come closer if you take off the mask.” you assert, your voice carries a bit more base in it now. He stills briefly, considering your offer. He kneels on the carpeted floor, now closer to eye level. 

A hand gestures for you to come closer. “Come, take it off yourself.” he says, the arrogance in his voice completely washed away, replaced with an earnest vulnerability, one that buries a seed of trust in your heart as you hesitantly crawl closer to him. The sheer difference in size makes you dizzy as you reach out between the metal bars, your wrist passing through the same bar he had bent out of shape just a minute earlier. 

Your touch is light and tender as you reach for the mask,  you keep your eyes glued to his. In the low light and darkness they seem almost black, yet the glint of blue is unmistakable. His half-lidded stare draws you closer as you subconsciously lean in, fingers finding the hem of his mask. 

Gentle as you would a bride, you lift his mask over his head, slowly exposing more of his face. Despite your eyes having adjusted to the darkness, you can't make out the details of his face, yet the key features are illuminated as you let your eyes take him in. A light stubble adorns his face, dimpled chin littered with small scars. His lips are full and slightly upturned on one side, a cleft lip scar evidently the reason for that. His nose is large with a heavy bump on the ridge, the heavy eyebags under his downturned eyes make him look older than you had previously assumed. 

He is…not handsome, per se. Even with the dim lights you could see he would not turn heads, but the intensity in his gaze makes him so alluring that you find your palm pressed against his scarred cheek. He leans against your touch, starved as a stray in winter, his heavy brows furrow as he tries to read your face. 

“Gut?” He says with a swallow, it's strange to see a face mouthing the words you hear now, even more so that it is a request for approval. A half formed grin tugs at your lip, and you find your thumb caressing his cheek. 

“Yes… good” 

A sultry, shaky moan slides past his lips, his stroking picking up in speed as he chases his high. “Verdammt perfekt” his jaw tightens around the word, as though it barely escaped between his teeth. “Knew you are, from the s-second I saw you I knew, du wurdest nur für mich gemacht.” He turns his face to plant wet, warm kisses on the palm of your hand. 

His blood ran hot against your palm, his breath warm and moist, a bit of drool leaks from between his lips as he huffs a cacophony of garbled English and German praises. The warmth in your core turns into an ember that hitches your breath, the way he’s talking and moaning while drooling over your hand like a mad man makes you subconsciously grind against the mattress beneath you.

“I’ll keep you here baby, keep you right where I can see your pretty face, fuck, ich möchte dich züchten Liebling” 

His eyes screw shut for a moment and he grabs your wrist, yanking it down towards his crotch, easily holding you in place as you try to pry your hand free. He continues to stroke his cock fast and hard. With a stuttering moan, he spills into your open palm.

You give a disgusted grunt as his seed fills your palm, warm and horridly slick. 

He sits back on his haunches as he steadies his breath, chest heaving as he stares down at the mess he made of your hand. He glances back to your eyes and gives a crooked grin, the scar on his upper lip making it look even more lopsided.

“It’s good for you, ja? Give it a taste.” he teases. 

You extend your arm, trying to smear it on his abdomen as punishment. He grabs a hold of your wrist with a breathy chuckle. He keeps your palm facing upwards, grabbing the fabric mask and using it to wipe off his semen. You scrunch your face at that. 

“You wear that thing on your face!” 

“Washing machine.” he answers. 

“You’re still gross” You mutter, staring at his face, reconsidering your stance on his appearance, the more you look the more appealing he becomes. His face has a defined masculinity that, when relaxed in the afterglow of his orgasm, makes him look attractive in the faint lights. 

God you need to go to bed. 

“And you are lippy today, did you grow a backbone while I was away?” 

“Fuck you.” you bite back, the ache in your body and hazy mind not giving you leeway to think of a clever response. 

His eyes snap up to meet yours, a strange glint in them that had a buzzer like alarm sounding off in your head. A wicked smile tugged on the side of his mouth, the cloak of shadow giving him a wolfish appearance now, dowsing you in cold water as you pull your hand back, still grimy from his spend. 

He stands, tucking his member back into his underwear as he strode to the cage’s door, quickly unlocking it and crouching to get inside. A primal, panicked scream is ripped from your throat when he gets his shoulders through the small entrance. You don’t know when the metal bars became a sanctuary rather than a prison, but having it be so suddenly violated had you kicking at him like a spooked deer, pure fear and hardly any strength to back it up. The sole of your foot connects to his shoulder and face a few times but he catches both of your feet and crawls over you. You grit your teeth until your jaw aches, every muscle locked tight as your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull. His form eclipsed the small amount of light that the moon spilled over the room, dwarfing you entirely. The darkness descends upon you, and you gasp when he wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace. The scent of him is begrudgingly pleasant, earthy and masculine. You lay frozen, your heart beating so loudly you would bet he could feel it. 

After a few seconds of nothing happening, you exhale. Feeling his weight on you, you can feel the ache in your muscle seeping away and sleep tugging on your lids. You are so tired, both physically and emotionally spent. You find yourself slowly succumbing to your base needs, and just then König decides to shift his body around, turning you to your side and tucking you firmly against his abdomen. He presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs something in German. 

“You are so cute.” he emphasizes that last word with a tight squeeze. The vice grip of his arms like another cage. His palm flattens over your stomach and he buries his face in your hair, humming and nuzzling into your scalp. You try to squirm away but the cage offers no space to move anymore, and the grumbling giant at your back doesn’t allow you an inch of freedom, tugging you even closer and mumbling to “just sleep sweetheart, you’ll feel better in the morning…”

You stare out into the room, the previously comfortable space now agonizingly snug. The contrast of the cold metal and the hard, warm body glued to your back is uncomfortable, but mounting exhaustion from the day wears you down, like a cube of ice held in a closed fist, you melt in the sweltering embrace and sigh.

A whine rising from the depth of your soul, desperate, pathetic, and pitiful. 

“We could have just slept on the bed...”

A/N: Thank you for reading! I am so excited for this story, its so fun to write. Thank you to everyone who liked/reblogged/commented on the previous chapters, ilysm.

Taglist: @fightmebissh @tinypandacakes @laduenadelswing @little-mini-in-wonderland @tavukwings @grayandthyme @eevee-of-eternity @littlemissapocalypse @beelzebee @roastyyytoastyyy @princessisfinethx @ihaveliterallysomanyproblems @zvid995167 @chirimeimei @wishful-sinful-9. @vickykazuya @spidersuneee @yuki2129 @lostquinn @demonedean @bimboghostface @gremlinmodetweeker @one-really-annoying-tree-rat @konigofmyheart @comat0se @thicksexxualtension

[wishful-sinful-9]

LOVEEE

[wishful-sinful-9]

I don’t play COD but I’ve been reading fics on here for like a year or two and I’m really into some of the characters

I feel like I want to expand a bit more from my wolverine stuff to diversify a bit but is it silly to write cod fics without playing the game lol

[wishful-sinful-9]

Love the idea that Logan (with his healing factor and adamantium) thinks humans with no mutation are like… extremely fragile. Maybe even thinks they are sickly. When he’s not in a cage match he’s like, very lightly gripping ppls hands in a handshake. Gets very concerned if a human is left out in the elements for too long haha

I agree and I'm going to run with this concept a little bit here lmao

NSFW content

I can imagine he's also never ever considered going out with one because he assumes they'd think he was some sort of animalistic freak.

so when he's at a bar, and this pretty non-mutant girl makes eye contact with him, he thinks oh shit.

he knows he's in trouble when you approach him, flashing him a coy smile and attempting some cliché line that tells him he's not just in trouble, he's in deep shit, because it's obvious you're not very experienced in this department. you flirt, and he half-heartedly tells you, “you don't want to get involved with me, kid.”

“I'm not a kid, and why do you think that, Logan?”

he meets your sparkling eyes, “because I'm a bad man.”

“How bad?”

“very, very bad.”

when you giggle at him he knows it's over.

-

despite your enthusiasm, Logan wants to take it as slow as he can so as to give you as many opportunities to back out as possible. but when you're on your fourth date, having invited him round to watch a movie, and you're giving him this dangerously playful smile every two seconds...

he has you under him in the couch, crying as he grinds his cock into you, his dog tags dangling over your face.

you realise that he's trying to hold back - he's aware of his strength and nature and is afraid he'll hurt you. but your pawing at his biceps moaning for more.

then you do something that makes him stutter in his pace: you yank him down by his tags and give him a searing kiss, biting on his lower lip as you pull away. a little shocked, he blinks down at you as you whimper, “you're not going to break me, I can take it, Lo.”

he hesitates. then he lowers his lips to your ear, “promise you'll tell me to stop if I go too far.”

“I promise, baby.”

And suddenly, he's ramming into you at this toe-curling pace and grunting like an animal. you cum quickly, crying out and coating his cock with your release. but he shows no signs of stopping: tears of overstimulation stream down your cheeks as he reaches down between you, to the creamy mess of your cunt, and spreads the cum drooling out of you up to your clit, where he rubs tight circles. the sounds of him pounding into you and making a bigger mess of your fluids are beyond obscene, it would make you blush hard if you weren't already flushed from the pleasure.

you let him manhandle you into a variation of positions and pull another two orgasms from you until he groans, gripping the armrest above your head, the sudden sound of metal slicing the air making your eyes widen as his claws unsheath while he spills ropes of cum into you.

he pants, drawing them back in and looking down at you.

he's still fully seated inside when he grunts, “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't realise they would-”

“it's okay,” you cut in, “it was hot.”

he blinks at your beaming face.

oh shit indeed.

[wishful-sinful-9]

WOLFMOON

Logan howlett x reader (18+)

cw: period sex, fingering, dubcon(?), shower sex, some real freak shit

Even after two centuries of existence, Logan still battled man with animal near-constantly — his lupine instincts pushing to the forefront of his mind far more frequently than he would care to admit.

As now, as his lover had pushed him away in a squabble not two days ago and he could smell the shift in the air almost instantaneously. Thick and angry.

Until, he noticed the phase of the moon and everything clicked into place.

Ah, so it was that time.

He could hardly blame you, noticing your discomfort and sensing your pain as it pained him to know you were in it. He offered hot waterbottles and chocolate and gentle touch, not too forward, so as not to scare you away. You wouldn’t bite.

So he did what he had to do.

-

The shower was running when he got home. He thought of your naked form under the stream of water — droplets running down your form, clinging to your lashes… He headed straight for the bathroom.

You jolted at the sound of the door opening suddenly, hands freezing in your hair. “Logan?”

He did not respond; you frowned. “Lo—”

The shower curtain was yanked back to present your boyfriend, a dark, unreadable expression on his face as he took you in.

“The fuck is up with you?” You spat, feeling hot with hormonal irritation all over again. “I’m trying to shower, Lo, can you please— what are you doing?!”

Fully clothed, he stepped into the shower and you backed into the corner. The water clung his shirt to his form and soaked his hair, his dark eyes menacing through the steam thick between you. You swallowed nervously.

“I think you need to relax, sweetheart,” his words came out deep and hoarse, short with barely-concealed restraint, “I think you want to feel good, yeah?”

He moved towards you and wrapped one arm around your waist — sticking his other hand between your thighs. His thumb grazed your clit and a gasp wrenched from your throat.

“I—I’m on my…peri—”

He shushed you, pressing tighter circles against the swollen bud. You pressed your hands weakly to his chest in a feeble attempt at escape. His lips meet your neck, “I know.”

A thick finger prodded and penetrated your entrance and a pathetic whimper tumbled from your lips.

It curled against that spot that weakens your knees — followed by another, slipping in far more easily than usual. The knowing of why made your ears burn and you hesitantly looked downwards.

Blood slid down his fingers as he worked them, undeterred, set on pleasing you.

“Lo… please—”

Your voice was weak with pleasure. His movements only grew quicker with your half-hearted protests, and soon wanton moans stifled them.

He pressed you closer — pebbled nipples crushed into the hard plane of his chest — and nibbled your ear, rumbling, “Close, doll?”

With a cry, you came undone, messy on his fingers.

You watched your blood wash away with the water, swirling around the drain and running down Logan’s forearm, with a hammering heart and bleary eyes.

“There’s a good girl,” he crooned, lifting you bridal-style into his arms and turning off the shower.

As he lined your panties with a pad for you and towelled you off gently, you blinked up at him sheepishly. “Sorry for being so bitchy these past few days.”

He chuckled and kissed your forehead.

“Take it out on me all you want, princess, just means I haven’t been fucking you enough.”

a/n: I’d apologise for this but I’m not really sorry LMAO

[freshlemontea]

bro Tumblr what is this new layout?

good for them but I DONT CARE ABOUT BATMAN OR UNDERTALE OR THE OWL HOUSE TRENDING

PUT MY TAGS BACK AT THE TOP

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

Logan howlett x reader who’s embarrassed about her facial expressions during the deed so she often pulls pillows over her face or shoves her face into the mattress and Logan gets feed up with it because she always dose it when she finishes so he’s never seen her finishing face

thanks for requesting 💌

OLD HABITS DIE HARD. 18+

logan howlett x fem!reader

wc. 1440 warnings. 18+ only! pinv, general filth, pull out. mdni

⎯ ☆ ⎯

There was a small habit you adapted during your more vulnerable moments in the bedroom, a little self conscious act you found hard to part with. You would often result to a shielding of your face, hiding expressions and minimising your noises like you were ashamed of them.  

Originally it was something Logan found endearing, sweet even. But he expected this habit of yours to pass with time, for it to dwindle and eventually disappear with each intimate session you two shared. It was a firm habit of yours that he was eager to alter and change, the thought of only ever seeing a pillow or a bent arm replace your face was starting to rub him the wrong way. 

And while he sees your face throughout all hours of the day, he’s never seen your face face. The face of pure unadulterated bliss by the means of him. He needed to see how he made you feel, not just hear your muffled sounds though skin or fabric.

Logan’s eyes cast down as he looks at your lips, gaze quite like he’s assessing you beneath him. He’s close, chest sandwiched firmly to yours, face just mere inches from yours as he hovers a top — weight balanced on a forearm beside you. His other arm slots between either of your stomachs, hand clasped around the base of his cock as he begins to feed himself into you. 

He swallows the little gasps you make with every passing inch — the slow, steady sinking of his dick into you knocks the air from your lungs. The hand you have behind his neck trails upwards, fingers beginning to rake through his short dark hair as you bring him further into you, forehead pressing against yours. 

He throbs as he stills inside you, the full length of him seizing movement as if to allow you both a moment to simply feel the presence of the other. For you to feel the weight and stretch of his cock and for him to feel the warmth and snug fit of your cunt. He adjusts back over your, both forearms either side as he cages you to the mattress.

“All good, baby?” he gruffs against your lips, voice low and quiet as his mouth ghosts yours. 

You hum, head nimbly nodding against his with eyes screwed shut. You breathe heavily against him and begin matching your intakes of air with the slight and ever so faint roll of his hips. Your delicate sighs grow shuddery, each one sounding all the more strained as he starts easing in and out of you.

To him, there was no other sound that could top this. No other sound in the world could even come close to the way you fill his ears. So beautiful, so errotic. So you.

He lifts his head from yours and he looks down to you below, eyes flickering over yours briefly before he rekindles the contact of your mouths. The act an attempt to sweeten you up before he suggests something you may not particularly like to hear.

His kisses trail from your mouth and across the side of your face, lips seering warmth to the patch of skin below your ear. But he cops out and discards his thoughts, not keen on ruining the moment with something that could potentially upset you. And so he repositions himself once more: parting from the close contact of you to sit back on his heels — perching on knees between your parted ones.

His hands trail down your stomach, eyes glued to the way your body jitters and twitches beneath his palms. It was like your body was perfectly in tune with him. 

The motion of his hips begins to build and a pattern gradually falls into place, each thrust growing closer together with the slight increased speed. A consistent, steady rutting replaces the experimental, precautionary pumps and the change is evident across your face: bottom lip caught between teeth, brows curling in the centre, eyes clouding lustfully. All of it a true sight to behold.

His gaze darts across you like he can’t quite decide what should entrap his attention first: tits circling in beat with his thrusts, your tempting blissed face, even the way your hands reach for his wrists. He’s utterly spoiled for choice.

Logan notices a fidgeting in your hands as they trail up the sides of your body, your hands growing antsy while they settle beside your head. He grew to learn much about you during your few short months together and he knew what that meant, what was about to happen next. And so he acts without thought.

He releases his grip around your waist and leans over you again, not once faltering in dicking he is giving you. A hand extends and he swats away the pillow on your right and then to the one of your left, pushing away your shielding devices. You turn to look either side and then to Logan above, a faint, lazy smile turning into something far more devilish, cunning even. 

Though he doesn’t wish for you to feel deceived by the spontaneous change, so he resumes his original position atop you, foreheads pressed together from the sheer closeness. 

“Why’d you do that?” you whisper raggedly against his lips, asking the question without a chance to think it over.

“It was time.”

Though it was daunting, you knew that was true, and that you had to let it up at some point. But it left you feeling exposed and you weren’t overly certain why. Sure you were completely and utterly naked, but that was different — having to show your face when you let go is another type of vulnerability. 

And Logan could sense that: he could see it in your eyes, could feel it the way you anxiously twitch and tighten around his cock. He knew it was scary for you, though you had no real reason to feel such a way. And you knew that too, but old habits die hard, and this one was quite an old habit.

He alters his weight above you and rests on one arm so that his free hand can hold the side of your head. His palm cups your ear and his thumb begins to caress the hairline by your temple, touch delicate and gentle despite the rough and almost harsh nature of his fucking.

You relax under his touch and the fear subsides. The panic, if you want to put it that way, dissipates and you soon find yourself stepping closer and closer to that edge inside of you. Your brows begin to knit and your breathing grows more strained, each pant sounding strangled as he fucks you towards climax.

“Go on,” he reassures. “Let go,” he whispers, eyes honed in on yours as he watches it all build within you.

You fight the urge to bury your face in the crook of his neck, to hide, but he pulls away, getting a better view of you from above and ultimately hindering any chance for you to shield yourself. 

The precise formation of the fucking remains intact, the pattern just as strategic as it had been the entire time and you hang on the cusp, dangling there for a moment. Logan gives you a subtle nod, a small act of encouragement to get you off.

You inhale deeply and your eyes screw shut, mouth hanging agape as your head tilts back against the mattress. The intensity of it all strips you of any sense, brain utterly empty as he fucks you into bliss. You cling onto him, fingers pawing and squeezing at the firm muscles on his upper back.

“That's my girl,” he grunts above you, gaze locked on you like he’s mesmerised. “That’s my girl,” he repeats softly, voice drawn out.

Logan finds it far harder to control himself with the way you look in addition to how you sound and feel clamping around him, and it becomes apparent he has much less control than he originally thought. And so he joins you mere seconds later, retracting his cock from you to cum on the crease of your upper thigh, releasing a full load right beside your cunt. 

Your breathing begins to even far sooner than Logan’s, and you stare up at him above, watching him intently as he slowly comes down from his own high. He chuckles lightly as he shakes his head, wordlessly finding amusement in your gawking. His forehead presses against yours as he breathes you in, his own grunt-like pants eventually reducing to almost nothing. 

“Can’t believe you’ve been hidin’ that from me.”

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[oh--lapetitemort]

I need "I can't believe I get to fuck you" type of sex

[dr-jackabbot]

MY MISTAKES WERE MADE FOR YOU - L.H.

Summary: You lost him. He lost you. What if there's a universe where you find each other?

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut 18+ only, Angst (with happy ending), Hurt/Comfort, Touch starved Logan, Unprotected sex (with major feelings), Emotional intimacy (we all know how much he needs this)

A/N: Starting the year off with some good ol' angst. Worst!Logan is such an intricately complex character, I know that man would just crumble at the slightest bit of affection. Hope you enjoy (aka shed some tears)! Title creds to The Last Shadow Puppets.

MASTERLIST

"Do you think we're together in every universe?"

The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, striping the rumpled sheets with gold. Logan held you close, his arm an anchor across your waist, fingertips just barely tracing the curve of your body. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams, the light warming the sculpted planes of his chest beneath your cheek.

"There's more than one?" he murmured back.

"You have claws coming out your hands, but you don't believe there's another world just like ours?"

Your fingers found his beard, all silver and entirely Logan. He'd once fretted over the greying strands, scowling whenever he caught his reflection. But your loving reassurance - along with some lighthearted teasing - had eased his worries; he never frowned at the sight of it again. It belonged to him, just as you belonged to him.

"Never thought about it." His whisper, gentle as a caress, lingered in the space between matching heartbeats and entwined limbs. "Everythin' I love's right here."

The clouds weep the tears you hold back. Rain slicks the granite of his headstone, chilling your fingers as you trace the etched letters of his name. Logan Howlett.

Today marks another year. Another year without his warmth, without his quiet affection, without him. Yet he remains everywhere and nowhere, a mere ghost in the hollowness of your soul.

You were the calmness to his storm; and he, the mighty current that held you steady. Where your heart was an open book, Logan's was a fortress. The world had hardened him, leaving him wary and guarded. And somehow, you found a way inside - not by battering down his walls, but with patience and unwavering devotion.

He'd lived a life where kindness was a forgotten language, where vulnerability was a fatal flaw. Yet he let you in. As naturally as the sun rises each morning, as inevitably as the moon draws the ocean's breath, he let you in. His love wasn't often spoken, but it was lived.

It was his calloused hand, scarred and strong, that held your chin as he leaned in to kiss you. His gruff voice that softened with a deep reverence when he breathed your name. And his rare, almost shy smile that revealed a sense of peace he found only in you.

Lost in these memories, you barely register the shift in the air. A shadow falls across the inscription on his headstone and you feel the familiar pull of his presence - yet it's wrong. So terribly, and heartbreakingly wrong. The scent of cigar smoke, the rough texture of his leather jacket, the weariness of his posture - it's all there, a cruel reminder of the man you loved. But they're not the same.

"Not now, Logan," you choke out, eyes squeezing shut against the sudden rush of tears.

His gaze, heavy with a sorrow that mirrors your own, cuts through the pouring rain. The need to reach out and offer comfort becomes a searing ache in his chest, a tightening in his throat that swallows him whole. He knew you'd be here; Wade had told him what today was. But the thought of you alone, braving the crushing weight of your loss, was unbearable. "It's late. Storm's comin' in," he whispers.

"I don't care."

The streetlamp above flickers weakly, its light a trembling finger pointing to the raw pain that pools in your eyes. He doesn't try to argue. Grief is a dear enemy; he's wrestled with its suffocating weight and understood the desire to remain tethered to the echoes of a life now lost.

So, he stays. A silent companion beside you, sharing the cold rain that soaks your clothes, the thunder that cracks overhead, and the loneliness that binds you together in this desolate moment.

It hurts you, overwhelmingly so. He looks just like him - the same rugged lines, the same weathered hands, the same slump to his shoulders. But he's a phantom limb, a missing note in a melody, a haunting reminder of a touch you'll never feel again. It's almost enough to make you laugh, a hollow, broken sound that doesn't quite reach your lips.

When Wade first broke the news, it felt like a punchline to some sick joke. "Another Logan?" you scoffed, rolling your eyes as he remained uncharacteristically serious. "This one's different," he said quietly, "He lost his... well, he lost his you."

You hadn't believed him, not until Logan cautiously stepped out of the bedroom, and the absurd reality of Wade's words struck you hard. The impact was immediate: a sharp, stabbing pain that reopened old wounds. Since then, you both walked a careful tightrope around each other. Much like two ships passing in the night, swept by the same tides, yet forever separated by the vast ocean of heartache.

The heavy silence holds its breath as your sob breaks free. And another, and another, until you're shaking from the force of it all. It's then, seeing you so utterly distraught, that he can no longer resist. The barriers, the invisible walls that had kept you at a distance, vanish like a mirage.

Hesitantly, he gathers you in his arms, your heartbeat thumping wildly against his chest. With slow, measured steps, he carries you home - a bittersweet ache settling deep within. He never got to hold her like this. His you.

The door closes behind him, the relentless downpour waning to a hushed murmur. Logan doesn't release you immediately, selfishly holding on a second longer before lowering you onto the couch. Moving quickly, he returns with a towel, carefully draping it around your shivering form.

His hand lingers, almost of its own volition, a feather-light brush against your cheek as he tucks away a stray hair. He regards you fondly, his gaze kind and searching as he murmurs, "It'll get easier, I promise."

The air crackles with an unspoken longing. Sighing softly, you savour the heat of his touch. And in the stillness of the moment, the question you'd been burning to ask, the one that had been clawing at your mind since you laid eyes on him, simply slips out. "How did you lose her?"

Logan exhales wearily. The memory is a healing scar, one he still prods at in the darkest hours of the night. Guilt, thick and suffocating, flares in his throat. He'd spent years lost in a haze of anger and alcohol, trying to outrun the shame until he finally stopped. The running ceased, the chase ended, and in the aftermath, he found a fragile peace, slowly mending the broken pieces within.

As he speaks, the sheer extent of his agony draws you closer. Instinctively, you grasp his hand, fingers intertwining with ease. "They took her away from me. She–" he trails off, taking a deep breath. "She didn't know how much I loved her."

How could she not have known? you wonder. Love simply radiates from him. It reminds you so much of your own Logan, of the same fire roaring beneath the surface. All intense and bright without uttering a single word. "She knew," you offer quietly.

He doesn't know who initiates the movement, a nearly imperceptible lean. Perhaps it's a silent understanding between two souls craving solace in the face of immense loss. Or perhaps it's something else entirely.

Whatever the catalyst, your lips meet.

The taste of salt and sorrow floods his senses. The first touch is hesitant, a tentative kiss that sends a jolt of unexpected electricity through his very being. It's wrong. He knows it's wrong. But logic falters, crumbling beneath the soft siege of your affections, a yearning he's powerless to fight.

Over time, the need for genuine connection had become a faded photograph in the back of his mind. The colours muted, the edges frayed. But this? The feeling of you against his mouth, all eager and urgent, is a revelation. And your fingers, raking through his hair, loosen the tight coils of tension he'd so long forgotten.

Logan breaks away, only momentarily, before guiding you onto his lap. He tilts forward, reconnecting with your lips. This time much, much slower. It's sweet, achingly so, imbued with a hope that maybe - just maybe, you'll be okay. This is okay.

His hands, still resting on your waist, begin to wander beneath your clothes. Heat from your skin presses against his cheek as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your pulse point. Leaning back slightly, he traces the line of your jaw, urging you to meet his gaze.

A question hangs in his eyes, a seeking of permission, one that you answer with a nod. Then, inch by inch, he eases your sweater over your shoulders, kissing along each newly exposed area. He smiles as you unbutton his shirt in turn, nipping his bicep playfully.

There's no rush; it's all a gentle unfolding, a deliberate exploration of one another. When skin finally meets skin, it's with a sigh of shared relief, a feeling of coming home.

His arousal is painstakingly clear, the tip of his cock teasing your entrance. Logan watches as you lower yourself onto him, barely sinking onto his length before a moan spills from your mouth, a mixture of pleasure and a sharp, fleeting sting.

He can tell it hurts, the slight wince in your expression not escaping his notice. Concern knots in his stomach and he immediately stills, hands gripping your hips, as if to pull you back.

"Easy, darlin'," he mumbles, "Tell me if it's too much, okay? We don't have to–"

A growl tears through his mouth, raw and involuntary, as you fully take him in. The tightness around his cock is undeniably satisfying and utterly profound. He clenches his jaw, fighting back another groan, the intensity almost too much to bear.

Then you begin to move. Carefully shifting your hips, a rocking motion that draws him deeper as you thrust in and out. Friction builds with each movement and Logan can't resist the impulse to fuck up into you, his body responding with a desire to be closer.

The rhythm quickens, becoming more insistent, the earlier tenderness giving way to a more fiery, more visceral need. He matches your pace, then takes the lead in an almost demanding fashion.

And then he feels it - a dampness on his shoulder, the subtle hitch of your breath as you seek refuge in the curve of his neck. The tremble of your sighs, his name a choked plea from your lips, tells him everything.

He slows down, his movements gentle. With a light sweep of his thumb, he wipes away the tears trailing down your cheek. "I know, sweet girl, I know," he speaks softly, whispering apologies and sweet nothings as he kisses your temple, "'m here for you. Just let go for me, baby."

The tension drains from your muscles, Logan smiles as you respond to him again. A newfound energy pumps through his body, he thrusts once, then twice, cursing as your gasps grow louder.

The sound of your pleasure is intoxicating. He can feel you squeezing around him, your breath coming in short bursts, each exhale a hot rush against his skin. He's so close, he can almost taste it, a dizzying swell waiting to consume you both. "Fuck, darlin'. Could get used to this," he spits out.

With his free hand, he reaches down, finding the throbbing nub of your clit. The faint pressure, the circling motion of his fingertips, is the final push that sends you tumbling over the edge. A strangled cry breaks free as your body arches towards him, your muscles clenching and releasing in waves, drawing thick ropes of his cum deeper inside you.

Logan pulls out, the warmth of your presence still heavy in his mind. He doesn't speak, not wanting to fracture the delicate intimacy of the moment, instead studying you in awe. The rise and fall of your chest, the curve of your lips, the sheen of sweat on your forehead - it all seems impossibly perfect.

Maybe this wasn't a mistake. Maybe this was the first step towards healing. A journey taken together, hand in hand, through the wreckage of your past, towards a future that feels a little less bleak. The thought settles in his heart, a quiet promise that perhaps, together, you can find your way back to the light.

[wishful-sinful-9]

Hello 👋,

I hope this message finds you well. My name is Aziz, and I’m reaching out with a heartfelt plea to help my family find safety and reunite with our mother. 😞

The ongoing war in Gaza has torn my family apart. My mother and newborn sister are stranded in Egypt, while I, along with the rest of my sex family members, am trapped in the midst of the genocide in Gaza. We have not only been separated but have also lost our home and are enduring unimaginable hardships. 💔

Your support can make a difference. Whether by reading our story, donating, or sharing our campaign with others, you can help us reunite, find safety, and start anew. 🙏🕊

Thank you, from the depths of my heart, for your kindness, compassion, and solidarity during this difficult time. ❤🍉

https://gofund.me/58268669 🔗

^^^

[wishful-sinful-9]

I read this soap x reader fic a while ago where the reader's bf works w Johnny and he wants the reader to make a sex tape w him, so Johnny and reader fuck on the couch and record it – can someone help me find it lmao